Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Screaming. That’s what you remember of that night, screaming as your home falls away around you. Nothing but noise, pressing in from all sides, totally inescapable. 

And then a flash of white wings. Your father, escaping. Your father, leaving you alone with your mother’s body bleeding out on the ground in front of you. He had cupped your round face in his hands and had told you ‘Bátorság. El kell mennem, harcolnom kell, de visszajövök érted,’ Be brave. I need to go, I need to fight, but I’ll come back for you.  

You remember these words, as you tell yourself that he had not flown away for good. He’ll come back, you remind yourself, as your wounds are patched up. He’ll come back, as you are sent away to America. He’ll come back, he’ll come back, he’ll come—but that was the last you ever saw of him.

Bangkok was hot. That was the first thing Florence noticed as she stepped off the plane. Bangkok was so hot in fact, that she was scared to take off her suit jacket lest the press get a glimpse of her sweaty blouse, and yet Freddie still flaunted her feather coat around his shoulders with that easy façade of comfort he always wore in front of a crowd. 

He’d held it close to him on the plane, saying that he didn’t want it to get lost in their checked luggage. Florence understood that, she liked having it close too. She liked having it where she could see it, but that wasn’t her decision. It wasn’t her coat anymore.

‘Mr Trumper, how do you feel about finally making it to the world championship?’ one reporter asked, shoving her microphone in his face. They’d barely made it through customs, and already they were ambushed. Florence supposed that she’d better start getting used to this; with Freddie challenging for the title it was only going to get worse from here on out. 

‘ Finally? ’ he scoffed, a hint of incredulity in his voice. ‘Do you hear that Florence? She’s treating me like I’m going to shrivel up any minute.’ 

Florence had heard that, and she’d sighed internally, with her media face remaining plastered on. More and more, her media face was becoming her Freddie face these days—she didn’t know quite how to feel about that. She’d known this was going to make Freddie grouchy and irritable, and it wasn’t going to be the reporters who were going to have to deal with that when they got to the hotel. 

‘Please, no questions.’ Her cries were helpless when the reporters descended on them like a mob, and even more so as Freddie chirped away back and forth with them. If this was how he was when they’d only just arrived, she wasn’t looking forward to Walter Anderson joining them in the slightest. The fact that he’d been forced onto a later flight was a small mercy, even if Freddie had bitched about the airline doing that the entire twenty-three hour journey to Bangkok. 

Florence forced her way through the crowd, and into a taxi. Looking through the window, she could see Freddie utterly in his element. He was being an asshole to the press like always, but she knew he loved it really. He lived for that controversy. She let out a loud sigh and let her head slump against the seat in front of her, eliciting a slight laugh from the taxi driver. These days, she was getting pretty tired of this. It was a girl who had carelessly given Freddie her coat. A girl, who had looked at him being so terrified that she would leave like everyone else in his life, and had given him her freedom to comfort him. Sometimes now, she wondered how on earth she had ever been so foolish. 

It took a while, but at last Freddie decided to come and join her, tossing himself carelessly across the back seat. Florence felt herself wince a little as the end of her coat almost caught in the car door— his coat, she reminded herself, it was his coat these days and she would do well to remember that. 

‘Right, let’s get to the hotel. I need to shower, this place is disgusting,’ Freddie drawled, and Florence resisted pointing out that he felt bad because they’d just been on a plane for a whole day—which was certainly not the fault of a city that they’d barely even stepped foot into yet. 

‘I was waiting for you to hurry up so we could do that,’ Florence muttered under her breath. She could feel his glare on her. These days, she wondered how they had ever been so close. It had been loosening at the seams for quite some time, but now she reckoned that the only thing keeping her there was the sense of obligation. The sense of obligation…and the coat. He who owned her coat owned her freedom, and she would have done well to remember that. Giving it up had been a foolish decision, she realised that now. At some point, she was probably going to have to cut her losses and leave anyway, without it. 

Without her coat, Florence would never again feel the wind in her wings, never soar high over the trees and into the sky in a place where she truly felt like she belonged. She’d left Hungary too young for that to really be home, and yet America had never felt quite right either. The skies had been hers, and she’d stupidly given it up for some bright-eyed, ambitious boy. He’d promised he’d take good care of it, and give it back whenever she wanted. He had thanked her profusely for her trust, and promised that he would never abuse it. Oh how foolish that girl had been. 

Freddie was already on edge, and Florence knew it was going to get worse when Walter finally arrived. If Freddie was bad alone, Walter only served to encourage him, and even bringing up his name seemed to set things down the wrong path between them. 

‘Come on Florence, he wants to help me, can’t you see that all these sponsors are a good thing, they’re paying your wages,’ he had snapped at her. 

‘What wages? You barely pay me Freddie. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t given me a raise in years, ’ she had flung back, and he had stormed out of the room.

Now she lay there, slumped on the bed. He had taken her coat with him when he left, of course. Gone were the days when it would stay draped over the back of a chair, a comfortable sign of belonging between the two of them as they had exchanged sleepy kisses. 

It wasn’t like they had been anything, not really. Not like that. What they’d had had skirted the lines between platonic and romantic and sexual, without ever quite settling firmly in one place. If you’d asked the Florence of three years ago—enamoured with a man who finally saw her for herself—she would have said they’d end up dating. Now, she was pretty sure that never would have happened. 

They’d always been a little too antagonistic for that, something sweet souring as the years and stress had progressed. Friends didn’t seem like the right word either. Sometimes she wondered if they had managed to create something new entirely, fucked up beyond the boundaries of linguistic definition. That wouldn’t have surprised her, leave it up to Freddie Trumper. 

With no idea when he would return, Florence decided to strip off the clothes that she’d been wearing for far too long at this point—they’d done their fair share of international travels for Freddie’s chess career, but nothing quite as far as Bangkok—and clambered into a blessedly cool shower. 

She took her time brushing conditioner through her hair, and letting the cold water refresh her, it might be the only chance she had for a real moment to herself for quite some time to come if Freddie maintained these frantic stress levels. The luxury of the large hotel bathroom was only slightly eclipsed by the thought that she was going to have to share this place with Freddie for god knows how long, when they normally had a whole apartment to piss each other off in, but really, she tried to make the most of it. 

Stepping out of the shower she peered into the steamy mirror and ran her razor over her face, even though she could barely see a hint of stubble starting to emerge. Hormones had made that more manageable, but at the rate Freddie paid her, she was going to have to wait a long time until she could afford to get electrolysis. Still, it felt easier than it had been in a long time—just about the only part of her life that was going to plan these days. 

Her hair—blonde and ridiculously fluffy—was just about finished drying by the time Freddie returned. He too, seemed to have showered—he must have gone to Walter’s room  next door—and the feather coat was slung around his shoulders. 

‘You know, if you keep wearing that in all the press photos, then eventually someone reading the paper is going to see it and know what it is,’ Florence said. She’d been thinking about it for a while now. What had once been something shared between the two of them, something private and secret, had become something flaunted before the world. She only hoped he was ready for the consequences. 

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You said there were barely any of you left.’ 

Florence flinched at the reminder of what had happened to her family, her people, and Freddie instantly jumped onto it. 

‘See, you want to beat those commies as much as I do. Don’t pretend you don’t.’ 

‘When did I say otherwise,’ Florence replied, for it was true. Though she didn’t always like Freddie’s attitude, she had to admit that watching him wipe the floor with the Soviets at their own game was satisfying. 

‘You always complain. Becoming a woman made you act like my mother.’ 

Florence bit her tongue at that, not quite sure what to say. Most of the time Freddie was decent about it, the fact that she’d started her transition not long after they met probably helped, as he only really knew her as Florence, but occasionally he’d make comments that reminded her that he wasn’t quite as on her side as she hoped. 

‘I found a position I want us to try,’ she said instead, trying to ignore his jab. They were there for chess, they should just play chess. 

Freddie raised an eyebrow at that phrasing, but blessedly shut up as she set up the board. The feather coat slipped off his shoulders as he reached out to try a few moves. Still by his side, always by his side. 

You are twenty-six years old when you make what is quite possibly the worst decision in your life to date; you give your coat to Frederick Trumper. He knows what you are, you had told him a couple of months previously when you’d moved in together. It was easy to hide it when you’d had your own apartment, but you’d decided that you can trust him. 

That was the start of the bad ideas, for he does his research and confronts you with stories of freedom, of people who could leave anyone, at any time, abandoning families for the delightful call of the wild. You try to tell him that those are just the myths, that part of it isn’t real, but you suppose when you aren’t meant to exist, it’s easy for him to take the myths as fact. 

After that, he grows steadily more anxious about you leaving, though he’d never admit it. You lie beside him, and comfort him when he wakes up from nightmares about his parents. You hold him when he cries, and continue to hold him the next day when he adamantly denies it. He gets so scared of things that he shakes sometimes, and yet he never wants to talk about it. 

You suppose you think that the coat will reassure him, tell him that you have no plans to go anywhere. The gravity of what exactly you are doing does settle itself on your shoulders, but at this point, you think that you are going to be with this man forever. This man, who listens to you when you tell him that your name is Florence, and holds you when your body doesn’t feel like your own. He might have his own issues, but then don’t you all?

So you present the coat to him, and he gasps softly, knowing exactly what you are giving him—your freedom. 

‘I promise I won’t leave. Here, take this, I don’t need it.’ 

‘You’re sure?’ he asks, eyes wide at the feathers against his fingers. You have never felt more vulnerable in your life but you close your eyes and take a breath. 

You nod. ‘Take it. I promise, I won’t leave.’ 

You haven’t left; that much is true. You haven’t left; you can’t. 

Chapter Text

Florence almost wished that the whole tournament was over before it even had begun as she prepared for the opening ceremony. Her fluffy hair seemed wilder than normal—the Bangkok humidity was doing it no favours—and Freddie was fussing over which white suit jacket to wear. To her they looked identical, but he acted like it was the most important thing in the entire world, despite the fact that it was going to make them late. Florence was sure that tardiness would make a worse impression than a jacket in slightly the wrong shade, not that that would be something Freddie wanted to hear. 

Walter lounged on the bed with his shoes on, something that Florence had just about managed to talk Freddie out of doing over the years, and so it frustrated her doubly much to have someone new to berate. Part of her wanted to say something, but she didn’t want to make them any later than they were already going to be. 

‘Come on Freddie, they look the same,’ she snapped at him, settling for the more immediate problem, as he swapped them over once again. ‘What does it matter anyway?’

‘You know I have to look my best for the press darling,’ he drawled slightly, as he admired himself in the mirror. Sometimes Florence wanted to hit him. He was infuriating, acting like a caricature of himself, exactly how the media portrayed him. 

‘We’re going to be late,’ she tried. Even if they left right then, they’d be on time at best.

‘Fashionably late,’ Freddie replied with a smirk. Sometimes, the best course of action was just to ignore him, Florence thought. Fighting back was what he wanted, it was like a game to him. It was better just to keep her head down and shut up. 

By the time they made it to the opening ceremony, they were well and truly late, and it seemed that neither the arbiter nor the Soviet delegation was happy with that. 

‘What time do you make this, Mr Trumper?’ the arbiter asked, and Freddie attempted to laugh it off. ‘I would like to remind you that no such lateness will be tolerated during the tournament itself. The time starts with or without both the players Mr Trumper. Don’t put yourself at a disadvantage.’ 

‘God this guy is such a drag,’ Freddie said, under his breath but loud enough to be heard. 

Anatoly Sergievsky cleared his throat rather pointedly at that, and Florence looked over, singling him out of the Soviet delegation for the first time. She had studied his games of course, but blurry newspaper photographs and glimpses of television appearances were never quite enough to get a proper idea of a person. The only thing she could really think upon glancing him up and down, was that he looked exhausted. 

Anatoly seemed uneasy around his delegation, and frustrated when they entered into the negotiations on his behalf—the chairs, the seating arrangements, the merchandising, anything and everything was up for debate. Despite her gripes with some of Freddie’s more eccentric remarks—such as the so-called hypnotist in the front row—Florence actually rather enjoyed this part of her job. She got to make jabs at men like Molokov, the kind of men who had taken her father from her, and she got to knock them down a few pegs. Freddie might beat the Soviets at chess, but Florence was going to make sure they felt just as uncomfortable off the board. 

The fighting happened first, so that the chess itself could be sacred, at least that was how Florence saw it. She knew that for Freddie that was another matter altogether, the chess just as susceptible to playing dirty as the games that happened away from the board. Still, she did her best, and managed to come away satisfied with the concessions she had pulled from the Soviets.

Molokov reached out to shake her hand, and she looked across at the short man, clad in a heavy coat totally mismatched to the sweltering heat of the Bangkok summer. There. The terms were agreed, and now they could play chess. 

