Archive of Our Own

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1978, FALL

“I liked Joyce.”

“Uh-huh.”

Florence sits primly, legs hanging, swinging, over the side of her bed. Across, what was Joyce’s side of the room is empty. Her orange comforter and artsy canvasses are gone, bed stripped and desk waiting for a new occupant.

Freddie makes himself at home. He hops onto the bare mattress and lies down, crossing his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling.

“Suuure you didn’t scare her away?”

“I told you. She got homesick.”

“She lasted two weeks. Girl barely gave it a chance.” He frowns. “I guess she was international. Maybe it’s different for the foreigners.”

“I’m international,” Florence impatiently says. “This is the international floor.”

“Barely international. Isn’t Joyce English?”

“Irish.”

“Same thing.”

Florence closes her eyes. Pinches her nose. Counts to five. Etc., etc.

“Never say that in public, please. Ever.”

“I’ll try not to. So… when’s New Roomie getting in?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Damn! That fast?”

“They re-shuffled the open rooms yesterday.” Eyeing the possibility of a single, Florence had hoped Joyce would leave after re-assignments. Unfortunately, Joyce’s now-empty slot made it into the availability pool. 

Florence is assigned a new roommate.

“So.” Freddie brings her back. “Where’s she from?”

Ha!

Her lips curl.

Into a smile, of course.

“Russia.”

Predictably, that elicits a response. Freddie’s eyes shoot open and he sits up so quickly his glasses slip down his nose. He’s quick to push them up, gawking at her from across the room. 

“You’re rooming with a commie?”

Oh, come on.

“I’m rooming with a fellow international student who happens to come from the Soviet Union.”

“A fuckin’ commie, Florence! She’s here to spy on me! That’s her plan, get close to you so she can—”

“Freddie.”

“These are the people who—“

“Freddie.”

A warning: she issues a dazzling, dangerous smile. He gets the message and falls silent. No need to finish his sentence.

Florence reaches for the Krtek plush on her desk and plays with his little hands. She won't share the uncomfortably contradictory thoughts she's having with her painfully American… friend.

She likes Freddie. He wouldn't understand.

Svetlana Sokolova is a homosexual.

Florence is the type of person who first notices someone’s flaws, hallmark of a chess strategist. Hell, she’ll sniff out flaws people aren’t aware of. (Should be noted she’s equally ruthless with herself: her biggest defect is that she’s black; years of hair-straightening and suffering green contact lenses have made her no more palatable).

But she's friendly when the evidently homosexual Svetlana comes knocking. She greets her politely and holds the door open as her new roommate moves in with a singular suitcase and a cream bedding set stuffed into a small bag.

Florence, too, owns nothing more than a suitcase. Joyce’d had four, and she’d mentioned her parents would send her supplemental boxes. 

“I hope you like it here,” she says to Svetlana. She says something more, then stops.

She means those words.

She tries to remember the last time she said something she meant. 

“I think I will."

Svetlana has a quiet, clear voice. She’s strange: all at once, she manages an impression of incredible confidence (that Florence cannot fully believe) and a subdued tenderness. Her face soothes. A faded scar on her chin, a smattering of freckles across nose and cheeks, sharp, dark eyes, fair hair cut into a neat bob…

She’s quite a memorable face. Memorable to Florence, anyway. 

“My first roommate got, er, homesick." She doesn't want to fall trapped into an awkward silence. “Said if she left quickly, she’d make first term in Dublin.”

“I hope she makes it.”

Svetlana finally turns. In a matter of minutes, she’s dressed her bed with a simple but practical set. Next to her, Florence feels childish with her violet blankets. 

And… Svetlana’s taller. She leans back, resting her elbows on her mattress; both beds are fairly elevated. September air warms, which would explain Svetlana’s white tank top.

Florence keeps her eyes up. She is a self-respecting girl who goes to church on Sunday mornings. While the sun is up, her eyes don’t wander.

“I wish the same.”

But she is only so strong. She removes herself from temptation’s way and climbs onto her own bed, favouring the added distance.

Svetlana doesn’t move. She remains standing, seemingly relaxed, shoulders comfortably rolled back. Florence busies herself by picking nonexistent lint from her skirt.

“The RA tells me you are a Russian major,” Svetlana gently says. “Are you really?”

Among other majors.

“Yes. And you’re studying…?”

“English. I’m a transfer student.”

“Transfer?”

“I did two years at МГУ,” says Svetlana, which makes Florence flutter. Svetlana isn’t doubting her intelligence; she believes it. “It’s a fine institution, but any English-language student would fare better here. By virtue of… the environment.”

Sure. Florence did consider applying to MSU, reasonable for a Russian major. But she couldn't stomach finishing the application. 

“Is the Russian department any good?” Svetlana asks, switching to Russian, and Florence’s pulse races in anticipation.

“It’s good." Her Russian is, by any standards, nearly fluent. Her professors say her pronunciation is impeccable. The current challenge? Idioms.

Never mind that her Russian is far better than her Czech. It’ll break her heart if she thinks about it.

“Just good?”

Just. First day, one of the professors learned she was an international student and asked which African country she came from. Florence still feels uncomfortable.

“It’s lovely! I’m really enjoying it so far.” She instinctively grabs Krtek and realizes her misstep — she shouldn’t be grabbing her stuffed animal. She is eighteen years old. Nearly nineteen! Her cheeks flame and she chides herself for indulging in childish whimsy.

Her shameful eyes flick up, but Svetlana isn’t looking. She’s hopped onto her bed. In her hands, she’s holding…

Florence squints, ears a dead giveaway.

That’s a stuffed Cheburashka. She’d recognize him anywhere. She remembers watching Cheburashka at the orphanage and repeating his trademark phrases over and over, desperate to learn the language of the people who took her papa.

She’d grown to hate the show. Self-preservation dictated she hate everything that came from that infernal state.

But Svetlana hugs Cheburashka to her chest, only for a second, only long enough for Florence to see past a flag, and Florence finds she can’t hate Svetlana or Cheburashka. It would be like hating a fawn.

“She a spy?”

Florence ignores Freddie.

“She’s… twenty-one.”

Not unnerving. Just surprising.

“Huh. She a freshman? Are they stupid over there, or what?”

“No, a junior. She transferred.” Florence hesitates. “I don’t think she looks twenty-one. I think she looks twenty.”

Freddie snorts.

“There a difference?”

There is to Florence.

Something about being a relatively tall black girl has always made people wildly overestimate her age. She recalls queuing for the free summer meals her church provided to low-income and orphaned children. The smiling lady at the counter had sadly informed her that only children under the age of sixteen qualified. Florence, twelve at the time, had been so confused and embarrassed she hadn’t known how to answer.

She’d stepped aside. After working up the nerve, she said she was twelve. The lady had asked to see some type of identification, which Florence, still twelve, didn’t have.

She’d resorted to dumpster-diving behind restaurants that day.

Maybe… maybe Svetlana understands. She is older than Florence, but it seems like she’s had to endure being thought of as older than she is. Or, unlike Florence, she’s had to make herself look older — a typical case of speed-running childhood.

Florence can’t decide which is the bigger tragedy.

Presenting the way Svetlana does is not easy. The social ramifications alone scald. Even Florence judges Svetlana for her homosexuality. Yet, something’s entrancing about it. If Florence could make herself have pale skin and green eyes and soft hair, she’d do so instantly. But Svetlana actively chooses to exist the way that she does.

There’s something brave about that. Really beautiful.

Handsome, even.

Freddie nudges her.

She jumps.

“Wake up.” Exasperation creeps into his voice. “You already slept through geology.”

Fuck. She rubs her eyes. But she hadn’t been falling asleep just now. She’d been thinking…

“I’m fine,” she says, instead of hitting back with, well, you seized through maths. He rolls his eyes and takes a bite out of his bagel sandwich.

“Bet you’re wondering if she’ll buy you vodka, you alcoholic."

She playfully whacks his arm.

“Freddie! Hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

It'd been her first thought upon learning Svetlana was twenty-one.

They’re both sporty.

Florence's frame of reference, to be clear, is Freddie. He’s possibly the most un-sporty person on the planet, short of someone in a vegetative state. She doubts he can do a modified push-up.

But Svetlana boxes, rock-climbs, and does insane core workouts. Florence sees her out-lift a frat boy she slept with last year. It leaves her reevaluating her standards.