Despite her rapidly increasing frustration with Freddie, there was a part of Florence that was still excited about it all. The thrill of the game that had gripped her since she had been an ugly duckling of a child never failed to rise in her, no matter what. She supposed that was part of why she had stayed for so long. 

They didn’t play chess that night however, it was taken up with celebrations and ceremonies, the type that everyone hated, but the media loved. There were Soviet officials everywhere, and it made Florence feel a little uneasy. At least Freddie hadn’t brought the feather coat. If anyone was going to recognise that, it would be one of them. 

Looking around the room, Florence couldn’t help but notice that the Russian chess player was absent. Based on everything she’d read about him while trying to study his play, she got the impression that he wasn’t one for people. Fair enough, she reckoned, chess players rarely were. Freddie looked like an outlier on the surface, but the flirty conversations were a façade, a way for him to control the social environment rather than a true comfort within it.

Florence reckoned that part of being a good chess player was loving the game more than people. You had to give part of yourself up, to be that good; you had to shift your focus away from regular life to accommodate that many combinations of moves in your brain. She was used to being around chess players enough that it didn’t really phase her anymore. Still, she had to admit that sometimes she missed being around people who had other cares in the world.  

Part of her was still one of them, part of her brain still computed every move as she saw them laid out on the board, saw the world as a set of black and white pieces, a dance of moves and captures. A larger part of her however, was tired. Fed up of it all, or maybe just fed up with Frederick Trumper. 

Florence turned to watch him flirting with some reporter, and sighed a little to herself. There he was, at it again. She knew it was just a show, and yet somehow it still bothered her for reasons she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t necessarily jealousy, but sometimes she wished that he would take her a little more seriously if he was going to insist on ‘keeping’ her like he did. 

‘Freddie, I’m going to get going back to the hotel, I’m tired.’ Florence decided that she had been there for just about long enough to get away with dipping now. Her heels were uncomfortable and her dress dug in in all the wrong places. There was still a part of her that insisted on being the perfect display of femininity—scared that anything less than that would have people talking about things they didn’t need to—but mainly it exhausted her. She wanted to get into her pyjamas, massage her sore feet, and knock out in bed; she’d certainly drunk more than enough of the complimentary wine for sleep to come easy. 

‘Really? Come out with me Florence. This is Bangkok, let’s party!’ 

Florence refrained from pointing out that he’d had no interest in her the entire night—so why would she suddenly want to go with him now? 

‘No Freddie, I’m tired. We should both rest well before the match tomorrow.’ 

‘God you’re such a killjoy. What was it that I said earlier about not becoming my mother?’ He glanced away, to swipe another glass of wine from a passing tray. Great. Her player was going to be completely and utterly hungover for the first match of the world championship. No matter how much hard work it had taken the pair of them to get to this point, he was prepared to throw it all away. 

‘Well I can’t stop you, but I’m going to bed,’ she said, looking around the room at all the important people she was going to have to excuse herself to. Freddie got away without doing any of that nonsense, it was down to Florence to rescue the reputation of both of them. 

‘Fine. I’ll be back at some point. Don’t wait up.’ 

They both knew that Florence was long past the point of doing that for him. 

‘I won’t.’ 

Despite her exhaustion and tipsiness, it took Florence quite some time to fall asleep that night. Spurred on by those few glasses of wine perhaps, she had taken it upon herself to search the hotel room for her feather coat, but it was no use. Either Freddie had locked it in the safe, or perhaps put it somewhere in Walter's room. 

Would she leave, if she had found it? She wasn’t quite sure, maybe that was what kept her lying awake in bed that night. They had worked so hard to get to this point, and though it was Freddie at the board, Florence had done her part in much of it. It was her standing behind him, guiding him through the matches that he needed to win to make it to the championship, and most importantly Florence had been the one making sure that he didn’t sabotage his reputation completely enough to get blacklisted from the chess world entirely. 

It would be foolish not to leave, if she could steal back her freedom from him at last, but she wasn’t sure she’d have the nerve to do it if the opportunity presented itself. Too much of her life was tied up in chess, with Freddie. She wasn’t sure what else she could do at this point. 

Eventually sleep came. It was a restless and fitful sleep—not what she wanted the night before the most important chess game of her life, even if she wasn’t the player. At some point, well past three in the morning, the hotel door creaked open and Freddie slipped into bed next to her. He smelled of alcohol. 

‘Ready for tomorrow?’ Florence whispered, still half asleep. ‘Won’t be too hungover?’ 

‘I’ll be fine honey,’ Freddie slurred, and Florence fought the urge to scoff. Yeah right, she knew how grouchy he was with a splitting headache, and a light sensitivity that meant she knew she was going to be battling the arbiter about sunglasses. Just what she needed. 

But when he rolled over and put his arm around her, Florence couldn’t help but relax into it. She hated herself for it a little, but if nothing else it still felt good to be held. 

You and Freddie are sitting on the floor of his shitty New York apartment when the letter arrives—his apartment, because you still refuse to move in officially, even as your belongings take up more and more space, spilling out of the drawer that he designated for you, and even as your adoptive parents stop sending letters enquiring after their ‘son’. The letter box makes that clicking sound, and he wanders through to see what it is. Overdue bills again most likely. 

‘Florence,’ he calls, an audible tremor in his voice, and you scramble to your feet and rush to join him. You’re scared of what it might be, the first thought is something to do with his family. Though he hesitates to talk about it, sometimes when he wakes up from a nightmare, some of it comes out, and over the years you have pieced enough of it together to get why it’s a touchy subject.

‘Freddie?’ you reach out an arm, holding his shoulder gently. Sometimes when he cries, he wants to be held and comforted, and will accept you stroking his hair as he calms down. Other times he just gets angry at you seeing him in that state, and shouts at you. 

‘Florence,’ he says again, his voice a little louder. The tremor in his voice doesn’t quite sound like fear, as you lean over his shoulder to see what the letter says. 

‘Oh my god,’ you say, as you read the words. ‘The world championship! Oh my god Freddie! You did it!’ 

‘I did it!’ he echoes you. You move to wrap him up in a hug, and you catch a glimpse of his enormous grin. You can’t remember the last time you saw him smile like this. ‘We did it!’ he says, squeezing you tight. ‘Chess world, watch out, Florence Vassy and Freddie Trumper are coming for you!’ 

Damn right, you think to yourself. It’s the happiest you’ve felt in a long time, pure unbridled joy and anticipation of what is to come. The two of you float on top of the world for a solid week after that. For a brief moment there is only happiness. You know it cannot stay that way forever.

Chapter Text

Just as she had predicted she would have to, the following morning, Florence found herself arguing with the arbiter about Freddie’s sunglasses. It had been hard enough to drag him out of bed in a presentable state in time for the start of the match, so she hadn’t been prepared to fight him on that as well. These days she found that regarding Freddie Trumper, the best thing to do was to pick one’s battles. 

‘Florence, you can’t let them take them from me, my head feels like it’s been run over by a large truck,’ he moaned to her. 

‘Yes I know I’m trying Freddie,’ Florence tried not to snap back in response. Freddie was bitchy enough normally, but hungover Freddie was on a whole other level, and now she had to deal with the fallout, as always. 

The Soviet chess player, sitting calmly by the board, looked up to meet her eyes, and gave her something like a sympathetic glance. Florence looked away, she didn’t want sympathy from the Russians. Freddie might have been annoying the shit out of her, but that didn’t mean that she was on their side either. 

‘Look, you can examine them if you want first, please just let him keep them,’ Florence pleaded with the arbiter. ‘You can see for yourself there isn’t any kind of cheating device concealed within them. They’re just sunglasses, nothing more. He could wear yours even, if you had a pair.’ 

The arbiter took the glasses, and Florence watched Freddie wince a little at the fluorescent lighting above as they left his face. 

‘He can have them,’ the arbiter said, and Florence almost collapsed on the spot in relief. ‘ If ,' he continued harshly, ‘ If he agrees not to cause any more trouble for the rest of the game.’ 

‘Of course. You can do that Freddie,’ Florence said, turning to him. ‘Right?’ 

‘Fine. Let’s get on with it,’ he said, as if the whole delay had not been his own fault. 

‘Let’s play,’ agreed the Russian, reaching out to shake Freddie’s hand. 

Florence took a step back, and opened up her book, ready to start making her notes on the play. 

At last, the part that they were all here for. The chess. 

Your father had taught you how to play chess before the revolution. You had been six years old, and you didn’t entirely understand more than how the pieces moved, but it had been fun. It had been something he had loved, and so you felt honoured that he wanted to share it with you. Your mother had scoffed, it was a silly game, better to focus on something real, but you had been enraptured with the dance of the pieces over the squares, with the battle unfolding beneath your fingertips. 

After your move to the United States, it had seemed to be the one familiar thing in your life. Everything else, you didn’t quite understand. You couldn’t get English words to sit right in your mouth, and all the food tasted weird and strange. But in your adoptive family’s living room, there had been a large, ornate chess set. Now, you realise that it had been the type that was more for decoration, but as your eyes had lit up, and you had run over to it. ‘Chess!’ you had cried, ‘chess,’ you had recalled the word in English, and watched as your adoptive parents had broken out into matching smiles. 

At the time, you had thought that they were happy to play chess with you, really, they had just been happy that they had something to connect to their strange Hungarian adoptive son over. Your adoptive mother had been more than happy to play, and though she had described her own skills as rusty, she had beaten you with ease. 

From then on, you’d had one goal—to get good enough to beat her. Your adoptive parents had encouraged it, anything to make the sad, sullen boy happy. You wonder if they still would have encouraged it, if they had known where it would take you. If they had known it would become so all-consuming that you would abandon your English degree to run off and play chess. Probably not, you reckon. Good thing that they couldn’t see what was coming. For all the ups and downs, it’s not that you could see your life going any other way. 

Freddie was playing erratically, Florence thought as she circled the board, frowning as she wrote down her notes. It wasn’t necessarily that he was playing badly , just that he was playing strangely, doing things that they hadn’t discussed, and she couldn’t quite work out where he was going with it. Part of her wondered if it was Walter—he kept saying things to Freddie about being bolder, more dramatic, and she hated it. Freddie was already dramatic enough, he didn’t need some weird conman of a marketing guy egging him on. 

She watched as Sergievsky ate some yoghurt, for a not very delicate looking man he ate in a very delicate manner, much like the little flicks of his fingers as he moved the pieces around the board. He finished the yoghurt and placed it to the side, and one of the many members of the Soviet delegation swept in to pick up the empty tub. There were so many of them—that was one of the things Florence had protested to the arbiter, but apparently a private chef and personal trainer didn’t count. They didn’t seem like chefs as they stood around, discussing chess strategy, but with Freddie as her champion Florence had realised quite some time ago that she had to pick her battles. 

After a few more moves, another yoghurt was brought out. Florence noticed that it was blueberry, compared to the previous strawberry yoghurt. 

‘He’s cheating!’ Freddie piped up, and Florence sighed as she turned to face him. ‘That’s blueberry yoghurt, it’s a signal.’ Evidently, Freddie too had noticed the choice of flavour, something rather innocuous, but she knew that he was able to find signs of sabotage in the smallest of things. ‘It was strawberry last time, and blueberry again before that. It has to mean something.’ 

‘It means that I like blueberry yoghurt,’ Sergievsky muttered, which did nothing to calm the outraged Freddie Trumper. Florence knew that once he started on one of his tirades, there was very little she could do to stop it. ‘The game is long, I must be allowed to eat.’ 

‘He’s cheating , can’t you see?’ Freddie cried out, and then before Florence could even try and get a word in edgeways, he reached up, and flipped the board, scattering pieces all over the floor. The arbiter tried to catch him as he stormed out of the room, but Florence didn’t even try. Freddie having a tantrum was a force of nature. There was nothing that any mere human could do to stop it—nor anyone else for that matter. 

‘Your player is out of control,’ the arbiter said to her, and the tall man from the Russian delegation, still wearing that heavy coat under the hot lights, nodded in agreement. Florence wanted to give up, and say that yes, yes he was. But her job was to stand up for Freddie, so she was forced to try and argue that his board flip was a perfectly reasonable move, that any sane chess player would do under those circumstances. 

‘ Your player is cheating, he needs to apologise’ she said back to the tall man. What was his name again, Molotov? Something like that? It didn’t matter. 

‘Cheating? Says the second of the player who refused to take off his sunglasses. Admit it, he’s losing it and we all know it.’ 

‘Mr Molokov, Ms Vassy, please calm down,’ said the arbiter, frustrated. Florence looked over to him to see Sergievsky still sitting at the board, shrinking into himself a little as everyone shouted around him. He looked like she imagined she had done on those occasions when her adoptive parents had fought. The idea that if one could just take up a little less space, then perhaps no-one would look at them. 

‘I will do no such thing. My player is being unjustly accused,’ Molokov bellowed, moving to stand behind Anatoly, who did not seem to appreciate this statement. 

‘Well, Freddie won’t play without an apology’ Florence retorted. He might do, if she really worked at it, but it would be much easier for Sergievsky just to say a few words and for them all to get back on with it. 

‘As long as we can keep—’ Sergievsky started, before Molokov cut him off. 

‘Nonsense. You don’t need to apologise, Tolya. I will see to it that the American brat backs down.’ 

Florence watched Sergievsky wrinkle his nose a little at the diminutive. Molokov pointedly adjusted his coat as he continued, addressing the arbiter. 

‘He won’t be apologising over such petty and unfounded accusations.’ 

The arbiter sighed deeply. ‘Why does such a beautiful game have to come to this?’ He sounded genuinely upset. Florence understood it, really. It was a shame to have to fight like this when Freddie acted up, especially as she knew what a good player he was, when he didn’t insist on making a spectacle out of everything. 

‘I don’t care what you do. I just want two players, ready to play tomorrow morning. Mr Molokov, Ms Vassy? I expect you two to do your jobs, and get this sorted.’ 

Florence couldn’t help but bristle a little at that. How had her job been reduced to Freddie’s handler? She had studied chess for years and years, and yet now she seemed to be reduced to managing the ticking time bomb of an American chess player. Once again, she wondered if this was all her own fault. If she should have given up, long before it reached this point. Still, it was far too late to be thinking about that now, so bracing herself, she watched as Sergievsky and the arbiter left, and she was left alone with the man who reminded her of so many terrible nightmares. 

‘Freddie won’t play without an apology,’ Florence hoped he couldn’t see how nervous she was. He stood, imposing, and reminded her far too much of the men that had marched into her city, and taken her family from her. 

‘Come on, Ms Vassy, or should I say Florence?’ Her name sounded far too familiar on his tongue. She hated it. He reached up to adjust his coat again, and there was something in the gesture vaguely reminiscent of the way that Freddie acted with hers when he wore it out in public. That smugness, of knowing that you controlled someone. Well, she knew that Molokov certainly did. 

‘Don’t talk to me like that. I know what you are,’ she spat out. 

‘Oh? And what would that be? I am a chess second, just like you Ms Vassy,’ he said, with a grin, knowing full well that both of them knew the truth. 

‘We were briefed, you know,’ she replied, unsure if this was a wise angle to pursue. ‘The Soviet Union would not send their best chess player to Bangkok without adequate…monitoring. We are not foolish, we know how your kind works.’ 

‘Right, well, I’m sure you won’t be surprised then that we were briefed about you too Ms Vassy.’ 

Florence felt her blood run cold at that, she wondered just how much they knew. She was a woman with secrets—what had the KGB been able to dig up on her?

‘Left Hungary, in 1956 of course. Raised by adoptive parents in America. Studied English at Yale for two years, before dropping out to pursue chess with Mr Trumper.’

Did he know? She wasn’t sure. He seemed to know her past, but if he’d discovered this recently enough, then her records had been changed, and he wouldn’t catch the part where she’d not been named Florence Vassy officially until seven years ago. And then there was the other part of course, the way that Freddie paraded that coat in front of the cameras. Florence wasn’t sure what secret would be worse for him to know. It seemed that he wasn’t going to give her an answer either way, just let her live in the fear. 

‘Well, I think we should arrange the apology,’ Florence hurried on, trying not to appear shaken. It was hard not to though, when she was terrified about what he could be holding over her. 

‘Yes, I suppose we should arrange the discussion ,’ Molokov pointedly amended. 

‘Apology.’ 

‘Do you require our chess player to grovel in public for you? Or would a private meeting be sufficient?’ Molokov asked. With every word, there was a strange tone of smugness in his voice that made Florence equal parts irritated and frightened. Despite the passing of the years, a confrontation like this made her feel like a small child in a crumbling city once more.

‘Something more private should be sufficient,’ she said, trying to move them on with it.

‘My hotel room?’ he asked, and though Florence shot a glare at him, a tiny part of her was relieved that it meant he probably didn’t know about the first thing. She doubted that KGB agents were terribly progressive in affairs like those, unless his motive was more one of blackmail.

‘I was thinking more like a restaurant,’ she hurried to clarify, wanting to move away from the idea of Molokov’s bedroom.

After much faffing about with the Bangkok food guide, they settled on somewhere to meet and Florence felt herself decompress the second he walked away. That man frightened her, she could admit that much to herself. She had more pressing concerns now though, like convincing Freddie to go to the meeting. She hoped the allure of an apology would be enough, she didn’t particularly feel like begging, when all she wanted to do was move on and start the match again. Luckily it seemed that Sergievsky had a similar goal, so she could only hope that this would be relatively quick and painless, and then they could all get back on with it. 

They were here for chess after all. 

Chapter Text

When Florence made it back to their hotel room, Freddie wasn't there. Instead, there was a different figure on the bed—shoes still on, with her own coat draped over his shoulders as he twisted the phone cord around his finger. 

‘Right right,’ he said, making those meaningless noises of agreement. ‘You’re right, we can’t trust those Russians with anything. First they cheat at chess, then…well.’ 

Florence cleared her throat loudly, something akin to rage rising in her chest. What was he doing, in her coat? She had known Freddie was careless with it, but giving it to Walter of all people? 

‘Walter,’ she said, and he didn’t reply, merely raising a hand in that universal symbol of ‘I hear you, but shut up a second I’m on the phone’. Florence wasn’t having that however. He was in her coat, on her bed, and she needed to find out where the hell Freddie had got to. 

‘Walter?’ she asked again, a little louder, and he continued to ignore her, she walked around to the phone and unplugged it. 

‘What the hell?’ The response was immediate. ‘I was securing an interview for your chess player. They were going to give him the cover and now they’re not even going to call back. Hanging up on them like that…really, have a little respect for Freddie’s career.’ 

‘I don’t care about that.’ There was more than enough press already here in Bangkok, Freddie didn’t need to be arranging any additional interviews. If nothing else, his ego was already inflated far too much, without some magazine cover photoshoot to make it even worse. ‘Why are you wearing that?’ Florence asked, gesturing to her feather coat, so casually slung over Walter’s shoulders. It was like he didn’t even have the slightest respect for it as an item of clothing, let alone the significance it had to her. 

‘Oh this?’ he said, with the falsest tone of nonchalance that Florence had ever heard. Everything about this man was painfully manufactured, and it made her skin crawl. She wondered what was hiding, under so many layers of carefully polished plastic sheen. 

‘Yes, that’s mine you know.’ That wasn’t true anymore, it hadn’t been for a long time. 

‘Oh I know that Florence, I know exactly what this is to you.’ 

Florence felt her blood run cold at that. Did Freddie tell him? He’d said that he would never, he’d said that he understood how serious it was that this stayed a secret, that he understood that if anyone found out she could be in serious trouble—taken away and studied; made into a spectacle or a specimen. She shuddered to think of it. There was a reason why her kind had faded into myth among the general population, it was the only way to be safe. 

‘What do you mean? It’s just a coat.’ She tried for a nonchalance of her own, but she was certain it didn’t hide her raised hackles. 

‘Oh sure it is. That’s why he won’t let you have it back. That’s why he keeps it closer than anything else.’ He sounded almost smug as he spoke. 

For a second, Florence wondered what it would take to persuade him to give it to her. Walter seemed the type who could be easily swayed with a good deal, unlike Freddie who would stubbornly cling to it no matter what. That would be so undignified though, to beg like that. It would mean admitting just how little power she had left. Florence hated the thought.

Luckily, that unpleasant train of thought was interrupted as the hotel door swung open, Freddie bursting in with his usual flair. 

‘Get me that front cover Walter?’ he asked, immediately whisking the coat off Walter’s shoulders and wrapping it back around his own. 

‘I would have done, if Ms Vassy here hadn’t been so kind as to disconnect the phone, just as we were about to get it sorted.’ He smirked at her slightly as he threw her under the bus. 

‘Ugh,’ Freddie made an exaggerated groan, and then seemed to remember what he had come in here for. ‘Let’s go out Walter. See the city sights, if you know what I mean.’ They all knew what he meant. 

‘Stop, Freddie, I need to talk to you,’ Florence interjected, and he rolled his eyes at that. 

‘Fine, Walter, shall we go out later?’ Freddie asked, as Walter made to leave the room, nodding back with a stupid wink.

‘You can show me the sights, I’m sure.’ 

Once he was gone, Florence turned to glare at Freddie. ‘What do you see in that man Freddie? He’s sabotaging you, and you can’t even see it?’

‘What do you mean sabotage, Florence? Calling the commies out on their cheating is a noble goal. Hell, I could return a national hero if they catch Sergievsky in the act.’

‘You know as well as I do that he wasn’t doing anything of the sort,’ Florence said with a sigh. She would feel vindicated if they were, there would be a kind of satisfaction to it—but only if they were actually cheating, and she was sure that Freddie’s wild cries about the yoghurt were nothing of the sort. ‘Anyway, he’s very generously agreed to meet you tonight,’ she continued.

‘To apologise?’ Freddie asked. 

‘Maybe, but I wouldn’t blame him if he doesn’t.’ 

‘I won’t play without an apology,’ Freddie said, and didn’t Florence know that. 

‘What’s all of this about anyway? This isn’t like you Freddie, don’t you just want to play chess? Beat them at their own game, remember?’ He’d always been argumentative, but Florence found herself looking back on years of old memories, struggling to piece together the moment when it had become quite so bad. ‘You’re really starting to get on my nerves, you know that?’

‘I don’t get why you’re so mad about me having a little fun with them, Florence. After everything they did to you, shouldn’t you be on my side?’ 

Florence froze slightly at that. Freddie didn’t bring it up much, he knew that it was somewhat of a sensitive subject for her. He put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her into his side a little. 

‘Freddie…’ she started, cautiously, but he barrelled on regardless. 

‘Come on, those commie bastards invaded your home, they killed your mother and probably killed your father too. Don’t you think he would want you to fight back a little Florence? Or what was it he called you again…?’

He didn’t say it, but she didn’t like the fact that he was bringing that up regardless. She had told him one night, in confidence, that she hated the fact that her father had never got to know her as Florence. That if he was still out there somewhere, alive, he wouldn’t recognise his daughter. 

‘Stop.’ Florence stood up abruptly. She didn’t want to sit with him. She didn’t want his hands on her. 

‘I’m just saying, I think he’d call you a coward if he could see how you bend to their will.’ 

‘Stop!’ Florence cried again. Her stomach had gone cold, and she could feel her body shaking, even though she felt removed from it all. She was starting to get light-headed, a strange floaty sensation taking over her body in the way that it sometimes did when the memories became too much to bear. 

‘Stop it stop it stop it!’ she shouted at him, feeling the hot tears start to roll down her cheeks. She wasn’t sure they were tears of despair at the memories, or anger at what Freddie was trying to provoke in her.

‘Get out.’ It was the only thing she could think to say, even though some small part of her would do anything to have his arms around her, pulling her back to reality. 

Thankfully, for the first time that conversation he actually listened to her, and left. Florence pulled the duvet covers around herself as she trembled. Soon, she would have to clean herself up for that meeting with Sergievsky, since she was likely to be sole American representative there after everything had blown up with Freddie, but for now, she could stay here. She wrapped the covers around herself tightly; if she closed her eyes, she could pretend they were her feathers. 

Sometimes, when you dream, you dream of flying. It feels further and further away each time you remember it. Over the years, your childhood Hungarian—the language of all your memories, the language of your parents—grows fainter and fainter every day. You can barely speak it anymore. Occasionally, you wonder if the same thing will happen to the feeling of the air flowing through your feathers, the wind beneath your wings. 

You like to think you can remember your father teaching you to fly, your mother—fully human, though that had not saved her in the end—laughing at the pair of you as you had flapped your tiny fledgling wings, unable to get off the ground. There is no way you can recall that far back, you are aware of this, but the idea of it comforts you nonetheless. Perhaps someone had told you about it, or perhaps your brain had made it up one day. Either way, it does its job, as you curl further into the sheets and pretend that someone is holding you. 

The thing about Freddie Trumper is that he doesn’t even make you feel less lonely. Perhaps he had at first. Perhaps you, like him, had liked having someone else around, someone who saw you for who you were and someone you could trust. But the gulf between you grows and grows and grows, and now, you aren’t sure what you are getting out of this. 

If not for that fleeting memory of the skies, then maybe you would have left by now, but that small hope clings to you. It’s not something you can abandon so easily.