Florence mostly dances. Ballet, jazz, and hip hop. Ballet’s her favourite, but everyone says she must be a great hip hop dancer. (She is. She just wishes people bothered asking about her ballet performances, too.)

But there’s one sport she and Svetlana adore: running. 

Florence is fast. Always has been. Even running over long distances, she maintains a strong pace. The energy keeps her awake for a solid couple of hours afterwards.

Svetlana’s even better.

She’s quick to lead the running club, her impressive strides supported by her strong legs. She wears shorts that cut off above her knees. It’s the first time Florence gets to see her legs. She notices fading bruises over one of her knees — from before the term began, surely. Must’ve been a nasty bruise, given it’s not yet healed.

The bruise is all she staring at, Florence swears. Nothing else. It’s just a very interesting bruise. Interesting shape, interesting placement, interesting colour…

It’s increasingly hard to convince herself of her innocence when her eyes wander every time Svetlana passes her. One afternoon, Svetlana’s overtakes her. While running, she turns around unexpectedly.

Florence had been staring at her ass.

The shock of being caught hits her. Cataplexy is merciless. Florence’s knees buckle and she hits the ground, her self-worth shriveling pathetically.

Within seconds, Svetlana’s doubled back and Florence’s regained the use of her legs. Instead of offering a hand (which Florence wouldn’t have taken!), Svetlana helps her up without asking.

Florence pointedly does not think about the strong arms around her, the warm hand embracing her own.

“I tripped over a rock.”

Svetlana releases her. Florence feels weak in the knees again. She refuses to crumble.

“Must’ve been a large rock,” Svetlana comments in that pleasant voice of hers that’s managed to worm its way into Florence’s dreams. They can both see the track. Remarkably rock-less.

“Massive,” Florence agrees. “I’m fine.”

Her ego isn’t.

Florence Vassy is the easiest girl on campus.

Everybody knows that. She’s quite the reputation.

People want her. She tells herself it’s because she’s beautiful, but she knows better. Still, she won’t turn away from warm beds. Bathroom stalls. Backs of bushes after Sunday mass. Her first time, she was twelve, and she learned what it was like to be wanted. The rush’s never faded.

Svetlana is a homosexual.

Florence is irrefutably heterosexual.

But everyone knows uni is uni. Florence is experienced enough. Her first time with a woman, she was fourteen. She hadn’t known what was happening.

She knows now.

God looks down at her in shame, but she can stomach that. More importantly, papa isn’t looking down at her, because he’s still alive. Florence can face God; she can’t face papa. By the time she reunites with him, she’ll be married to a nice man and she’ll have two lovely children with skin lighter than her own and a picketed fence.

But for now, she’s in university.

Term’s nearing an end, autumn fast fading. The thermostat sits on Florence’s side. She turns it higher than usual. Tonight, Svetlana’s in a tank top and boxers.

If the heat bothers her, she doesn’t say.

Florence ordinarily changes in the restroom. She changes into nice, respectable pyjamas, because she’s a nice, respectable girl. 

But tonight she decides to change into something that isn’t so nice or respectable. Directly in front of her roommate, she worms her way out of jeans and into lingerie pyjamas. 

Sure, you could make the argument that the set is heavier on the “lingerie” than the “pyjamas”. But you could make the opposite argument, too. She’s not in a thong; it’s a silky, sleeveless top. She has plausible deniability. 

Her cheeks burn. She works her way to the mirror and slowly runs her hands through her loose hair.

It’s then that she becomes aware of Svetlana’s eyes following her.

Disgust should fill her. A homosexual is looking her way. Florence is a nice girl, and nice girls do not want attention. Nice girls would be repulsed at the thought. A nice girl would have turned the thermostat down and put on warm, comfortable pyjamas as the cool night demanded.

A nice girl wouldn’t walk to the center of the room to begin stretching.

Florence is extremely flexible. She must be, as a dancer. All the while, she feels Svetlana watching. The thought excites her. It makes her stretch more and more, inspiring confidence to reach past her toes, to lean as much as she can, to show Svetlana all that she can do and all that she has to offer.

Shame bursts and burns. She shouldn’t crave a woman’s touch. The previous times, it’s been women approaching her. Florence has always said yes, because why not? It means nothing if she isn’t initiating. 

This is the first time she’s…

Self-hatred wins. Florence hangs her head.

Here she is, making a fool of herself in front a woman who, quite frankly, has the pick of the school. The pick of all of New York, if the two of them are to be honest. Florence takes what she can; Svetlana can afford to be choosy.

She stops. She turns the heat off. She pulls a loose, long-sleeved shirt over herself.

“What?” she dully asks Svetlana, and she can’t look at her. The sight of her sweet freckles will be enough to crush Florence. She’s only a desperate whore, degrading herself in front of someone who could never desire her.

She waits for Svetlana to mock her. It’s what Florence deserves. Instead—

“You’re very beautiful,” she says in that tender voice of hers that’s been making Florence melt for the past couple of months.

She works up the nerve to look at Svetlana’s face. Not a hint of sarcasm, no amusement. Just her soothing, calming face. With her hair tucked behind her ears and her tank top, her boxers bunched up, Florence wants nothing more than…

You’re very beautiful.

Just… beautiful. Not pretty for a black girl or exotic or not my usual type, but not bad-looking. Just beautiful.

Florence wants to tell Svetlana what she thinks of her. She can’t.

Cheeks and heart on fire, she climbs into bed and cuddles with Krtek. Might as well; she’s already chucked all dignity out the window.

When Svetlana finally turns off her reading light, Florence sees her reach for Cheburashka. He’s tucked into Svetlana’s chest.

And imagine how much Florence envies Cheburashka...!

1978, WINTER

Svetlana’s packing.

Panic strikes. For a moment, Florence is convinced Svetlana is packing to leave, period. She’s had enough of America, or maybe she’s had enough of Florence. But she doesn’t touch her larger things, her comforter and pillowcases. In fact, she’s storing a few notebooks in her drawers.

Oh. Duh.

“Going home for the holidays?”

She shouldn’t be surprised. Mostly everybody leaves. Only family-less freaks, like she and Freddie, remain behind.

She thought Svetlana would be staying. On what basis, she has no idea.

She’s not disappointed, she firmly tells herself, but her mind rears its head and laughs, spitting nasty triumph that sinks and stings. It’s pathetic.

“Mmm, yes." Svetlana continues packing, not sparing a glance or missing a beat. “I’ve got extended family.”

“Extended?”

“My parents died when I was young. But I have other family to see.”

“I see.”

They speak to each other, but they don’t talk. Florence doesn’t bring up 1968. Svetlana doesn’t bring up Russia. They talk about books and classes and running club. Nothing more.

Florence swallows a traitorous lump.

She’s fine. She has Freddie and she really does adore him, thick in the head as he is. She’s taking two classes in winter term, and she’ll use her spare time to attend more dance lessons, to catch up on her reading for pleasure. Freddie has three tournaments scheduled in the next two weeks. She’ll be busy.

That’s what kills her stupid, stupid thought — can I come with you? — before it fully forms. Why the fuck would Svetlana want her to come along? Why the fuck would anyone want Florence? And Freddie would be alone, and she doesn’t want to leave him, either.

“Enjoy your break!" she cheerfully says instead.

Svetlana looks up. Her expression is unreadable. Florence’s, by contrast, is a friendly smile.

So they both mask, but in very different ways.

Svetlana grabs Cheburashka.

She crosses to Florence’s side of the room and sets him beside Krtek. Florence’s heart starts doing something scary.

“My extended family wouldn’t approve,” she quietly says. “Can Krtek keep him company while I’m away?”

And fuuuuuuuck Florence, because her bright smile becomes genuine. It doesn’t change at all. Internally, though, everything is different.

Svetlana is so close. If Florence were brave…

But she isn’t. 

“Krtek would love to keep Cheburashka company."

Now Svetlana smiles. It’s subtle as Svetlana herself, but it has a way of illuminating her entire face.

God, she would kiss every freckle.

When Svetlana leaves, Florence lays in bed and breathes. Slowly, she puts Krtek’s hand into Cheburashka’s.

It fits.

1979, SPRING

When Svetlana returns in January, her bob is gone.

Completely. Her hair is now cut like a man’s. It can still be parted and combed, but no longer does any of it hang over her ears or the back of her neck.

Svetlana looks so good it hurts. She’s never looked more handsome and Florence has never felt more impossible.

The international club organizes an outing to a nearby national park. It’ll be an overnight weekend event; leave on Saturday, return Sunday night. Nice for the international students to see some of America’s nature, they say.

She and Svetlana spot the flyer outside of the international office. They catch each other’s eyes and grin, signing their names to share a cabin.

Florence invites Freddie out of friendly duty. Genuine guilt nags, but she hopes he’ll say no.

He does.

I’m not hanging out with a bunch of foreigners, he grumbles, and proceeds to point out that he isn’t a hiker. Not everyone runs for fun like you and your freak of a roommate, he says, and Florence shrugs and tells him to suit himself.

The bus to the park takes several hours. Svetlana reads. Florence, too, brought a book, but the drowsiness is irresistible and she’s asleep within minutes. She wakes up only on arrival, her cheek pressed tightly against Svetlana’s shoulder.

Svetlana says nothing but maintains that subtle smile of hers that can make Florence feel a thousand things and more. Florence doesn’t say anything, either. Her flaming cheeks do all the talking.

They start the hike up the mountain. Cabins await them. While other students hover behind, asking if the cable cars are operating, Florence and Svetlana quickly take the lead. When they reach a particularly rough part of the trail, Svetlana offers to walk in front. She stops every so often, holding a hand out for Florence and helping her through trickier maneuvers. Once, Florence almost trips. Svetlana whips around in an incredible display of reflex and steadies her.

Even Florence can’t deny the stars in her eyes. 

It’s a long, arduous hike, but she loves it. A good thing Freddie declined the invitation; the poor thing wouldn’t have made it half a kilometre before collapsing from exertion. The incline is no joke.

They reach the top. The cabins are much nicer than expected. They’re equipped with nice bathrooms and there’s a common area with a feast of grilled meats and vegetables. She and Svetlana shower, then Florence stuffs her face with grilled zucchini and champignons. Svetlana tears into the grilled chicken in a way that — well, Florence doesn’t need to comment.

Satiated, satisfied, and sore, they retire. Florence is ready to drop dead. But Svetlana has other plans.

“Florence.”

She’s sitting on the bed they’ll be sharing, but she’s turned away, rummaging through her backpack. A moment later, she pulls out a bottle.

Florence freezes, but summer’s come early.

She grins.

Her tolerance is insane. Half a bottle of vodka will give her a good night’s sleep and a pleasant buzz. She’s aware that isn’t typical, but, well.

What’s typical?

She and Svetlana sit in bed, cross-legged, and begin drinking. Svetlana tells Florence about how her parents died in a freak accident when she was six. Six is a difficult age, because it’s old enough to remember but young enough that it forever damages the formative years. They used to watch Cheburashka, a novelty at the time, together as a family. Her papa would make funny voices when reading Cheburashka bedtime stories and her mama would tuck her to sleep. It was her mama who gave her the Cheburashka plushie, shortly before she died.

As for Florence, she tells Svetlana her mother died when she was a baby. Hey, she can’t miss what she can’t remember, right? But papa… he’s alive, she insists. He’s alive and well and he loves her. He’s waiting for her to come home to him, once her studies are over. They used to — no, they still watch The Little Mole together.

Svetlana asks why Florence doesn’t go home to her father during holidays. She asks how Florence became a British citizen.

Florence chugs more alcohol.

As established, she isn’t a homosexual. Alcohol, however, has the intoxicating effect of producing particularly homosexual tendencies. So they drink and drink until they both have tears in their eyes, thoughts of little, runaway Cheburashkas and Krteks lost in their paths to adulthood, and they finish the bottle.

They’re sitting so close together. Florence is cold, but her face is flushed. Svetlana’s knees are knocking against her own.

Finally, someone who can match her drinking. Thoughts of disappointing God and papa and everyone in between are gone. Florence Vassy and Svetlana Sokolova are gone. They’re two girls, warm, buzzed, desperately lonely, cautiously pleading…

Florence makes the first move. Svetlana responds with equal fervor.

They kiss.

God. Or Satan, or whatever. Florence, in that moment, gives no fucks about higher powers, because Svetlana feels like the higher power herself.

It’s fucking magical.

It’s goddamn electric.

Her lips are even better; they put Florence’s fantasies to shame. And to think she might’ve never known the real thing.

It’s easy. It’s delicious. Cold’s banished. Warmth has a name: it’s Svetlana. She reaches for Florence’s nightgown, gently tugging it up, and Florence does the same with Svetlana’s tank top.

Afterwards, they’ll quietly exit the cabin, hand-in-hand. They’ll both have dreamy, drowsy expressions, and Svetlana’s neck and chest will be covered in lipstick. And as they’ll stand under the starry night, overlooking the world, Svetlana will put an arm around Florence’s shivering shoulders. Florence will lean into her.

And they’ll both wonder who the hell falls in love on top of a mountain.

Towards the end of the semester, Svetlana goes on a full-day hike with the running club. Florence is supposed to join, but a nasty cold takes her out at the last minute.

Florence moans and groans. She invites Freddie over to help pass time. At one point, she miserably drags herself to the bathroom. With a stuffed nose and pulsing head, she isn’t sure a shower can fix her, but she’ll try.

It doesn't fix her, but the fresh pyjamas and wrapping her hair up helps. 

She returns to the room to find Freddie frantically tearing through Svetlana’s side.

And just like that, going to bed must wait. Florence watches, shocked, as he opens notebook after notebook, ruffles pillow after pillow, dislodges Cheburashka from—

“What are you doing?” she screeches, except it comes out of her aching throat like a wheeze. Freddie spares her a glance. He has that panicked look in his eyes, that damn look when he doesn’t take his fucking pills, and Florence would yell if her voice permitted. 

“She’s a spy, Flo,” he spits. “I told you she was up to no good. She’s a fucking spy! She’s spying on me and you’re letting her—”

“Stop,” Florence orders. She marches over, grabs him by the shoulders, tries to pull him back, but he’s relentless.

“Why won’t she come clean?” He stops suddenly, glares at Florence, then lifts Svetlana’s comforter. “Oh, I know why — because you let her trick you into her bed.”

To make his point, he checks under Svetlana’s mattress. Predictably, nothing's there. 

“Stop touching her shit!" Utter insanity! “Just because you didn’t take your fucking pills…!”

“She writes in Russian!” Freddie abandons the search of Svetlana’s bed and grabs her notebooks instead, shoving them at Florence. “Look at this!”

“Because she is Russian!” God! “We know this, Freddie! God forbid a student from Russia take notes in Russian!”

“It’s because she tells you you’re pretty, isn’t it?” He throws the notebooks back onto the desk, rapidly flipping through pages. Won’t do him any good. He knows nothing of Cyrillic. “I see you changing how you dress, trying to impress that commie spy.”

“STOP!”

He doesn’t. He bends now, getting on his knees, trying to search through her bottom drawers.

Florence does the first thing she thinks of. She, too, gets on her knees. She grabs ahold of Freddie’s ankle, and, as precisely as she can, she bites.

Her teeth sink in. Blood wets her lips. Freddie howls. He kicks her, hard, and it knocks the breath out of her. She falls on her back.

The bite throws Freddie out of his frenzy. He sits on the floor, cradling his foot, looking just as stunned and extremely hurt. Their eyes meet.

Neither say anything for several seconds. Then—

“What was that for?”

It is 100% pure whining. Freddie hunches into himself, looking sadly down at his ankle while blood oozes, and Florence suddenly feels very guilty.

It isn’t right, what she did. He isn’t well and she knows it. But he has no right to go through her darling Svetka’s things. It infuriates her on Svetlana’s behalf — imagine going through life, suspected, because you’re from fucking Russia and you dress like…

She's an easy target. Florence stares Freddie down.

“Are you done?” She slowly sits. Her stomach will hurt like hell tomorrow from the kick.

Freddie takes his glasses off. Beads of sweat dot his forehead. Florence leans and spits out his blood.

She’ll have to disinfect the bite.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t say he's finished, but at least he apologizes (though she's not the one he should apologize to). But that’s her cue.

“I’m sorry.” And she is.

For biting. 

The tension hangs heavy. If he brings up Svetlana again, she’ll have to intervene. Something about Svetlana — something about Svetlana, who’s never had anyone to honour her in her absence — compels Florence to defend her. 

But Freddie doesn’t say anything. He just miserably looks at his ankle.

“You’ve given me rabies.”

Honestly? She probably has.

“We’ll update your vaccines,” she heavily says, and the conversation ends there.