Although she contemplated hiding in the bed forever, eventually, Florence forced herself to roll over and look in the mirror. Her eyes were rimmed with redness, and her hair was even more of a frizzy mess than usual, but those were all things that could be fixed.

She got dressed as if a ritual, letting her mind wander as she ran through the familiar steps of washing her face and pulling her hair back into something a little less chaotic. For a moment, she reached for her makeup bag, but then she let her fingers falter. Her head was already pounding from the tears, the uncomfortable sensation of makeup on her skin would only make matters worse. She just hoped that no-one would mention it, if she looked a little less put together than normal. 

As if to make up for it—and she hated that that had to be her thought process—she picked out a dress instead of her usual pantsuits. It was a nice dress—one that she had bought on a trip with Freddie, back when they had still got on well enough to do things like going shopping together—pale blue and floaty, something that made her feel pretty . Florence wasn’t really sure why she was dressing pretty for the meeting with a rival chess player—if anything she should be trying her best to look as assertive as possible—but as she admired herself in the mirror she decided she liked what she saw. 

For a long time, she had avoided looking at herself too closely. She hadn’t liked her broad shoulders, or the rolls of fat on her stomach. Neither of these things had gone away, but somehow over the years the hormones had made them into something she liked, had made them into part of her , rather than a body that felt foreign. 

In the end, she reached for the white blazer she had worn to the game—at least this could make her look a little more professional—and then left the hotel room a little apprehensively. She didn’t know what to expect from Sergievsky; he seemed to be a quiet man, but then anyone would seem quiet under such constant supervision. If nothing else, she hoped they could come to some agreement and move on. 

As the days passed, she felt more and more done with Frederick Trumper; the sooner the game was over at this point, the better. They still would have the second half of the championship to play—in Budapest of all places—but perhaps the break would give him a chance to mellow out a little. Foolish hopes for Florence Vassy, but ones that she clung to regardless.

Chapter Text

Florence waited outside the restaurant for Freddie for as long as she could bear, looking at the time pass on her watch as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, until she eventually gave up. If Freddie was going to stand them up, she could at least make sure that the American delegation was still there to hold its own against the Soviets—she was sure that the arbiter would not take them failing to show up to planned negotiation in the most charitable light. 

The door creaked a little as she pushed it open, and she was immediately greeted by a small, but busy restaurant, a wave of heat washing over her. It only took a moment for her to identify Sergievsky and Molokov—both sticking out a little amongst all the locals—and to wander over to their table. They didn’t seem to pick up on her presence immediately, as they kept speaking to each other in a way that she was sure they would not if they knew they were being observed. 

‘Anatoly, need I remind you that you don’t have a choice in who you play. I don’t care if you don’t wish to play against the First Secretary, the match is tonight, and I expect you to be there.’ Molokov adjusted his coat again, and Florence couldn’t help but wonder why he continued to wear something so thick in such a warm restaurant. For some reason, the action seemed to make Sergievsky wince a little—or maybe it was just his words.

‘I am here to play in the world championship, why do you insist I play against all these petty bureaucrats?’

‘They are the reason you are here, Anatoly. Need I remind you what we could do to you if you stop deciding to cooperate?’

Sergievsky looked away, and his eyes met Florence’s. 

‘Ah, Ms Vassy.’ She seemed to be a welcome distraction, and she couldn’t blame him. She certainly wouldn’t like to be spoken to in that manner. 

Molokov turned around as well. ‘Where is your player Ms Vassy?’ 

‘He’ll be along shortly, he’s just getting ready,’ Florence lied, and Molokov raised an eyebrow, but shifted in his seat before standing up and offering it to her. 

‘I have a phone call to make to the First Secretary, but I trust you can sort this out,’ Molokov said, dismissively, sweeping out of the restaurant. 

Florence settled down across from Sergievsky. He seemed to relax a little the moment the door swung shut behind Molokov, taking a deep sigh, and a gulp of his drink. Florence hoped he was going to be amenable to negotiation. 

‘Where is your player?’ Sergievsky asked immediately, and Florence had to restrain herself from sighing or perhaps bursting into frustrated tears. 

‘He’ll be here soon,’ she said again. Both of them knew it wasn’t true, but she had to keep saying it.

‘Right, I’m sure someone will have him along shortly.’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘Well, do you want to order anything while you wait at least?’ he asked, and Florence had to admit that a drink would be nice. She was exhausted, and anything to take that edge off would be welcome. Still, something in what Sergievsky had said to her stuck out. 

‘What do you mean someone will have him along shortly? Do you have someone following him?’ Freddie’s paranoia was, for the most part, misplaced, but she felt like she should have expected this; even on the neutral soil of Bangkok the Soviets would still be desperate to control the environment and have the upper hand. 

‘Do you not have people following me?’ Sergievsky said, as if such a thing were perfectly natural. ‘We have people following me, even. Look at this.’ 

He said something in Russian, and from a table across the restaurant, an inconspicuous man that Florence had not even noticed replied to him. 

‘Oh.’ She should have known really, that they would keep tabs on their player like that. ‘Wait you don’t think I’m …’ she trailed off. Molokov was very obviously not a chess second, but she wanted Sergievsky to know that she really was just here to do her job. 

He shrugged, nonchalant. ‘Maybe, I cannot say really.’ 

‘Well, I’m not a spy, I can tell you that.’ 

‘I’m sure that’s what they all say,’ he slung back, and she had to laugh a little at that. 

‘Maybe I’d be happier if I were a spy,’ she admitted, not quite sure where that had come from. ‘Unfortunately my job really is just dealing with Freddie.’ 

‘It is a shame, that we cannot choose who we work for,’ he said, casting her a somewhat meaningful glance. She understood. She wouldn’t want to be trapped in his situation either. 

‘I can leave,’ Florence said. She didn’t know how true that was. ‘I suppose that’s a little harder for you.’ 

‘But will you?’ he asked. A few days ago, she would have vehemently denied it. Things with Freddie had not been good for a long time, but he had her stuck. In that moment however, she knew that she couldn’t let her coat keep her stuck any longer. She was going to have to leave regardless. 

‘Yes, I think I will, Mr Sergievsky.’

He let out a sharp laugh at that. ‘Anatoly, please.’ He smiled at her gently, and she could feel the image of the robotic Soviet chess player melt away around him. 

‘Okay Anatoly,’ she said with a shy smile. ‘And what about you?’ 

He cast a look around, his eyes falling on the man who had responded in Russian earlier. ‘I’m afraid I cannot say,’ Anatoly said, but his gaze met hers. He was thinking about it then. Both of them were thinking about leaving, regardless of the consequences. 

Florence looked away. ‘I really should go and see if Freddie is coming,’ she said, and excused herself to the terrace, slightly flustered. 

When you meet Freddie for the first time, it feels like a dance. First over the board, knights jumping over one another, pieces locked in a glorious battle. Away from the board it’s all nervous glances, and fumbled words. You think that he might have a crush on you; you think you might have a crush on him. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just the simple satisfaction of finally meeting someone who can give you a challenge, who can make your heart sing as you play. 

He pulls you out of your comfortable life at college, doing that English degree at Yale that your adoptive father had been so proud of you for getting into—following in his footsteps. They hadn’t been able to have children of their own, you had surmised that much long ago, but he still had someone to take after him. You wonder if he will continue to be so proud of you once he sees how long your hair has become, once he learns that you have told Freddie Trumper that your name is Florence Vassy, and he had accepted that with ease. 

With Freddie, you don’t toil through your classes, fretting about how you are going to pretend to be your parents' son again next time you are home for the holidays. No, you plan elaborate trips across the country, working out how much prize money you could win compared to how much the bus was going to cost. You played chess next to each other on twenty-hour coach epics, and when the winnings started getting a little kinder, you held his hand on aeroplanes and he looked the other way as you put on a facade to match your passport. 

College life was safe. Safe and sleepy and boring, a gentle stroll through the park. Chess with Freddie Trumper was a mad dance, frantic and exhausting, but oh so fun. You can see of course, the threads of what is to come later. The way that he clings to you when you say anything about needing to get back to real life, the way that his voice gets loud and frantic when he’s upset. Of course, you ignore it all. You don’t need to look at the warning signs when you are having this much fun. Flying high, at least, makes you feel alive. 

Florence waited, looking out over the streets below from the terrace, but there was no sign of Freddie of course. She supposed she was going to have to get on with these negotiations herself, admit defeat. The night air was cool against her bare shoulders, and she wished she had her coat to wrap around herself. When she had been younger, she had worn it everywhere. A boy in a large feather coat had brought all the wrong kinds of attention, but she had remembered running her fingers over it—a sign of what she had lost, a sign of home. Now the gentle breeze felt strangely chilling, despite the fact that the heat from the day had yet to totally dissipate. 

‘Ms Vassy?’ A questioning voice, the Russian accent undeniably Anatoly.

‘Didn’t you tell me to call you Anatoly?’ she asked, as he came over to the edge of the terrace, looking out over the railing with her. 

‘Right. You seem cold, do you want to go back inside?’ 

Florence shrugged, but made no move.

‘Maybe he’s scared,’ Anatoly mused.

‘Can we not talk about Freddie, please ,’ Florence blurted out in response, before realising what a silly thing that was to say to his chess opponent. That was what they were here to do after all, but for once, she wanted to think about something else. It really was a beautiful night, the setting sun bleeding into the clouds, and she didn’t want to waste it thinking yet again about the man on every last one of her nerves right now. 

‘Oh,’ Anatoly seemed a little surprised, but surprisingly acquiesced. ‘How are you liking Bangkok then Florence?’ 

They spoke, for quite some time, about the city and the various places they had travelled for chess over the years, as the last traces of light bled from the sky. There was something about Anatoly, Florence thought, that made her feel comfortable. He seemed so trapped in his life—from what he could even say about such a thing with a permanent ‘bodyguard’ presence—but somehow still more insightful than Frederick Trumper. 

‘Do you ever wish you could leave?’ Florence asked him, before realising what a stupid thing that was to say to a man who couldn’t talk honestly. 

He leaned in, closer than they were already standing, so that their hair brushed against each others’. ‘Of course I do,’ he said, in something that was so quiet she couldn’t be quite sure she heard it. 

His face was so close to hers that she could practically feel his breath. She could see the stubble on his cheeks, and the smattering of freckles and birthmarks over his tanned skin. Florence wasn’t quite sure what compelled her, but she leaned in ever so slightly, until their noses practically touched. She heard his breath hitch a little, and she closed her eyes. What on earth was she doing? Was she really about to kiss a Soviet? She supposed she was, she realised, as she reached a hand up to touch his cheek.

Before their lips could meet, she was jerked out of the moment by a loud shout. 

‘Florence you traitor!’ 

Of course, Freddie had chosen that moment to show up, Walter by his side, the compromising position between her and Anatoly on full display. Just what was he going to think?

‘What’s this? You’re working with them?’ Freddie practically spat at her, glancing frantically between Florence and Anatoly as though he were trying to put two and two together. 

‘We were just talking Freddie, calm down,’ Florence tried, though she knew exactly what he had walked in on, there was no way to really pretend it hadn’t been happening. She was going to try anyway. Freddie already thought she was working against him at the best of times, kissing the enemy surely wasn’t going to make anything better. 

‘Ms Vassy was simply trying to negotiate,’ Anatoly added, and Florence shot him a grateful look, even if him backing her up was only going to make her seem more suspicious in Freddie’s eyes. 

‘Well let’s get to it then.’ It was only then that Florence realised that Molokov had returned, trailing a little behind them. ‘Trumper? Your apology?’ 

Freddie looked like there was nothing he’d rather do less. ‘You think I’d apologise to the commies?’ he sounded incredulous, but Molokov said nothing, only giving a sharp nod. 

‘No, it’s me who should apologise,’ Anatoly said. Florence was sure that he was no more genuine, but at least this would get them playing again. ‘Ms Vassy has really brought me around, I see what I have done wrong. I would like to get back to the chess Mr Trumper.’

Freddie looked between them again, a disgusted expression creeping across his face. 

‘Forget it. I don’t want your stupid apology. I’m being paid millions to keep playing, money is more important than the word of a lying red anyway.’ 

‘It’s true,’ Walter piped up, with a sly grin unfitting to the situation. ‘People love Freddie, someone to put up a fight against the Russians.’ 

‘So, this is all resolved?’ Molokov seemed unimpressed with it all, as if he had far better things to be doing with his time. ‘You will stop accusing our player of cheating?’ 

‘I can hold my nose, with this much money at play,’ Freddie begrudged. 

Anatoly held out a hand, but Freddie pushed it away. 