End of term, huh? Two years down, two to go.

Svetlana only has one. 

Best not to think about that. The majority of students have already left for summer holidays, which means Florence has the floor's kitchen to herself. Svetlana sits nearby, reading a newspaper and amusedly watching Florence cut strawberries while scrunching up her nose and glaring. 

"I thought you disliked strawberries."

"Me? No, I love strawberries," Florence automatically grumbles and Svetlana stifles a laugh. 

"Of course."

Florence rolls her sleeves. She's putting the finishing touches on the strawberry cupcakes, fighting for her life against the icing dispenser.

"Will you tell me why you don't like strawberries?" 

"Maybe one day." There is a story, but she's focusing. Svetlana leaves her be. Ten minutes later, Florence releases a triumphant ha!

Svetlana looks over. Six strawberries cupcakes, each decorated with icing.

I'M SORRY
I BIT
YOU ):

She snorts. 

"And why did you bite him?" She's leaning back in her chair, legs spread open and newspaper forgotten on the table. Her final exams included a presentation, so she's in white slacks and a button-up, hair neatly combed and freshly trimmed (courtesy of Florence). In other words, she's a gentleman and she's fucking irresistible. Florence throws off her apron and climbs onto Svetlana's lap, straddling and kissing her deeply. 

"He deserved it," she murmurs between breaths. There's no lost love between Freddie and Svetlana; she's not going to tell her about his little episode. 

Thankfully, Svetlana doesn't push. 

"I've no doubt. But can I say...?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm a little jealous you bit him." A light smirk plays on her lips as she looks up, thumb ghosting over Florence's cheek. "I wouldn't demand apology cupcakes..."

FUCK!!!

"Oh, you!" is all Florence can say, and she's so enthusiastic she rips the buttons clean off Svetlana's shirt.

1979, SUMMER

Svetlana leaves for summer holidays.

She must go see her extended family, she says.

And so she does, once again entrusting Cheburashka to Florence’s care.

She and Florence, they tell each other many things. Too many things, some might say. But certain things aren’t for sharing. For example, Florence doesn’t tell her why she grew up in orphanages in France and England if her father is alive and well in Czechoslovakia.

Svetlana doesn’t tell Florence about her extended family.

Sasha is kind.

Sasha has always been kind.

Sasha cares for her.

Sasha has always cared for her.

She was fourteen, gripping a piece of candy like a lifeline. When you were fourteen and living where she had been, a piece of candy was a lifeline.

She isn’t fourteen anymore; fourteen's a lifetime ago. In fact, Svetlana became an adult far before she reached the age of eighteen, the transition a choppy, excruciating, and revolting bullet. 

Most of her summer is spent in Frunze, where she receives additional training at a field office. Sasha doesn’t communicate. It’s only towards the end of the summer that she transfers back to Moscow before her return to New York. 

It’s the longest she’s gone without seeing him.

“It’s been one academic year.” His voice is softer than ever. Danger's waiting. “We’ve invested one academic year in your ‘studies’ in America, and you have made no progress.”

“I’ve made some progress.” Every attempt to defend herself is futile. If she keeps her head low, she’ll minimize the ire she provokes. “She trusts me.”

“And what has she told you?”

Nothing.

That’s the truth. Florence has told her nothing. Not that she’d have reason to; Svetlana's hardly pushed.

At some point, the assignment started to feel closer to… no, 'freedom' isn’t right. What she has is freedom, she must do well to remember.

To put it plainly, she started settling. She could almost believe she was a university student, finishing class and heading to running club and watching Florence perform at a ballet and getting shitty food from the dining hall and kissing Florence at the nearby park, her biggest worry midterms and finals...

Sorrow over revoked potential fills her. She replaces it with self-disgust. 

Sasha's right. The pleasures got to her head. Some agent she is.

“It cannot be that you’re enjoying the American way of life.”

“I’m not.” And it’s true. Or it isn’t. She doesn’t know; she hasn’t gotten a chance to think.

It’s not really America she’s thinking about.

Sasha knows everything. He doesn’t need to lean, doesn’t need to raise his voice, doesn’t need to raise a finger to slap her in the face.

“It cannot be that you are really falling in love with the girl.”

No, she isn’t falling in love with Florence.

She already has.

Maybe she’d taken one look at Florence Vassy, right from the start, and she’d known those brown eyes and burning smile would be her downfall.

Every lash stings. She closes her eyes. For years now, she’s been able to cry in complete silence.

But the worst part is, with every lash, she can only think of Florence’s face. She almost cries out for Florence to help her, to make the hurt stop, but Florence is only a fantasy.

“I care about you,” he whispers into her ear when it’s over. Maybe there’s a tremor of fear in him too. “You understand that?”

She does. She’s never understood better.

Svetlana’s left on the ground. If she really tried, really, really, really tried, she could crawl her way to bed. She doesn’t bother. She lies freezing on the floor, eyes closed, and focuses on anything but.

She tries to think about Florence. Her face came so clearly in the midst of the lashes. For a moment, she’d imagined Florence could save her. But Florence is on the other side of the planet, worlds away from Svetlana, and if it’s night in Moscow, it’ll be morning in New York. She’ll be at a dance class or she’ll be… maybe she’ll be sleeping in. She likes doing that.

She imagines lying in bed with Florence, holding her while she sleeps. Florence stirs, mumbles that she loves Svetlana, and snuggles into her. Svetlana kisses her nose. Florence smiles sleepily. The two of them keep each other, dozing and resting, and past and future collide and kiss.

One of the other Svetlanas steps inside.

There’s — what, at least twenty Svetlanas she can immediately name? The Svetlana in question is the one she dislikes (and fears) the most. She’s Svetochka, the one Svetlana among them that never grew up. It was because she didn’t have to. Svetochka isn’t an agent.

There’s the sharp intelligence required to be an agent. Then there’s the frightening off-the-charts genius needed to pull strings.

Svetlana is a puppet. Svetochka is a puppeteer. 

“Oh, Sveta,” Svetochka whispers, horrified, and Svetlana tries to tell her to fuck off. An unwise move; Svetochka has never been hit by Sasha. She effortlessly excels at what she does (and what she does, no one knows; her lab has access to levels of classified information Svetlana can only dream of).

She’s always hated Svetochka for being enough. She’s the only Svetlana that Sasha still gives candy to.

An unwise move indeed. Svetochka will never understand.

An unwise move. Svetlana doesn’t know the first thing about chess. She isn’t Florence.

Svetochka leans down. She wipes Svetlana’s face as carefully as she can. Then, she presses a capped syringe into her palm and closes her fists around it.

“It’s a new poison,” she whispers. “They’re trying it out in America next year. Here’s the antidote.”

“You think they would use it on me?”

Newfound fear fills her. She thought pain would be the worst of her problems. Sasha disciplines to help her, but she hasn’t feared he’d kill her.

Now, she’s not so sure. Then again, if Sasha wishes her dead, she'll accept death without resistance. 

Svetochka takes a moment before answering.

“I don’t know what they would do,” she finally says. “Please don’t tell.”

And Svetlana is so loyal to Sasha that she almost does tell.

And Svetlana is such a rotten person that she’d like, for once, for Svetochka to be the one disappointing him.

She’d like someone else to take the pain. Is that such a crime?

1979, FALL

Her heart skips.

No, it bounces!

It jumps with a fluidity and sweetness Florence had not realized was available to her.

She wears a simple white dress, white headband, white earrings, a colour she’s never felt worthy of before. But Svetlana loves white, and Florence wants Svetlana to love her. In her hands, a bouquet — lilies, petunias, daisies, dahlias, a varied display of white flowers, a glorious summer project she undertook in anticipation of this very moment — and she joins the other lovers at the gate.

Svetlana will emerge. And Florence will run to her. And Svetlana will wrap her arms around her waist and Florence will wrap her arms around Svetlana’s shoulders and Svetlana will whisper her name and Florence will giggle and… God, Florence has never wanted to be the protagonist of a romantic comedy.

Florence has never wanted anything more.

Svetlana will like the flowers and she’ll like Florence’s white dress even more. They’ll hold hands on the way back to their room, trading stories about summer.

Then Svetlana comes out.

Just like that, Florence’s fantasy is shattered with a bullet. The shards fall between them.

Svetlana limps. And the smile she forces is just that — all force. No joy over seeing Florence, because how could Florence ever prompt a smile?

Her left eye is so swollen and purple it’s nearly sealed shut.

The flowers slip from Florence’s hands and flutter to the floor, a mess of delicate petals and stems and hopes long lost. Svetlana reaches her, and Florence takes a wobbly step — and as her hand touches Svetlana’s back, she feels something wet.

She draws it back.

It’s soaked in red. Svetlana’s badly hurt and she’s bled through her jacket.

Florence remembers, violently, vividly, that night in Prague. Papa, one moment standing and begging her to look away, crying, and the next —

Florence hadn’t looked away. She hadn't been brave enough. 

She sees Svetlana. She sees papa. Her hand is red. 

She sees pain and she sees blood.

Florence is the last flower to fall.

She doesn’t crack her head open. Svetlana’s quick to catch. Florence blinks awake what feels like days later, but she knows it's only been seconds. She’s on the ground and Svetlana is whispering her name over and over, a plea for forgiveness for frightening her, but Florence wants to be the one to apologize.

People are staring. Pointing, even.

Her face burns. The disgust she feels towards herself. How dare she? How dare she?

Svetlana’s hurting, but Florence is the one swooning, having a dramatic little fainting spell in the middle of the airport. Her vision clears.

She stands. She salvages one white rose and gives it to Svetlana with trembling fingers.

By the time Svetlana takes it, cream petals are splattered in red.

Florence cleans Svetlana up.

She’s as gentle as can be, taking her time with each wound and tending as lovingly as possible. Growing suspicion that no one’s cared for Svetlana in such a manner compels her to take extra care. Florence, eternally queasy, only vomits once. Svetlana begs her to stop, insists she’s fine, she’s had worse, and Florence won’t take it.

She brushes her teeth multiple times. The nausea doesn’t fade. She doesn’t stop until they crawl into bed, a tight fit, but perfect on a night like this.

Florence knows she shouldn’t, but she offers Svetlana a dose of her sleeping medication, a must-have for any narcoleptic. Absent real painkillers, it’s the best she’s got.

Svetlana declines. But after several tensed breaths, she finally accepts it.

It kicks in very quickly.

Svetlana falls into a deep sleep in Florence’s arms, breathing no longer laboured. In fact, she’s snoring softly, and Florence could watch her sleep forever.

Giving Svetlana the dose means Florence foregoes medication tonight. She’ll manage.

So she lies in her uncomfortable default state, caught between dreams and reality and unspeakably drowsy and just a little bit awake, Svetlana tucked into her arms.

Florence can’t trust her memories when she’s unmedicated. Dreams seep into reality and reality is overtaken by a dream.

Svetlana didn’t fall asleep before telling Florence she loved her.

Florence wonders if she imagined that or if she only wanted to imagine.

Florence dreams about Svetlana, beaten and bloody, forever after that. 

Funny, time never mends dreams. Passing 1968, she thought years would grant her peaceful sleep. She’s wrong on all counts. Papa isn’t in all of her dreams. He’s in most. A crimson Svetlana’s joined him.

What a cruel meeting.

At least Florence’s medication prevents her from screaming out. Her racing heart longs to wake, but her mind won’t allow it. Overpowering drowsiness keeps her sedated. It’s better that way; she won’t bother anyone. 

Svetlana physically recovers. She limps for a week afterwards and then she’s back to normal. Except it isn’t normal. Except it is, and that’s the most disturbing part.

Florence doesn’t press, because Svetlana wouldn’t answer. This forces her into speculation. Chief among her assumptions has to do with the fact that Svetlana is a homosexual.

Those must be some awful extended relatives Svetlana keeps.

November rolls around. Freddie leaves for a chess match on the week of Thanksgiving. Florence is supposed to go with. 

She stays behind. 

She and Svetka, they've not had a proper discussion for months. The night spent on top of the mountain keeps returning, as well as the fluffy end of the semester. It'd all been too sweet and too easy in a way that life was not supposed to be. 

Anything Florence tries to initiate, Svetlana rejects. Even conversations are off-limits. 

But enough is enough. Svetlana remembers Sasha's words. It cannot be that you’re enjoying the American way of life. She isn't! And Florence is no angel — she's withholding something from Svetlana. A crucial piece of information that resulted in Svetlana disappointing Sasha. 

Florence sits on the rug in the center of the room. She stretches, reaching for her toes absentmindedly while reading. With a purple ribbon gathering her hair back and her glasses replacing her usual colored contacts, she looks so beautiful it hurts. 

Svetlana hops off her bed and joins Florence on the floor. Florence looks stunned, but closes her book with a smile in record time. 

"We need to talk," Svetlana says, before Florence can distract her with her pretty words and even prettier lips. 

"Are you ready to talk?" Florence softly asks, and Svetlana doesn't dwell. Life has never waited for her to be ready. Life ripped her from her parents when she was six years old.

"You aren't telling me something." She's trying not to beg. Florence must know what she wants. She must know how easily she can end Svetlana's suffering. 

Don't you see that I'm hurting because of you?, she wants to cry. Tell me your secret, Florence. It'll be easier for us both. 

Florence abandons her stretching and slowly crosses her legs. Now they're facing each other, Svetlana's face cold and yearning and Florence's... unknown. 

"Something happens to you when you go home," Florence guesses. "Your 'extended family', they do something to you. Something I can't see."

Svetlana's jaw sets. Her eyes harden. Fury rises within her. It both is and isn't directed towards Florence. For a moment she thinks it might be directed towards Sasha. 

The thought feels like a betrayal. No, the fury must be directed towards Florence, who's been flirting and playing with her since they met. If Florence works for the entity Sasha claims, then Florence knows exactly what Svetlana's stakes are. 

"I didn't choose this," Svetlana says. To her horror, her voice catches at choose. It's not her fault her parents left her when she was six any more than 1968 is Florence's fault.

Florence's face softens. She must take Svetlana's breaking as a sign of weakness. She leans in, reaching for her cheek with her hand, cool against Svetlana's flaming skin. Svetlana almost buckles under the gentle touch. Diving into Florence's arms is irresistibly appealing. 

She doesn't do that, of course, because this is part of Florence's lie. She allows Florence's hand to remain on her cheek for a few seconds, allows the illusion to wash over them both, then she grabs Florence's wrist and removes it. 

"Are you going to talk to me?" Her voice doesn't crack this time. Her eyes are back to a relaxed impassivity. "You could've gone to Mexico with Freddie. You chose to stay. So let's talk."

But like Svetlana, Florence has the uncanny ability to conceal pain perfectly. 

"I'm here for you," she finally says. "You're right; I could've gone with Freddie. I said no, because I wanted to stay with you."

If Florence's words were true, Svetlana would melt. The idea of someone willingly turning down a free trip to keep her company seems like a fantasy. If something is too good to be true, then it's too good to be true. 

"All this time," Svetlana breathes, "I've been waiting for you to tell me something. Anything..." Please. I can't return to Sasha empty-handed again.

They both look to each other. Svetlana can taste the hurt in the air, but she can't tell if it's Florence's or her own. Must be mixed. 

Florence's chin quivers, but she tucks it behind a playful smile.

"And here I thought you wanted to talk to me because you wanted to talk to me." She raises one eyebrow, but her lighthearted demeanor doesn't change. "Since you came back, I've been begging for scraps. And now you say we need to talk, and I thought to myself, wow, Svetka's finally reaching out to me. I thought you might ask how my day's been or whether I'd like to have dinner with you tonight."

No. They're talking about two completely different things, the two of them. Svetlana opens her mouth. No words come out. 

"I know you have it worse than me," Florence says, seeing her silence. "You have your extended family to go home to, but what they do is hurt you. I don't have anybody to go home to at all. No one hurts me."

"They don't hurt me," Svetlana forces out, because Florence could speak it into existence. She can't face the possibility that Florence could be right. If she did, what would she do? Maybe Florence is strong enough to be alone.

Svetlana isn't. Without Sasha, she's no one. 

She's already no one. 

"They don't hurt you," Florence says, "but you came home to me bleeding through your—"

"That was nothing."

Florence inhales sharply. Her voice lowers to a whisper. 

"It was so much blood, Svetka. The only other time I'd ever seen so much — I was scared you might die."

"If you were scared I might die, then you don't know a thing about blood or the world or me."

They're both on the edge. That tips Florence right over. She looks away, rolling her sleeve over her hand and using it to wipe at her eyes.

"Okay," she whispers, and she stands. "I don't know anything."