‘I can hold my nose, but make no mistake, you’re still a cheater. Let’s go Florence.’ 

‘We can take you back to your hotel,’ Anatoly offered. 

Florence wanted none of it. She was still processing what had nearly happened. ‘I’ll walk myself,’ she said. ‘We can talk in the morning Freddie.’ 

‘Fine, just don’t think I’ll forget this.’ 

The first time you kiss Freddie Trumper, you have just beaten him at chess. You are in the middle of explaining your moves to him, heads close to each other over the board, when he reaches out and pulls you in by the neck of your jumper. It takes you by surprise by a little—it’s not like you have not seen the way that Freddie looks at you sometimes, but you had thought it was going to take longer to get to this point—but it’s not an unpleasant surprise. He runs his fingers through your hair, and you let him slip his tongue into your mouth. All in all, it is a good first kiss; you don’t mention it for weeks afterwards.

Chapter Text

It was late when Florence made her way down to the hotel pool that night, or rather, early the following morning. There was a stickiness to the Bangkok air, the type that clings to you even as it cools, and she couldn’t sleep. She was so sick of Frederick Trumper. He had been absolutely insufferable about his new deal to keep playing once she had returned to the hotel room, and insisted that she was a traitor. And, well, he might have been a little bit correct about that last part with the way that Anatoly Sergievsky kept crossing her mind. 

She clutched a towel under her arm. She didn’t plan on swimming—swimming in public wasn’t something she had felt comfortable with in quite some time—but at least dipping her feet in the water might help her to cool off a little. The entire time that Florence had been in Bangkok, it had felt like she was fighting to keep her head on straight, anything that might help even in the slightest had to be considered. 

The lights overhead blinked on as she pushed the door open to the pool area, the water itself already illuminated a pale blue as she realised she wasn’t alone in there. Someone, swimming lengths so fast, so smooth, that they appeared to be part of the water. She let herself watch for a few moments, almost mesmerised by the motions, before startling with a slight jump as the figure came to a stop at the end of the pool. He shook the water out of his hair, and even in the dim lighting she could recognise the familiar face. Just her luck, Anatoly Sergievsky. 

Florence still felt a little embarrassed, thinking about their earlier conversation, the way that she had leaned in, before they had been interrupted by Freddie spewing all sorts of false accusations. Well, one part of it had been true, she had wanted to kiss him, until Freddie had come in and destroyed the mood. It wouldn’t have been a good idea, she had realised, with so many KGB agents in the restaurant, but that hadn’t stopped the thought from floating across her mind, and playing back again and again after the fact. 

And now here he was, gliding through the water so smoothly that it seemed to be his natural state of being, at last out from under the eye of the watchful KGB agents. He didn’t notice Florence until she approached the edge of the pool, when he suddenly startled a little, realising that he was being watched. 

‘Oh!’ he let out a short breath of surprise. ‘Florence, I didn’t expect to see you here. I just came to clear my mind.’ 

‘I could say the same thing,’ she said, perching down at the edge of the pool and slipping her shoes off. She hoped he didn’t mind that she still fully intended on cooling her feet off in the water.

‘So you do this often?’ she asked, although such a thing was obvious with the deftness with which Anatoly swam. 

‘It is a good way to prepare for my games,’ he said, and Florence couldn’t help but notice his tone was strangely guarded. ‘You aren’t going to come in?’ 

‘I don’t really swim,’ Florence said to him, but that much was a lie. Back when she had still been able to take her swan form, she had enjoyed it. She hadn’t swam like Anatoly had, that was for sure, but gliding through the water had felt natural, both as bird and human. These days, such a thing was a little harder, especially in the only body that she now had access to. 

‘It’s not deep.’ Florence could see that Anatoly was standing, the water only going up to his shoulders. They weren’t dissimilar in height, still, there was no way she could do such a thing. 

‘I don’t have any swimming things,’ she dismissed him, while letting her legs slip into the cool water. 

‘Okay then.’ He pushed himself out of the pool, and moved to sit beside her, legs in the water together. He shook himself off a little, the water dripping from his hair, and Florence couldn’t help but think he looked like a big dog as he did that. 

‘You’re getting me wet!’ she giggled, but she didn’t really care. 

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said with a smile and a warm glance. It was only then that Florence realised she was wearing her pyjamas, with a jumper she’d pulled over them. It wasn’t like she had been expecting to run into anyone here, least of all Anatoly Sergievsky. 

It wasn’t like he was wearing much either though, just loose fitting swimming trunks. She let herself look at him, and the light layer of hair that seemed to cover most of his body, and hoped that he didn’t notice her cheeks flushing a little. He didn’t seem particularly bothered by his state of undress, sprawled out on the side of the pool, laughing with her. It was at that point—looking at the hair on his chest—that Florence noticed something she wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have. Two silvery scars on his chest. 

Most people would probably have very little idea of what that implied, but Florence was familiar with the men who were her opposite—more in theory than in practice, but enough to recognise his scars for what they were. 

She wasn’t sure if she should say anything, but well, if she continued letting her foolish heart drag her around, they were going to have to have this conversation sooner or later. 

‘You have scars,’ she said, her voice echoing a little against the high ceilings. ‘Here.’ She gestured at the position on her own chest. 

‘Oh yes.’ Anatoly seemed surprised that she’d noticed. ‘I had to have surgery there once, nothing major.’ 

‘Right.’ He seemed a little on edge, and for that Florence felt bad. ‘I’m familiar with that kind of thing you know.’ She hoped he picked up what she was putting down.

‘You are?’ Still guarded, he seemed as if he couldn’t quite figure out how much she knew about what she was getting at. 

‘Hm, let’s just say that I know what it’s like.’

‘You?’ he sounded surprised. ‘But you have, well.’ He glanced rather pointedly at her breasts, she could see the blush climbing his cheeks at pointing out such a thing. 

‘I didn’t say we were the same Anatoly. In fact I’d describe it as the opposite.’

She waited a moment for him to get it. Anatoly tilted his head to the side with confusion, before a look of understanding finally dawned. Florence could practically pinpoint the moment in his eyes that it clicked. 

‘Oh, like that .’ 

‘Like that,’ Florence confirmed. It was nice actually, to know that she wasn’t the only one in the chess world. She wondered how it worked for someone far more public than her. ‘Does your ‘second’ know?’ 

‘Well yes. He knows everything about me. I can’t leave; he knows too much.’ 

‘You think he’d tell, if you left? Surely that’s not the kind of thing the Soviets would want to be public, especially if they’ve been helping you out with hormones and surgery.’ Florence wondered what on earth those headlines would read, if such a thing ever got out.

‘It’s not just that.’ Anatoly suddenly seemed rather more nervous, as if Florence had only managed to scratch the surface with his gender, that there were countless more secrets buried below. ‘There’s more that I can’t tell. More reasons why I can’t leave.’ He sounded dejected, as though the fact that he was trapped was something he had accepted a long time ago.

‘But what if you could .’ Florence knew that she was being hopelessly optimistic about it all, but here was a man trapped, here was a man in trouble from the same people who had hurt her family. Of course she wanted to do what she could for him. 

‘I admire what you think is possible, Florence,’ he said, and she couldn’t help but enjoy the way that her name sounded on his tongue, before he leaned in, finishing what they had started at the restaurant.

He kissed her slowly, gently, nothing like the frantic mess it normally was with Freddie. That was normally a huge release of energy, this was something else entirely. Something sweet and gentle, and then it was over almost as soon as it started. 

‘There.’ He pulled back, and Florence felt a grin bloom on her face. Something about him captivated her, made her want to kick her legs and squeal like a girl. Maybe it was just a man who made her feel wanted, rather than just used. It was just nice to feel respected, liked even. 

With a boldness she wouldn’t have expected of herself, Florence leaned in to kiss him again, reaching her hands up to his wet curls. He tasted of chlorine. 

‘I’m going to leave Freddie,’ she whispered, despite the fact that they were alone anyway. Their faces were still inches away from each others’. She wasn’t quite sure when she had become so sure of that conclusion, but saying it aloud like that made it feel real. 

‘Good. That man is a lunatic,’ Anatoly said, and Florence burst out laughing again. There was something about the way he said things, so utterly serious. She wasn’t sure if it was just his unfamiliarity with English, but something about it charmed her. 

‘I stayed for so long, I felt like I couldn’t leave. But now, I think I have to.’ Florence wasn’t sure where she was going with this, edging towards the reasons why she had felt trapped for so long. She had told Freddie the truth, and look where that had got her. Telling a Soviet about it all would be a recipe for certain disaster, she knew. Even if he kissed her sweetly and looked at her like he’d never seen someone so beautiful in his life.

‘You could come too. You could come with me.’ She wasn’t quite sure what possessed her to say that to a man she barely knew, but once the words were out they felt right.

‘I wish I could,’ Anatoly said again, and moved away from her a little to stare down into the water. ‘But Molokov has something of mine. Something I can’t leave behind.’ 

The way he said that, a feeling Florence knew all too well, made something click in her head. Molokov was always in that heavy coat, despite the sweltering Bangkok heat, and the way that Anatoly had looked at him felt so close to what she knew all too well. He wasn’t a swan though, were there more that she hadn’t been aware of? 

‘Your coat, right? He has your coat.’ If she was wrong, he was going to think she was losing it. 

Anatoly looked visibly startled. ‘Just how much do you know Ms Vassy? I am starting to think you might be a spy after all.’

‘Just another thing that we share, I believe,’ she replied, praying that she was right, and she wasn’t about to do herself in for a man she barely knew. One coincidence was understandable, but this on top of it? Perhaps it was all a little too perfect. Was this a trap she was walking right into? Her heart hammered in her chest as she continued. 

‘You’ve seen the coat that Freddie wears?’

‘So that’s why you don’t leave the asshole,’ Anatoly said, and he seemed to understand a little better now. 

‘Hm,’ Florence hummed in agreement. ‘It’s hard, when someone you trust turns against you and takes your freedom from you.’ 

‘So you were free once?’ Anatoly says, and he sounds longing at the prospect. ‘I’ve never really had mine. Not once, since I was a child and they found me. They let me have a taste of it sometimes, let me try on my own skin in the pool, but I always had to give it back, like it was something I was borrowing rather than a whole part of myself.’ 

Florence felt her heart sink at that. ‘God, Anatoly, that’s so awful.’ 

‘Well, you know how they are,’ he said grimly. She did. She remembered the screams and her mother’s dying body. The last flash of wings before she lost her father for good. ‘If I could get my coat back though, I could be free. Free from all of this, free just to play chess.’ 

If there was a way to do that, Florence thought, then she would have already done it herself. Still, she let herself lean back in towards Anatoly. ‘Why don’t we try? What do you have to lose?’ Then their lips met once more, and she let herself melt into him. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Chapter Text

When you wake up in your new home for the first time, everything feels wrong. You had stayed with family in a few different countries before ending up in the United State, and part of you is not quite ready to accept that this is not just another one of those temporary arrangements. If all goes well, these are to be your parents for the rest of your life. 

The air smells different here, and the noise of the air conditioning is unfamiliar and makes your head hurt. The windows have mesh screens on them—to keep the bugs out, the woman who was to become your mother had told you, but they just make you feel trapped. 

You want to go home. You climb back into your bed and pull the covers over your head, screwing your eyes tightly shut. Perhaps if you just want badly enough, then you can dream yourself back to a world where none of this ever happened. Where your father is teaching you how to fly with your downy wings, and your mother has breakfast waiting on the table for when you are done. You know it is impossible, but still, you have never wanted anything more. 

You nuzzle your face into the feathers of your coat. It doesn’t feel right anymore without him. 

Florence was confused for a moment upon waking up—in a hotel room similar to her own, but ever so slightly different—before she rolled over to see the man next to her. Anatoly, with his dark hair sprawled out over the pillow, still sleeping softly. The red numbers of the alarm clock on the bedside table told her it was too early to be awake—especially considering how late they’d met at the pool, and how long they had stayed up after that, hands on each other's bodies as they’d got to know each other in a different way entirely. 

Still, Florence forced herself out of bed. If she wanted to get back without Freddie noticing too much, going back to sleep was not a good idea. Instead, she stood up, really feeling the lack of sleep as she did so. Her clothes were haphazardly scattered over the floor—which made her feel a little embarrassed about how frantic it all seemed now the following morning—and as she put them on, she noticed how wrinkled everything had become without her taking the care to hang it up. 

Part of her wondered if she should wake Anatoly up, but it was so early, and he had a game to play. She knew that Freddie would be on her case for disturbing his sleep before such an important match, even if he was the one who’d been out the previous night, partying the time away. So she left Anatoly sleeping, giving him one last glance before she had to dash. 