Every step she takes is a hammer to the gates of Svetlana's heart. The guilt erodes her, slowly but surely, and she watches Florence take Krtek and tuck him tightly under her chin, her tearful gaze lingering on the photograph of her father she keeps on her desk. 

Something's wrong. Maybe Florence really is fooling her, maybe she really is the agent Sasha says she is, but Svetlana can't believe that's the whole story. There's something more. 

"I'm sorry." She, too, stands. "I was wrong to say that." I'm just scared. Because where I come from, love is fear and fear is love.

Florence seems to understand the unspoken. Svetlana waits for her to hit back equally heartlessly, because she knows Florence is capable. But she doesn't. Instead, she sets Krtek down and steps towards Svetlana, arms held out in permission. 

Svetlana closes the distance. 

Then Florence embraces her tightly, clinging to her like she's the most important thing in the world. Svetlana tries to remember the last time she felt that way. She doesn't think she ever... has.

She hugs Florence back, trembling, and a thousand apologies weigh on her tongue. I'm sorry I've ignored you all semester, I'm sorry it seems like I only talk to you when I need something, I'm sorry I made you feel unwanted, I'm sorry I invalidated you. I'm just scared.

She wants to apologize. She's paralyzed in guilt and fear and self-hatred.

"I thought you might ask how my day's been," Florence whispers into her ear, "or whether I'd like to have dinner with you tonight."

God. 

"How's your day been, my darling?" she whispers back. She's afraid the world will hear the words meant only for Florence. 

"Cold and shitty." Florence lets the hug go and that prompts Svetlana's tears. But then Florence tenderly cups her face, looking at her with those glittering eyes that enraptured her since day one, and Svetlana can't imagine being anywhere else. "Then you talked to me, and can I be a little bit pathetic?" Without waiting for Svetlana's answer, she plows forth, wiping Svetlana's tears with her thumbs as she does. "More than a little bit? Then you talked to me and I felt like I mattered."

Svetlana opens her mouth. She's going to try an apology again. Her chin quivers too much. Florence shushes her, shaking her head and putting a finger on her lips. 

"I don't want apologies or flatteries," she says, because she knows. "I'd just like to have dinner with you tonight. I've missed you."

And though they've been sharing a physical space for so long, Svetlana can admit it now. 

"I missed you," she manages to say, and Florence's smile makes the promise of pain worth it. 

Freddie has a major match in Japan over winter holidays. Svetlana insists that Florence go. 

Florence agrees. It'll be her first time leaving. She promises to take pictures.

But before that, she must finish her finals.

They’re in the throes of exams, which means Florence is cramming. At a respectable 8:00pm, she’s woken by Svetlana gently rubbing her back. Florence unceremoniously lifts her head, drool plastered all over her cheek, and looks up.

“Huh?”

Words aren’t forming. It’s the best she’s got.

“You aren’t going to learn it all tonight,” Svetlana reasons in that soothing voice of hers. “Come to bed with me.”

And because Svetlana asks, because Florence, for once, doesn’t feel like the needy burden she knows she is — and feels wanted, even — she follows Svetlana to bed. It’s another night of necessary snuggling, but Florence would’ve slept pressed against Svetlana even in a double king bed. She mutters something about love and buries her face in her Svetlana’s chest and falls asleep. When she wakes up in the middle of the night, she’s still in Svetlana’s arms.

She lies there, childish warmth filling her, eyes prickling. Only an idiot would cry because she feels wanted. But she does feel wanted, and she hasn’t since the beginning of the semester. Not that she’d ever blame Svetlana. Not that she ever could.

Who could spare love a thought after going through something so terrible?

But for the first time in a long time, Florence feels wanted. Actively. Svetlana sought her; not the other way around. There is a little reciprocation, and a little is enough.

Florence would gladly put 99% into a relationship if it meant someone else would put in 1%.

1% is enough. 1% is love. 1% makes life worth living. And if Svetlana’s 100% is Florence’s 1%, then they’re perfectly matched and Florence is happy.

She knows she doesn't deserve more. 

1979, WINTER

Florence returns from holidays, giddy with excitement.

Freddie hated Japan. He hated the weather, the match, the food. He tried ordering pizza nightly. None of it tasted right, he said. Didn’t the Japanese eat pizza? Bagels? Anything?

Florence loved it.

She brought back a silly bowtie she found at a shop in Nara. The fabric features a local artist’s drawings of baby deer. Florence thinks it’s sweet; she doubts Svetlana will wear it frequently, but once is enough.

“Close your eyes!”

She places the box in her darling Svetka's hands.

“Open!”

And she does. She leans in close to examine it. Then she goes pale. It takes her a few seconds, but she smiles. It’s wrong.

Florence’s excitement is extinguished.

“Is it… you don’t like it?”

“I like it,” Svetlana says a moment too late.

Florence's stomach drops. She feels disappointment in herself — wants to kick herself, really — for not choosing something Svetlana would like. She thought it was cute. She saw it on display and really thought it would make her Svetka smile after a miserable fall semester.

But Florence is suddenly filled with a self-loathing so severe she steps back. Stupid to get a silly gift, stupid to think Svetlana would like it. She sees now how childish it is.

Svetlana repeats that she likes it. Florence knows she's lying. 

That night, Svetlana wakes up screaming that she’s sorry.

In Russian. She’s screaming in Russian.

Florence, half-sedated, half-dreaming, stumbles her way over, grabs Cheburashka, and climbs into bed, wrapping her arms around Svetlana. She tries to comfort her, but her sleeping medication makes her words slur and she isn't able to string together working sentences. Svetlana stops screaming, but she doesn't stop trembling. 

Once again, Florence's awareness of her own inadequacy sets in. She does her best to comfort Svetlana. She isn't enough. She doesn't think she'll ever be. 

1980, SPRING

Svetlana sits at a bench and closes her eyes. Sweat runs down her neck. It feels so good without the added weight of her hair.

Freddie sits beside her. 

She can tell it's him without looking. He has a certain way of walking, breathing, existing... she tolerates him because he's Florence's friend.

"I know what you're doing."

He doesn't bother with decorum. Svetlana appreciates it. It'll shorten the conversation. 

"Boxing?" she mildly asks, opening her eyes and leaning back. She's the picture of relaxation, while he's all tensed up like she's going to hurt him.

He needn't worry. He isn't important. 

"You're a spy," he spits, and maybe she'd care if Florence placed any value in his words. Take your pills, Freddie, she can hear Florence saying exasperatedly. 

Florence likes Freddie. She doesn't take him seriously. This is Svetlana's saving grace. She smirks, because the two of them know this. 

Because the two of them know this, Freddie's face darkens. She waits for him to say something more; if he's the one pointing fingers, then he'd better back it up. But like any American, all he's good for is pointing fingers and throwing temper tantrums. 

"See? You aren't even denying it."

"Denying it would imply your words had a shred of value," she lazily says, and she knows that'll only incinerate him. He glares, standing in a huff. 

"When you hurt her," he says, "I'll be there to help. But when you go back, you'll only have your evil KGB overlords — the ones who beat you up every semester 'cause they don't give a shit about you."

Fucking fascinating. He's so wrong and so right. He's so American. 

"Like I said, Freddie, denying your words would imply they have value."

She looks away. He stalks off. 

Phantom burns slice through her back in anticipation of what'll happen if she doesn't get Florence to crack soon. Time's running out. 

She asks Florence to meet her for dinner at the park at 6pm. Warmth has finally returned.

It's time for a picnic. She sets out a variety of jams she spent all afternoon on. All organic, all vegan. No strawberries. Fresh bread. Vegetables, spices, creams, oils, cheese (if Florence will partake). Fruits, berries, citruses. She brings Cheburashka and Krtek to witness.

She worries Florence thinks she doesn’t care. The truth is she cares so much it hurts and, simultaneously, she'll never care enough. Florence can't know she's broken. 

(Or maybe she already knows and she loves her anyway.)

Svetlana tries to focus on the present. The past is in the past. The future can't touch her now. Florence will be here soon. They'll eat and drink and Florence will take her hand and they'll lie down with the sun. When the stars come out, Florence will doze and Svetlana will smile. 

She wants to make memories she can take home. 

But time passes and Florence doesn't come. Svetlana checks her watch. Fifteen minutes go by. Thirty.

Her heart sinks.

It’s possible Florence fell asleep. She isn’t to blame for that, Svetlana firmly tells herself. She foolishly keeps waiting, thinking maybe Florence got the time wrong or something's held her up. The sun sets without waiting and Svetlana's forced to begin gathering their dinner.