He looked so peaceful, and as she watched him she could observe the seal-like features she’d noticed when they were in bed together. The streaks of grey in his hair—which she’d assumed were just ageing—and the spots of hyperpigmentation across his back and cheekbones. She knew she had some swan features of her own, like the way that her teeth had a little more bite to them than they ought to, and the almost feathery texture of her hair, but it was interesting to see the marks of what he was on Anatoly Sergievsky’s body. He was gorgeous, she thought, all soft curves and a generous layer of fat. With him, she’d felt comfortable in a way that she never had with Freddie. 

Freddie had never been explicitly weird about her body when they’d had sex. He made all those crude jokes about her, but to his credit he’d been quite good at shutting up about her genitals when his hands were on them. Anatoly of course though, understood. It had been so easy to tell him what was good for her, and she had understood almost instinctively what he too didn’t like. She’d been glad that he hadn’t minded her touching his scarring though. She could see them now, the silvery marks peeking out from his hairy chest, under the covers slipping down his body. Hopefully, this wouldn’t be the last time she’d get to see them, she thought as she slipped out of the door. 

Freddie wasn’t there, Florence realised in a panic as she returned to the hotel room. He must have gone home with someone, or something like that, but he definitely wasn’t here. She tried phoning Walter’s room, but no-one had picked up. Though Florence insisted she wasn’t his mother, she hoped that he would actually make it to the match in one piece. Often she felt like he’d never get anywhere without her herding him around, and this sudden disappearance was worrying to her. 

Still, she busied herself with getting ready, telling herself that he just stayed out too late, or went home with some woman that he’d met. A pale purple suit, that was nice she thought. For a long time she’d been hesitant to wear anything like that at all, but now she felt comfortable enough in herself that wearing trousers wasn’t a big deal, especially loose fitting ones like these. 

When she was ready, she tried Walter’s room again, startling a little when someone picked up. 

‘Hello? Walter, do you know where Freddie is?’ she asked, trying not to let the slight panic seep into her tone.

‘Right here,’ answered a familiar voice. ‘I could ask you the same. Where the hell were you last night? I came back to an empty room.’ Part of Florence couldn’t help but wonder if he had been similarly panicked; if he had been worried as to her whereabouts, or if he had simply been relieved that she wasn’t there to nag him. 

‘Are you ready for the match?’ Florence decided to ignore the rest of it. They could deal with it later, and then maybe she would never have to deal with it again. The remembrance of what she had decided to do last night slammed into her. It felt so huge, abandoning the only link to her past, and abandoning the man that had for so long been her only friend, the person she had trusted with her entire life, to the point where it had been so easy to take everything she had given him and throw it back in her face. 

‘Sure,’ he said, and then with a click the line cut off. She could just picture him on the other side of the wall slamming it down. 

Freddie looked like a mess—though his suit was as sharp as ever—and to Florence’s surprise so did Walter. They both appeared to have drunk far too much the night before, and judging by the marks on Freddie’s neck, he hadn’t gone home alone.

Florence’s eyes flickered between the two of them for just a moment, had they…? Well, that was largely unimportant, though she did consider sleeping with Walter Anderson, the scammy marketing agent, to be a uniquely bad show of character from Frederick Trumper. She hadn’t realised he was into men, though she couldn’t say she was particularly surprised. 

‘Come on, let’s get going or we’re going to be late. The arbiter is already thoroughly unimpressed with the American delegation.’ It felt easy to slip back into that persona, the Florence who had already wasted far too much of her life doing this.

Freddie started walking after her, waiting until they were in the lift until he gave her a sharp glare that she hadn’t expected. 

‘You slept with the commie, didn’t you.’ 

Florence wanted to look away, his stare was rather uncomfortable. She didn’t say anything, he knew her almost as well as she knew herself, there was no way that she would be able to lie in a way that was even half convincing. 

‘Admit it. He was nice to you, and you opened your legs,’ he drawled, somewhat crudely. Florence didn’t know how to respond. She stared down at her shoes, brown and practical, to avoid looking at Freddie, or at Walter who stood somewhat awkwardly in the corner amongst all of this. 

‘Was he surprised at what he found there?’ 

Florence felt her cheeks flush, red hot and angry, but blessedly the lift doors opened at that moment and she strided out away from the two men behind her. 

‘Don’t talk to me like that, you asshole!’ she burst out, before she could think to stop herself. ‘Let’s just play chess. You better shut up if you’re going to keep talking to me like that.’ 

At least Freddie had the shreds of decency left to look a little embarrassed at being chewed out so thoroughly. Walter just stood there, picking at his nails. It hurt, that something he’d been so kind about when she’d first plucked up the courage to tell him, was the thing that he used against her now. She couldn’t trust him with anything, she realised. Not Budapest, not this, nothing at all. 

They just had to get through to the end of the game, and then she could leave forever. She’d never have to see him again. 

Freddie played predictably poorly, fumbling good captures that he should have seen from miles away, and growing increasingly frustrated as Anatoly gained steady dominance over the board. Florence watched him fall apart, unable to bring herself to really care. The only thing she felt towards Freddie at this point was anger. 

He blundered a knight, and then a rook, and started wringing his hands, one step away from getting up to pace. Anatoly moved his bishop to a spot that even Florence hadn’t seen the potential of, and Freddie looked over towards him like he was being handed a death sentence. Florence wasn’t sure she could see any way out of it, and she had no doubt that Freddie’s hangover-addled brain was even more sluggish with it. He tried to get out of the trap, but only succeeded in snaring himself further. In the end, he reached out to topple his king. 

The end of the match proceedings had barely been called by the arbiter before Freddie turned on Florence. 

‘Well, that wasn’t your best game,’ she tried, though it was pointless. 

‘This is your fault Florence. You know why I couldn’t play? You really want to know what got me making blunders like that?’ 

She just shrugged. She didn’t want to be here anymore. She was so tired of watching her former friend self-destruct, turning from a man she had liked into someone utterly unrecognisable. Had the seeds of this really been there all along? It was hard to remember.

‘I couldn’t stop thinking about how you betrayed me. How you fucked that commie bastard last night, and betrayed me.’ 

‘Like you’re any better,’ Florence spat back. She was sick of this. ‘You’re the one who’s selling out, to the point where you don’t even care about the damn game anymore. I didn’t expect you to get Walter in your bed though. Does he pay you to be there too?’ 

‘Oh you are nasty Florence Vassy. A fucking traitor. That’s what you are.’ 

‘You’re the one who’s more set on making money than actually beating the Soviets at chess. You’re a traitor to yourself Frederick Trumper.’ 

A horrible moment of silence, both of their heavy breathing the only sound. 

And then, ‘I want you to go. Get your things and leave. You’re not my second anymore, you’re fired.’ 

A childish part of Florence wanted to shout back that he couldn’t fire her if she quit first, but honestly, she was so done with Freddie that she just nodded. 

‘I hope you’re happy. I hope you get all the money in the world, and it makes you happy. It won’t do though, you know that right? It’s all just going to make you feel hollow, that’s what you get Freddie.’ The words spilled out. Part of her wanted to cry, but mainly it just felt like a relief. 

‘Leave. Now.’ 

‘Gladly.’ 

He watched as she packed up her things, clutching her coat close to his chest, like a child with a comfort blanket. The irony of that was not lost on Florence, but she declined to comment, instead moving as fast as she could. It was uncomfortable being stared at in this manner as she moved towards the bathroom to make sure she hadn’t left any of her toiletries or medication. She hated how he made her feel like she was being punished. 

‘There. That’s everything,’ she said, as she buckled up her case. She’d always travelled light. Now, she wondered if she’d been prepared to leave at any moment—it had been surprisingly straightforward to pack up her life. ‘Good luck Freddie. I mean it.’ 

‘Leave,’ was all he said in response, so she did exactly what he said. 

It wasn’t until the metal doors of the lift slid shut in front of her that she allowed herself to start crying. Loud, messy sobs. 

Seven years, and it was all over, just like that. So many times, she had wondered if Freddie’s latest attitude was going to be the end of them, so many times she had considered walking away and ending it once and for all. Now that it had happened, she supposed she hadn’t been expecting it to feel so final. It was all done now. She was never, ever, going to go back.

Chapter Text

Bags by her feet, Florence knocked on Anatoly’s hotel room door again. He didn’t seem to be there, just her luck. She wasn’t sure it was wise to turn up there anyway, who knew what Molokov would make of all of this. Perhaps it would be better to go downstairs and book her own room instead now that Freddie had kicked her out. She had an idea where Anatoly might be though, and more than anything, she wanted to see him right now. 

Just as she expected, he was there in the pool, swimming up and down frantically. She wondered if this was the equivalent of pacing, for someone built for the sea like he was, even if he couldn’t be in the form more suited to it. It took a few moments of her standing at the edge of the water to notice her, once again shaking out his hair as he surfaced. She realised that he didn’t seem to wear goggles as he swam, and remembered that he hadn’t been last time either. Despite this, he didn’t seem to have any issues with his eyes in the water. Maybe that was another one of those little adaptations.

‘Florence,’ his eyes seemed to light up and a hint of a smile edged across his face, before abruptly vanishing as he noticed the bags she was hauling around with her. Really, Florence was starting to realise, she had packed far too heavy for this kind of thing to happen. ‘What’s wrong Florence?’ 

‘Just how serious are you about leaving?’ she asked, before she could stop the words from coming out. 

Anatoly’s eyes widened. ‘We cannot talk here. Florence, I must be careful. Anyone could be listening to this conversation, it’s not safe.’ 

‘That’s right,’ a third voice chimed in, and Florence nearly jumped out of her skin as she spun around to see Walter standing there, her coat draped over his shoulders, and an all too satisfied smirk on his face. ‘You really ought to be more careful with where you say these things, Ms Vassy.’ 

‘What do you want?’ she snapped. Really, Walter’s interference was the last thing she needed right now. What would he do with all of this? Go running to Freddie? Guilt crept into her chest, what if her own recklessness was about to make things a whole lot worse for Anatoly?

‘What have I always wanted, Ms Vassy? To help.’ 

Walter moved all three of them into the sauna, assuring them that no-one would be able to hear them in here. Florence was not impressed by this. She had far too many clothes on for such an affair. If this was serious, then she wanted to be able to discuss it without having to unstick her blouse from her back every couple of seconds. 

‘I have more connections then perhaps you expect Ms Vassy,’ Walter started and Florence had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. She knew all about the supposed connections he had, that were going to make Freddie rich and famous, so long as he kept paying Walter’s salary. A scam artist, that’s all he was. 

‘I’m here on behalf of the state.’ 

What? Florence blinked slowly at him. Now that wasn’t something she had seen coming. Was he telling the truth? It sounded so far-fetched that she imagined it would be even more ridiculous to make something like that up. But still, Walter? Of all people?

‘Really? You could have picked less of an asshole cover then,’ she said, not quite sure she believed him. 

‘Oh no Ms Vassy, that’s all me,’ he said, with a smirk that made her want to hit him. 

Anatoly sat there, towel around his waist and eyes wide, looking every bit the startled seal. 

‘What exactly is going on?’ he asked. ‘You will help me?’

Walter turned to face him, seemingly unbothered by the heat of the sauna in his gaudy bright blue suit. 

‘For a price Mr Sergievsky, of course. The state is very interested in assisting those who wish to leave the tyranny of the Soviet Union.’ 

Florence watched as Anatoly shifted a little uncomfortably. She understood it, Walter made her skin crawl, perhaps even more now she knew who he actually was and why he was actually here. 

‘I’d like my coat back,’ Florence said, looking at how he had it sat loosely on his lap, unlike Freddie who had always clung to it like she might try and snatch it away from him if he wasn’t careful. 

‘I said for a price Ms Vassy.’ It took her a moment to realise what he meant by that.

Anatoly turned to look at her. He seemed so scared, but Florence didn’t know what to say. Was this really the trade that Walter Anderson—CIA agent, or something of that kind—wanted her to make? Her own freedom for Anatoly’s?

‘What does that gain you?’ she asked Walter. Freddie holding onto her coat made sense at least. That man had never acted on anything other than his emotions. Walter, though, had no reason to try to keep her. 

‘It gains me Frederick Trumper,’ he said, simply. 

‘I can’t ask you to do this for me,’ Anatoly said to her, once Walter had left and they had piled out of the sauna. Once again, Florence sat with her feet in the water while Anatoly had slipped back into the pool. She wondered if the water felt as natural to him as the skies had once felt to her, before they had been taken away. 

‘It’s not like I’d have it either way,’ she said, with a shrug, trying to feel nonchalant about it. In reality, it hurt that her autonomy, her freedom, was being used as a bargaining chip in this whole affair, but being sad about it didn’t do anything. This way, at least she could help someone else like her have freedom of their own. That was a net-positive, right?