Tears burn her eyes. She almost delights; she didn't realize she still had tears outside of nightmares and beatings. But then she remembers why she's crying and she misses Florence terribly. 

She blinks her tears away and then Florence comes.

Something is wrong. Her wrists are the giveaway, bleeding and bruised, rubbed raw by something. Florence slides to her knees in front of Svetlana, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“They’re after me.”

“Who?” For a horrible second, Svetlana’s blood runs cold. She remembers Svetochka warning her about the poison. Out of fear, she carries the antidote everywhere. But Florence, pale as she is under the moonlight, doesn't seem ill. 

She only looks panicked. 

“Who’s after you?” she asks again, quietly, urgently. It can't be them. It must've been some boy. She’s already thinking of what she’ll do when she gets her hands on—

“The CIA.”

That answer knocks the breath out of Svetlana. She doesn't react visibly, because she can't. It's in her training. But her blood runs icy in an entirely different way. 

Not the KGB. The CIA. 

But Svetlana knew this. It's why she's here. For one reason or another, Florence's name is paramount in a very important document at the Central Intelligence Agency. For an unknown reason, the CIA is extremely interested in a twenty-year-old from Czechoslovakia.

The KGB needs to know why. It's a matter of national security. 

“They—” Florence’s chin quivers and her eyes fill with angry tears “—they, they, they want to recruit me to...”

“To?”

“They want to make some fucking robot chess players.”

Florence's eyes brim with anger. Svetlana would anticipate a joke if Florence hadn't said it so seriously. She looks down at Florence's wrists, takes her hands, sees her skin an angry dark red from where those fuckers hurt her. 

At the same time, she tries to synthesize that information. 

Robot chess players. The CIA wants the twenty-year-old from Czechoslovakia to help them make robotic chess players. 

No matter how many times Svetlana repeats it to herself, she can't make any sense of it. But little things come together: Sasha's long-lasting interest in chess, Svetochka's idiotic 'chobot' chess set that impressed Sasha in a way Svetlana has never...

"That's insanity," she finally says, absent any other possible response. She sees Florence's jaw shake, then harden, her dark eyes narrowing. She isn't looking at Svetlana. Her anger must be directed elsewhere. At the CIA. At the world, maybe. 

“I’m a third-country national. I’m not American. I don’t want shit to do in the making of — I think it’s disgusting! I could never cheapen chess like that. Papa wouldn't want...”

So there it is, all spelled out, if Florence is to be believed (and Svetlana has no reason to believe she isn't).  

That’s why Florence’s name was in the CIA’s files. She was only a potential recruit for some batshit plan. 

Florence wasn’t concealing anything from her. All the suspicion was for nothing. She had this image of Florence — a manipulative, seasoned rival, beautiful and dangerous — but she's only a victim of 1968.

Svetlana has her answer. The mission is over. Sasha will be pleased, she hopes, that she has the answer he craves. So why doesn't she feel relieved?

Florence apologizes for her tardiness. She thanks Svetlana profusely for the picnic and she insists they eat anyway, late as it is. She doesn't describe what the CIA did to her wrists. 

Svetlana starts to cry. She can't help it. Florence folds and apologizes a dozen more times, increasingly guilty, swearing she'd been so excited to join her for the picnic. But that isn't why Svetlana's crying. Not anymore.

Her mission is over.

Once again, she feels like Florence is the one hurting, but Svetlana's the one demanding comfort. 

1980, SUMMER

Graduation.

Feels surreal.

Florence presses Svetlana’s suit. She helps Svetlana with her red bowtie. She trims Svetlana’s hair the night before the ceremony. She seems like nerves stitched into the shape of a human, and maybe Svetlana feels the same way.

After all, Svetlana is the one graduating. 

Florence asks if her extending family is coming. Svetlana says they won't be able to make it. Moscow's very far away, after all. Florence vows to cheer so loudly when they call her name, it'll sound like she's got fifty family members in attendance. 

She's true to her word. Sokolova, Svetlana, the university's president calls out. Florence screams her voice raw from the audience. 

And as she's walking back to her seat, diploma in hand, Svetlana feels the antidote pressed against her thigh. She's still carrying it everywhere. She doesn't know if she'll ever stop. 

She won't ever stop. 

Because she makes a decision. 

It’s the hardest decision she’s ever made.

Which is crazy. Crazy, because any onlooker might consider it the only possible path forward. Who, in their right mind, would consider returning to the place that molded her into the shell she is today? But Svetlana’s long left her right mind behind.

Still, she makes the decision. For a split-second, it is the easiest decision in the world. School's ended, and she and Florence rent an apartment for the summer. Florence returns after gardening one afternoon, her hair tied up to keep it from her face, colorful flowers woven into her curly bun, face flushed and dotted in sweat and overalls stained in dirt. She triumphantly sets a basket of berries on the counter and grins at Svetlana.

“I’ll make a pie,” she promises, which means she’s no longer raw. For now.

Svetlana grins.

She’s not going back. How could she even consider it?

August air hangs heavy. Florence's semester will soon begin.

She starts discussing options. She wants to continue being a second, and Svetlana wouldn’t take that from her. But she wants to know if Svetlana's okay with that. Would she miss Florence if she traveled too much? Would she feel lonely without her?

What'll they do about their immigration statuses? Florence has a valid visa so long as she's still studying. But Svetlana's graduated. Her visa's expired. She must go home or she must commit.

It's a worry for another day. Florence asks her to dinner. Despite the nervous energy she always exudes, it seems excessive today. 

Svetlana says yes. They meet at a nice Thai restaurant, Florence having spent the day at Freddie's. She made a reservation and the hostess escorts them to a secluded booth. 

They sit across each other. 

Florence has stoped wearing green contact lenses. She looks even lovelier. Her red, lacy dress fits her so beautifully that Svetlana could melt. And Florence looks at her like she's won the fucking lottery, and Svetlana wonders what in the hell she did for someone like Florence to look at her in such a way. 

Svetlana orders a chicken dish.

Florence opts for fried rice.

While they wait, Florence talks about a new Cheburashka film that’s coming out. They could watch it together, she suggests. Svetlana agrees, giving careful, one-word answers. She's afraid of overwhelming Florence. But Florence talks to fill the silence, clearly terribly nervous, and their meals arrive.

Svetlana's hungry. She ran fifteen kilometres. Florence, by contrast, takes only a few bites. 

"Are you all right?" 

"Yes," Florence quickly says. Strangely, Svetlana believes her. "I'm just — just a little nervous. I..."

"Nervous?"

"You look so handsome!"

Oh. 

Svetlana's cheeks flush. She can't help but smile. 

"And you're simply gorgeous."

Florence finally smiles, clearly relieved. She coughs and takes a sip of water. 

"Thank you, I... I wasn't sure..."

She coughs again, fanning her face. Then she coughs some more and she drains the rest of her glass. 

Svetlana offers her own glass. Florence shakes it away. 

"Just nervous," she softly says, then takes another bite. But the coughing doesn't stop. Her lipstick smudges. She accepts Svetlana's glass and manages to stop coughing for a few seconds, but then it resumes with as much fervor.

It gets worse. 

Much. 

Florence is bending over, gasping for air, and then she's on the ground, and then she's foaming at the mouth. Svetlana feels like she's been tossed in a vat of acid. 

She's killed enough people to know what the standard KGB poison looks like. Svetochka was right; this one's stronger and quicker than the ones they've used by far. No one will recognize it as what it is. 

God damn it. It was her she thought they’d poison. Svetlana Sokolova, a spectacular failure of an agent she is. It hadn't occurred to her they'd touch Florence, possibly because the thought of Florence in pain or hurting has always felt unthinkable. 

If they got to Florence, that means they're nearby.

She acts on instinct. She's trained. 

She pulls the syringe Svetochka gave her and prays to some unknown entity that it works. She administers it on Florence's thigh.

Something falls out of Florence's pocket as Svetlana moves the skirt of her dress.

A little felt box. The cause of Florence's nerves. 

She knows what’s inside of it.

Her heart goes cold.

Before she can add something else to her pile of regrets, she pockets it.

And, because she’s a terrified, rotten person, she runs.

Freddie's at the waiting room. He stands when he sees her, pale and wavering. 

“They say it was a severe allergic reaction. Cross-contamination, maybe. It caused a major seizure.”

Svetlana, more empty than ever, offers no facial response. 