Anatoly looked away. He seemed uncomfortable. 

‘I have a wife.’ It was so quiet that Florence wasn’t quite sure she’d heard it right, over the humming of the pool filter. 

‘A wife?’ she echoed, suddenly feeling rather cold, despite the warm Bangkok air. He’d not said anything, as he’d flirted with her out on the terrace. He certainly hadn’t said anything to her as she’d followed him back to his hotel room. 

‘A wife,’ he repeated. It wasn’t funny, but she almost wanted to laugh anyway, the way they were sending the word back and forth between themselves, getting nowhere.

‘Are you going to say anything else?’ Florence asked. She wasn’t sure what he could say that might possibly salvage this. That it was an arrangement? That they weren’t in love anymore? She could see how this might just be another trap in his life, and she hated how desperately she wanted him to say something to make it all okay . So she could go along with it anyway. 

‘What could I say, Florence?  That our marriage was encouraged by the state? That I don’t love her how I used to? That she’s upset that I won’t ever be able to give her children? I mean, I could say any one of those things, but I’m still married. She’s still expecting me home after all of this.’

‘Right,’ Florence said, her brain going too fast to really put any of it into words. 

‘I’ll figure something out. It’s okay,’ he said, ducking his head under the water, and leaving her alone once more. 

Florence didn’t leave though, she stood at the edge, waiting for him to resurface. 

‘Do you love her?’ she asked, and Anatoly looked up at her, surprised that she hadn’t left. 

He paused, a damning silence, before saying gently—in that way that suggested to Florence he was picking his English words very carefully—‘Things haven’t been like they were between us for a long time now.’ 

Florence supposed that was as good as she was going to get. She reached out a hand, and pulled him out of the pool. 

‘Get dried off, we have a coat to steal.’ 

Florence still wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing that night, as she waited by the phone at the front desk of the hotel, but at this point she had made her mind up. She needed to leave Freddie; Anatoly needed to leave his country. He felt trapped there regardless of his marriage, and so she was just going to have to take his word for the state of their relationship. Both of them needed to get out—if this was the opportunity that presented itself then of course she was going to take it. She knew she should feel bad about it, but sometimes you had to grasp at opportunities when they presented themselves to you.

The phone rang, the shrill sound startling Florence a little, causing her to jump. She picked up, and Walter Anderson’s voice echoed down the line, slightly crackly. 

‘The coast is clear. I can hold him off for ten minutes or so—you and Sergievsky should have time to get in a taxi to the British embassy.’ 

‘The British embassy?’ Florence was confused, this hadn’t been part of the plan. Had something fallen through with the Americans, despite Walter’s reassurances?

‘Yes, the British embassy Ms Vassy. Don’t go to the wrong place and cause a hassle for all of us.’ He spoke as if this were some kind of everyday affair. Maybe it was if you were CIA—it wasn’t like Florence knew much about the inner workings of such a thing. 

‘Okay,’ Florence said, trying to pretend that she wasn’t thrown off by the change of plan. She barely knew what the plan was in the first place, only that Walter had agreed to help them, luring Molokov away for long enough for Anatoly to steal his coat back and make a dash for freedom. She hung up the phone, and pushed it back across the desk in the direction of the hotel employee. 

‘Can you call for a taxi please?’ she asked, hoping that such a thing would be able to come fast enough. She couldn’t believe how haphazard all of this was. Wasn’t the CIA meant to be rather more coordinated than this?

‘For now?’ The woman seemed a little taken aback by Florence’s urgency. 

‘Yes, now please,’ Florence said. ‘Khàawp khun,’ thank you , she added, from the Thai phrasebook that she’d fruitlessly encouraged Freddie to take even a single glance at during their time here. The woman smiled at that—Florence hoped she hadn’t butchered the tones too badly. 

Now all she had to do was wait, both for the taxi and for Anatoly. It was agonising, knowing there was nothing she could do but stand there. Over and over, the fact that it was Britain kept swimming around her mind. Walter did know that she didn’t have British citizenship either right? How would sending Anatoly away somewhere else entirely be even remotely helpful? 

‘Florence!’ A loud cry, echoing across the empty hotel lobby. She turned to see Anatoly, the large coat wrapped around his shoulders, a bag clutched in his hands. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He reached for her hand and tugged her through the front door of the hotel. Florence shouted back another hasty thank you to the woman at the desk, as they stumbled out into the warm night air. 

They stood for a few moments, hoping that the taxi would avail itself soon, before Florence noticed in the distance the last person she wanted to see at that moment—Frederick Trumper. 

‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath. When Anatoly looked confused she vaguely gestured in the direction of Freddie, not wanting to bring any more attention to them than strictly necessary. Such a thing was difficult when they stood with their large bags and a sealskin coat entirely inappropriate for the Thai evening heat. 

He was alone, and was walking like he’d had something to drink. She guessed this was how he was coping with their split then. She ran off with the first man that presented himself to her—even a married one—and he acquainted himself with the nightlife of Bangkok. 

A car pulled up, and Florence barely even checked it was their taxi before bundling everything inside. Anything to get away, before he could see them. 

‘To the British Embassy please,’ she asked, pointing at it on the pocket map she carried.

Anatoly too, seemed confused at their destination. 

‘I thought—’ he started, before Florence cut him off. 

‘I’ll explain in a moment, let’s just get moving,’ she said, before returning her attention to the driver, ensuring that he understood where they needed to be. 

He nodded his assent at the map, and with a slightly unnecessary squeal of tyres, they were off, out onto the city roads. 

Florence looked out of the windscreen, and there, only a few metres from them, was Freddie. He met her gaze for just a moment—confusion, understanding, and then they were gone. 

That was the last that she saw of Frederick Trumper for the next year. A stolen glance in a Bangkok taxi; her high on adrenaline, him likely too drunk to remember seeing her.

Oh, what an ending to the past seven years.

Chapter Text

Your adoptive parents don’t understand why the feather coat is so important to you, but at least they don’t try to take it from you. 

‘Honey, you can’t wear that to school in June, it’s far too hot,’ your adoptive mother tells you, though she helps you pack it into a bag and assures you that it’ll be safe there. You like the feeling of the feathers against your skin no matter what the weather is, but you have learned that with some things, it is best to go along with your new family. 

The fact that you can’t tell them upsets you sometimes. You feel too small to have such a big secret, but you remember that your father had stressed just how important it was that no-one find out. The images of danger he had conjured in your mind merge with the very real Soviets that had come for you and your family. Horror is no longer an abstract idea, and so you take the memory of his words very seriously indeed. Your new family might love you, but this is something much larger than just you and them. 

At least they are kind about it. 

Florence Vassy sat numbly, as Walter Anderson tried to explain everything to the British embassy. She still didn’t understand why they were here, instead of the place where she actually had citizenship, and based on Walter's loud gesticulating, the British consul didn’t understand this either. Anatoly leaned into her side, clearly tired, and she leaned back against him, reaching out to rub her fingers against his. 

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, clearly struggling to keep up with the fast paced English conversation, full of all sorts of legal jargon. To be honest, Florence wasn’t entirely sure either—though of course it would have helped if she had been paying more attention. Part of her wondered if she should be up there trying to help sort things out, it was her future after all, but that would include submitting to the whims of Walter in some form and she was all too keen to avoid that. The man seemed to have his plan, and he seemed to have rather more authority than she had ever expected—Freddie wouldn’t be pleased to know just how close the CIA was, she caught herself thinking before she banished that man from her mind once more—it was probably best just to leave him to it. 

‘I don't know. But it's going to be okay,’ Florence told him, knowing it was probably a lie, but choosing to believe it anyway. That was the only way she had got through most of life, and she'd be damned if it started failing her now. 

‘You think so?’ Anatoly sounded so nervous, Florence reached out and took his hand. 

‘I do,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you out of here. We’ll be free.’ 

She tried not to think about the fact that she still wouldn’t be, that she was just giving her coat from one man to another. Anatoly would be free to change back into his seal form whenever he wished. He would be able to swim in the ocean, and feel the water against his true skin, but Florence would never again feel the wind beneath her wings. 

Anatoly must have noticed that she seemed unsure about something, as he squeezed her hand. 

‘What is it, Florence?’ he asked, leaning his head onto her shoulder. His stubbly beard tickled a little, she wondered if he was as proud of it as she was when her own body had started to feel more like her own. ‘Is it about Freddie?’ 

She shook her head. At least she had made her mind up about that. 

‘No I just…’ she trailed off, turning to glance at Walter, who still had her coat clutched under his arm. 

‘Ah.’ A quiet sound from Anatoly, but she knew he understood. He was doing all of this for his own freedom, of course he knew what she felt right now. He didn’t need to say anything.

‘Yeah, that,’ Florence murmured in response. After that, they sat in silence for quite some time. 

Eventually Walter came over to them, to inform them of the mountains of paperwork they were both going to have to fill out. Anatoly was practically drifting asleep on Florence’s shoulder, though he startled back awake quickly when he realised that they were finally getting somewhere with all of this. 

‘Why Britain?’ Florence asked, as she started flicking through her own paperwork. Her mother had been Welsh, but it wasn’t as though she’d ever been there. There had been talk about sending her to live with some distant relatives as she was fleeing Hungary, but in the end, everyone left in her life had decided that adoption to America would be the best thing for her. Florence had loved her adoptive parents—things were a little harder now, they hadn’t taken her transition well—but she had certainly wondered for much of her childhood why that decision had been made. Now that she was older, she knew that everyone had just been doing their best in a stressful situation, but when she was younger she’d certainly had moments where she’d resented the idea that she’d been kept from even the most distant of her relatives. It was easy to still feel like that, if she let herself. 

‘I have a deal with some of their guys,’ Walter said, ever vague. ‘It’s easier this way for Anatoly, defection there is far more straightforward.’ 

‘So you decided to remove me from my home too?’ Florence asked, indignant that he’d taken it upon himself to make this decision on her behalf—would she ever get to choose anything at all for herself? 

‘Florence,’ Walter said, condescending. ‘Florence I didn’t choose for you, I simply did what was best for Sergievsky to defect. Isn’t that what you wanted? You are free to return home to the United States of course, you are a free woman after all.’ 

A free woman , he said, while he held her freedom in his own hands. Florence forced down the anger, and returned her attention to the forms Walter might have turned out to be rather more helpful than expected, but it certainly didn’t make her like him any more. 

The flight to the United States is the first time you have flown inside a machine . Everything about it feels wrong to you, but of course you cannot tell the airline chaperone this. She sits next to you, and gives you toy planes and takes you up to see the cockpit. She doesn’t speak any Hungarian of course, but this is becoming a part of your strange new life that you are getting used to. 

You practise your English with her on the painfully long flight—there is nothing else to do to pass the time. It is halting, and speaking feels like you are wading through syrup, but if nothing else it distracts you from the fact that you are in the sky and you cannot feel the wind beneath your wings. 

‘I like your blanket,’ the chaperone says with a warm smile, and you clutch your coat closer to yourself. You don’t want her to look at it; you don’t want her to touch it. 

‘It is mine,’ you say back, at last not stumbling over your words. ‘Do not touch.’ 

She seems a little taken aback by your defensiveness, and decides to leave you alone as you press your face up to the small circular window. 

You want to look all around you, but you are restricted to this small part of a whole world that had been yours and your father’s. Everything is different now. You don’t think you like it very much. 

In the taxi to the airport, Anatoly draped his coat around Florence’s shoulders, just like she used to do with Freddie. Part of her wanted to push him away—it felt wrong, the sealskin instead of her own feathers—but in the end she just leaned in. She knew that Anatoly was anxious too, and taking out her frustrations with Walter on him wasn’t going to help anything. Perhaps the UK would be nice. Walter was right, she didn’t have to go, but it felt too late to back out now. This would be a fresh start. Away from Freddie; away from the adoptive family who didn’t want her anymore; away from it all. 

‘Are you scared?’ she asked Anatoly, as they hauled their bags out of the car, Walter running ahead of them into the airport, seemingly trying to sort something out. Florence supposed that the CIA were busy people. 

‘Of course I am,’ he said, and she could hear the slight tremble in his voice, accent thicker than usual. ‘I am leaving everything I know, and the people I am leaving behind know a lot about me.’ 

‘A man with many secrets,’ Florence said with a laugh. It felt good, to share her own secrets with him, to know that he was so like her in so many ways. When she’d gone to his hotel room that night, she had felt so completely comfortable with his hands on her body. He seemed equally comfortable draping his coat over her, as if it was just as much Florence’s as his. Florence wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to treat her feather coat with that much relaxed ease again, not after what Freddie had done to her, but it warmed something in her heart to see Anatoly reunited with his own, after a lifetime apart. 

‘I’ll tell you another one,’ he said, pulling the coat around them a little tighter. ‘I am not fond of aeroplanes.’ 

Florence laughed at that. ‘Neither was Freddie. Don’t worry, I’m used to anxious flyers.’ 

‘You are, were a swan, yes? Does that make flying easier?’ Anatoly asked. They had never explicitly discussed it, beyond the acknowledgement that they were the same. 

‘I still am,’ Florence said, a little harshly. Just because her access to that side of herself had been taken away, didn’t mean it was completely gone. ‘I remember what it feels like, I still dream of the wind beneath my wings.’ She stopped herself there, there was no point in getting lost in her memories right now, she’d only upset herself. 

‘It makes flying strange. Planes feel very mechanical. I guess maybe you feel the same about boats?’ She wasn’t sure it worked the same. 

‘I suppose,’ Anatoly said with a shrug. ‘It is not as if I have been allowed to spend much time as a seal. So I do not think about these things so much.’ 

He spoke nonchalantly about it, but Florence could tell he was upset about what had been taken from him. 

‘Well, soon you can swim in any way you like,’ she said, trying just to be happy for him, and not jealous. It was proving impossible, but that wouldn’t stop her from trying just for the sake of it. 

Anatoly was quiet for a few moments. 

‘Maybe we can stay by the sea,’ Florence continued. ‘That might be nice I guess, I’ve never lived on the coast.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ Anatoly said. ‘You didn’t need to do this for me.’ 

Florence shrugged. ‘There was no way this ended with me getting my coat back from Freddie, Walter wasn’t going to give it up like that. This way at least one of us gets to be happy.’ She believed what she was saying logically, and yet it was so hard to believe the same thing in her heart. Now, she would be over entire oceans from the thing that connected her to her family, from her very freedom. 

Trading one life for another—both sides were the same in this way. She understood it now. 

Chapter Text

‘What is the reason behind your defection Mr Sergievsky?’ 

The flashing lights of the cameras and the clamouring of the reporters had not been what Florence had expected upon arriving at the airport. She had hastily dropped Anatoly’s hand, and turned back to Walter, who had just clambered out of his own taxi that had followed behind them. For some reason he had insisted upon travelling separately, which did nothing to ease Florence’s nerves about him. She now wondered if he had been making phone calls to the press the whole way there.

‘What’s all this about?’ she hissed at him, as Anatoly was bombarded with questions. 

‘Come on now Florence, it was going to get out eventually. Why not get it over and done with like this?’ he drawled with a wink. Florence had no idea where the line fell between Walter Anderson the CIA agent and Walter Anderson, the shady salesman who would do anything to turn a quick profit, if it even existed at all. She supposed that his cover must run pretty deep, for him to have arranged all of this. 

‘Is this even safe? What about his privacy?’ Running away with Anatoly was meant to prevent her from these kinds of arguments that felt all too much like the way she had fought the press on Freddie’s behalf in the past. This did not feel like the best of omens to bless the new life they were going to make together. 

‘Florence,’ he said, in that dismissive tone of his. ‘Do you really think I would put our man in danger? He’s fine. We’ve got plenty of people in the airport, even the commies know better than to try anything on such a public stage like this.’ Florence didn’t like the way he said ‘our’, as if he had any claim to Anatoly, in the way that Molokov had before. 

‘It’s not that simple,’ Florence protested, thinking of all the things being held against Anatoly by both sides right now, the myriad ways in which they could ruin his life. 

‘Please, I am not leaving anything,’ Florence could hear Anatoly protesting. She wasn’t really sure that was true. He was leaving his home, as well as his wife.

‘I simply wish to travel to many places, and experience the world in a way I am not free to do in the Soviet Union. I am not a politician, please understand.’ He fidgeted uncomfortably, just as Florence had seen him do during all the pomp and circumstance of the opening ceremony proceedings. 

‘Mr Sergievsky, what about your wife? Will she be coming with you? Or are we to understand that Ms Vassy is your mistress now?’ 

‘Please,’ he sounded rather desperate now. ‘Please just leave me alone.’ 

He turned, and started pushing his way through the crowd of reporters. Florence ran after him, Walter hot on both of their heels until they found somewhere quiet. Some secluded corner of the airport that the reporters didn’t seem to have followed them to. 

Anatoly took a seat, and pulled his coat around himself, pressing his face into it a little. Florence knew what that looked like—she had comforted herself the same way as a child. Leaning into that more animal nature when everything was too much in the human world. She could see him breathing slow and deep, feeling the skin against his cheek, careful not to go too far from himself in the middle of the airport, but for a moment becoming something that wasn’t quite fully human anymore. Walter at least remained quiet, until it was clear that Anatoly was ready to speak. 

‘What was that Walter? You didn’t warn us about any of that,’ he said when at last he was able to speak up. His voice was a little subdued, but the anger below still made itself present. 

Walter didn’t appear at all sympathetic. ‘Welcome to the West, Anatoly. Every choice has its consequences—if you want the freedom of the West, well, there are certain things you have to put up with.’ He shrugged. ‘Do you two want food?’ 

Now that he mentioned it, Florence was rather hungry. With all that had been going on, she couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten. 

One of Walter’s fellow associates—what were they, diplomats? Spies? Florence wasn’t quite sure—made a trip to the vending machines for them, and returned with arms stacked high with snacks. It wasn’t a meal, but Florence supposed it was going to have to do. 

‘I’m sorry about all of that,’ she said, as she ripped the packaging off a chocolate bar, offering one to Anatoly too. 

‘I guess Walter is right. I had better get used to it.’ 

‘I don’t know so much about the UK, but I promise, it’s not all bad over this side of the world,’ Florence said, trying to reassure him. It was hard for her to picture his life back in the Soviet Union—she had left Hungary so long ago, and most of her memories focused around her family, rather than the place itself—but she knew this was going to be a big change. 

It was going to be a big change for her too, a sudden migration that she had not been expecting, but she was deciding to embrace. If she stopped and thought about it for too long, she knew that she would panic—she had to keep going, they would have time for that once they were safe. At least they had each other, she thought, as they braved these new waters together. 

Florence wondered if seals were migratory creatures in the same way that swans were. There was a part of her to which movement was second nature, so instinctual as to not even be a thought. 

‘I suppose it cannot be worse than Molokov breathing down my neck,’ Anatoly said, with a harsh laugh. 

‘Exactly, no matter what it ends up being like, it only needs to be us from now on.’

Part of her still felt a strange kind of sadness at the idea of leaving Freddie, but she tried her best to remember things for what they had become, not how they originally were. Remembering the start was what had kept her there for so long, but she needed to be realistic. This was for the best, there was no way she could have stayed forever, and now was as good a time as any to leave. 

As Anatoly leaned in to press a kiss to her lips when Walter was turned away, she thought that, well, it certainly helped that she had someone to leave to. She was not just running from Freddie, she was running with Anatoly to a new life. That distinction made all the difference.

Once the plane landed, it took the pair of them a long time to get through the border controls. They had been issued all number of temporary permits and letters from the embassy in Bangkok, but their passage still seemed to be a rather complex affair. Florence was just glad that she’d managed to obtain a passport with her real name on it—a complicated affair, involving pretending that her original one had been issued wrongly upon her arrival to the United States as a child—and it seemed that Anatoly’s status as the top chess player of the Soviet Union had afforded him a similar privilege. 

There were endless questions, and quickly they were separated off into different rooms to move through the proceedings. Florence reckoned that Anatoly would be the one getting the short end of the stick here. She had family from the UK, and a reasonable claim to residency, backed up by the documents from the embassy. Anatoly was the one with the far more complicated claim of political asylum. 

The room they questioned her in was cold, and she was left wanting her coat to draw around her shoulders. As a child, Florence didn’t think she had ever been too cold, even when it had been snowing outside. There was something about her feathers that always kept her just the right temperature. It had been something she hadn’t noticed she’d had until she started shivering. 

Florence was allowed to leave after not so long, but the rest of the airport was just as cold. Walter noticed her apparent chill, and slung his own coat over her shoulders. 

‘No, you keep it,’ Florence said, angrily shoving it back at him. She wasn’t going to accept any show of kindness from him when he held the real thing. If he wanted to help her he would give her coat back, not this uncomfortable replacement that wasn’t even big enough to fit over her shoulders. 

‘Don’t be so high and mighty that you freeze,’ Walter laughed, shrugging it back on. 

Neither one of them spoke to each other as they waited for Anatoly to be allowed to join them. If Florence had thought that their relationship was awkward before, when he had just been Freddie’s marketing agent, that was nothing compared to now. 

The fact that he was technically helping them made it so much worse. It was easy to be antagonistic towards him when he was nothing more than a sham agent, but she had to admit there would have been so way of managing Anatoly’s defection without him there. That didn’t mean she had to like him though, and Florence made that very clear, as the time drew out long and boring, with still no sign of Anatoly. 

‘If only I could go and speed things along a little,’ Walter mused, some half an hour later. Florence’s legs were starting to hurt, but there wasn’t anywhere to sit down in this part of the airport. The arrivals hall was meant for happy reunions and brief exits, not to stand around waiting for one’s—what was Anatoly to her? A friend? A partner?—...person to be allowed past the border. 

‘What do you mean?’ Florence asked. 

‘Only that if we were in the States, well, I’m sure I could encourage them to let him through a little faster.’ 

Oh right, he was CIA. Though Florence had been made very aware of that, it still felt easy to forget almost. It was such a different way of seeing him, which alarmed her a little. She had grown so used to him as a marketer, that now she had to change every single facet of him in her mind.

‘Right well, I’m sure he won’t be too much longer,’ she replied, and they both went back to standing in silence. 

Quite some time later, Anatoly came through the doors, looking exhausted both from the flight and the questioning, but with a small smile on his face and his coat clutched tightly around himself. 

‘Everything okay?’ Florence whispered to him, not wanting to be heard by Walter as she wrapped her arms around him, his sealskin smooth against her cheek. 

‘Just tedious,’ he said with a sigh, but he was still smiling. 

Florence was glad. She hadn’t let herself stop to consider every tiny little thing that could go wrong, but there had been some part of her that had been so sure that there was no way he was going to make it. On some level, she had been waiting for this all to fail, for someone to come out and tell her to pack up her things and go home. 

There he was though, in her arms. He was free, and so was she. Not as free as she would have liked to be, but leaving Freddie Trumper was a good start.

‘Taxi’s waiting,’ Walter reminded them, and they reluctantly pulled apart. 

Right, they would have time later to be just by themselves. They had a whole year until the second half of the tournament in Budapest. 

As they loaded up the taxi, Florence was struck by just how easily her life fit into a suitcase. Of course they would have to buy things for their new home—wherever they ended up when a hotel in London became too expensive to stay in for so long—but everything that mattered to her, bar the most important thing, was able to be packed neatly away. She wasn’t sure she liked what that implied about her.

Walter left them alone once they made it to the hotel, fortunately, though he was in a nearby room, in case Anatoly needed assistance with the aspects of the immigration process he had yet to complete. What he’d done in the embassy had only been the start of it all, but Florence supposed a man’s freedom was no easy thing. 

Just the two of them, she sat on the edge of the bed, having already unpacked her belongings into the small wardrobe. Anatoly was still putting his things away in the bathroom. 

‘Anatoly?’ she called through, and he popped his head out of the door. 

‘Hm?’

‘I’m glad we did this,’ Florence said, not entirely sure that she believed herself. She had to though. Maybe if she said it enough times it would feel more real.

‘Me too,’ he said, and his smile seemed genuine. ‘I’m glad I met you, Florence Vassy.’ 

Florence hated that she couldn’t feel happy about this. She really did like Anatoly, and she didn’t regret running off with him. It was just that part of her, always left behind. 

The first day that you leave your coat with Frederick Trumper, you are cold. Of course, you do not wear your coat all the time. Often you leave it in your apartment—safely locked up of course, your father had told you many stories when you were younger about the value of a swan’s feather coat—but something about this feels different. It is as though you can tell on some level that you do not belong entirely to yourself anymore. You do not mind this—you love Freddie and you trust him, the image of him sitting with your coat wrapped around himself as he plays chess does not yet fill you with dread, not as it will come to do one day—and yet it is strange. This is maturing, you tell yourself. When you had started taking hormones, that too had felt weird; the two little pills on your tongue, trusting that they would give you what you wanted. It had felt weird for a while, and now you have no regrets at all, growing into the woman you have always wanted to be. Surely, this coat thing is similar—just another thing to get used to. One day, you will wake up and not notice its absence. Surely you cannot feel it forever.

That day never came.

END OF ACT ONE.