“I see.”

If she can't feel, she can't hurt. Florence is alive. That's all that matters.

“It was you she was at that restaurant with." Freddie's voice is only loud enough for her to hear. More than suspicion and distrust, she sees his fear. "She was getting ready at my place. She kept going on about how nervous she was to propose. I know she was with you."

...

Nothing. 

Svetlana feels nothing. 

"And did you tell anyone she was with me?" she casually asks, and she sees Freddie clam up. 

"No. I didn't want you to poison me, too."

Svetlana takes a step towards him. He immediately takes a step back. 

This isn't a fight she's willing to undertake. She turns, then, towards Florence's room.

Freddie's at her heels. 

"Svetlana," he says. "I know what a seizure looks like. That wasn't it."

Then she suddenly feels a tidal wave of emotions so strong it almost pulls her under. Her lip twitches. 

"That's interesting, dear," she says. Not coldly. Not hotly. Not aggressively. Not anything. The words come out with no undercurrent. That seems to scare Freddie more. 

Scares Svetlana, too. 

She steps into Florence's room. Freddie hovers just outside.

She wants to hurt him. He's just some American, some blasted, idiot, ignorant American who doesn't know a thing about the world and how it works. He has no concept of everything Svetlana's seen. He doesn't know that — doesn't know how much Svetlana adored Florence and how she gladly would've taken any poison on her behalf. 

But she isn't willing to fight him.

She looks at Florence, still in an induced coma. 

She’ll never say goodbye. That’s a good thing. She came into Florence’s life and made it worse.

Svetlana Sokolova, good at fucking and killing and nothing else. She did one of those things to Florence. Nearly...

She thought she had no heart left. But it shatters into a thousand pieces.

It’s the little things she’ll miss the most, the way Florence lied effortlessly and constantly, oftentimes puzzling and amusing Svetlana, the way her nostrils flared whenever they passed strawberries at the grocery store. Florence has a cruel streak, something downright vicious, yet it’s never directed towards Svetlana. She’d seen Florence talking down to others, hiding behind the sweetest smiles, and Svetlana only loved her more for it. Maybe that was wrong of her. Maybe it was wrong of them both. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t care, because Svetlana is just as horrible and Florence loved her back. 

All she knows is she loves Florence. The way they touch, the way they kiss. The way Svetlana once fell asleep with her head on Florence’s stomach after they made love. The way they reach for each other's hands, the way Florence has a way of cupping her face and holding her that makes her feel — more than understood — seen! It was like Florence was saying, I see you and I see your flaws and I see all the sins you’ve committed and I still choose to love you.

But Florence hadn’t seen her. Not really, because if she had, she would’ve known Svetlana was rotten to the core and she would have ran before Svetlana hurt her.

The message is clear: Svetlana must go back or Florence dies. 

She'll go back. But because Florence is Florence, unpredictable and impulsive and passionate and wild, Svetlana can't take the risk. 

She needs to break Florence’s heart. She needs to crush it so badly Florence wouldn’t dream of trying to follow her back to the Soviet Union. She needs to make sure that whenever Florence thinks of her, it'll hurt too much to pursue. 

Svetlana Sokolova is rotten. Svetlana Sokolova is better off dead. Svetlana Sokolova is not worth following. 

She takes the letter she's already crafted and sets it on Florence's nightstand. She'll wake up to read it. She has to. 

In it, she confesses to Florence she has a lover in Russia. She admits she was using her to get close to Freddie — the Soviet Union cares very much about chess, after all. Florence was simply one of her targets. 

Florence can’t think Svetlana fell out of love; Florence needs to know she never mattered to Svetlana.

And so, Svetlana kisses goodbye the last bit of her humanity. It's the last time she'll ever feel anything, she's certain. She'll return and Sasha will be angry she stayed for so long, but he'll be glad to have her back. She'll go on her next assignment, and the next, and the next...

She recalls Florence once, drunk, mentioning in passing how pleased she was Svetlana never hit. Some of her prior boyfriends had. Svetlana had sworn to her she would never hit, ever, and Florence had burst into tears and kissed her.

It's true. Svetlana never hit Florence. She almost killed her.

She looks at Florence one last time. She looks decliate in the hospital bed, hooked up to so many machines. Her lips, always painted red, are cracked and nearly white. Her neck is covered in black bruising from her breathing tube. Large bandages fill her upper chest from heart surgery. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

She places Cheburashka on Florence’s nightstand. Svetlana won't ever need Cheburashka again. Her childhood dreams are dead, anyway. 

And Florence is almost dead. 

She leaves. 

Svetlana Sokolova is dead. She's only an agent of the state returning home. 

But because life is contradictory as hell, she puts on the ring Florence was going to give to her.

A reminder, for the rest of Svetlana's life, of what she could have had and never deserved. 

Florence sits on a swing, resting her head against thick metal chain. 

They’re young. Or, they were young. She isn’t so sure anymore.

She’d imagined marriage. A baby — Florence had always felt too ugly, too disgusting to pass on the worst parts of her, but Svetlana had made her feel beautiful. She pictured it: she and Svetlana taking turns pushing a little girl with curly hair on a swing. They'd tell her bedtime stories about Krtek and Cheburashka. A cat. Two kitties, one white and one black. Maybe they'd adopt a stray orange cat.

She thinks back now, considers every time it was her initiating conversations, her asking to go places, her feeling like a needy burden. She'd thought Svetlana was traumatized and hurting, understandably hesitant of any relationship, and she'd wanted to make it better. She’d known she was the one driving the relationship, but it had felt like Svetlana felt something too. 

That’s what hurts the most, Florence numbly realizes.

Indifference. Knowing she never had an impact on her darling Svetka's life. She didn't make it any better.

It would be easier if Svetlana hated her or fell out of love with her. But cold indifference?

She closes her eyes. Dizziness strikes, threatening her from the swing; she's still recovering. She feels a tear, searing, on her cheek.

It's not that she was left behind. It's that she wasn't ever worth staying for. 

But Florence needs to live. Her papa is waiting for her to come rescue him. She needs to focus so she can get him back. 

Her heart may be broken, but she can't let papa down. 

1989

Svetlana crosses a bridge to work every day. On particularly rough days, she watches the sunset, forearms resting against cold metal. She only allows herself a minute. 

Then life carries on. 

She arrives at work. She heads to a desk to work on her next file. Instead of a quiet morning, she's met with the rush of Svetochka's squealing, grating voice. 

"Look!"

She holds a newspaper out for Svetlana.

There, in the cover, is the announcement that Freddie Trumper will be facing Anatoly Sergievsky at the next championship.

Next to Freddie’s picture is Florence.

Svetlana holds her breath. 

Her smile hasn’t changed at all, a smirk and a secret buried in her lips. Her hair’s longer and lovelier than ever, free from the straightening chemicals she'd been using. Those red lips used to stain Svetlana's neck. 

"Hmm," she merely says. "Thank you, dear."

She sets the paper down. Svetochka walks around her desk, leans against it, then spots her ring.

“Ooh, very pretty!"

Yes. It is pretty. Florence had good taste. Svetlana doesn't answer; she looks up at Svetochka, who smiles sweetly down at her. Svetlana doesn't react with fear; she's long buried it, terrified as she is of Sasha and Svetochka and everyone in their rank.

Svetlana's done well, a trustworthy, reliable, emotionless agent. But Svetochka? She's soared to the top. She hides under an oversized sweater with a smiling face. Svetlana knows better than to trust her. 

"Are you... ready?"

She sets a pawn on Svetlana's desk. If Svetlana takes the top off, she knows she'll discover a tiny needle. An easy death, if things go wrong. 

Svetlana nods. There is only a slight tremor in her hand as she takes the pawn. 

After all this time, Svetochka's still not disappointed Sasha. It's Svetlana who must be the perpetual disappointment. She didn't know she could hate herself more. 

But maybe this assignment will be different. Maybe she'll finally prove herself.

Florence means nothing. 

“I’m sure it’ll be an interesting match and an interesting assignment, love," she tells Svetochka calmly, and Svetochka nods.

"Good luck, Sveta! We're all counting on you."

That night, it isn’t the sunset Svetlana watches on the way home. It’s two clouds.

If she stares long enough, she thinks they might be shaped like Krtek and Cheburashka.

But then she stares some more and she sees nothing. 

The skies hold no secrets. There's no hidden meaning in a breeze.

There's only life and this is what it is.