Work Text:
August 1986
For months, Florence debates whether or not to go.
It starts as soon as the location is announced. She goes back and forth, over and over again. She writes out endless pros and cons lists, in which the pros column is always very sparse and the cons are a mile long. Still, she can’t let the idea go.
The championship begins, and she still feels deeply unsure. Four years don’t feel like enough time. The gut-wrenching despair she experienced immediately after Bangkok is still etched in her mind.
It isn’t so bad now. She’s found a place for herself. She has a home, and a life she likes. Mostly. But if he keeps winning, and if she keeps winning…
She’ll have to face him someday. The only question is when.
She misses the opening ceremony, and then the first game. She listens to the broadcasts, reads about it in the papers, observes debates in her local chess club. She ruminates. Two more games go by.
Finally, Florence shores up her courage. She can sit in the back. She can stand to look at him, she tells herself. She doesn’t have to talk to him. He doesn’t have to see her.
Jaya offers to go with her.
Florence met her at a local tournament three years ago, her first time back in the chess scene after everything that happened, and they became fast friends, bonding over being immigrants and women in the chess scene. Florence was drawn to the way she doesn’t seem to care at all about Florence’s past chess-playing career—she’s young and laid-back and incredibly smart, and they get along great.
Their meeting didn’t have the same kind of intoxicating energy as Florence’s first meeting with Freddie. She thinks that’s probably a good thing.
“You don’t have to go for my sake,” Florence protests. “I can manage.”
“Are you joking? It’s the chess world championship, here,” Jaya says. “I was planning to go anyway. Better to have some company.”
So, they take the weekend and ride the train down from Birmingham. Jaya is calm and steady, and whimsical enough that she doesn’t give Florence time to dwell on what’s coming. They leave early, get brunch in London, and wander around the shops they don’t normally get to visit. Jaya tries to convince Florence to go for drinks after the game. They plan a museum trip for the next day. It’s nice.
Florence hasn’t been back to London much since Anatoly went home—not since she packed up their shared flat and moved out. Sometimes, she and Jaya pass by something that reminds her of him—of their time there together. She feels a little pang of grief in her heart, but it isn’t overwhelming like it used to be. Just a reminder that something was once there.
They don’t get good seats, relegated to the back and off to the side. Florence is relieved. Any kind of space she can get from him is welcome, to help her cling to her emotional distance. Anything to get her through the next couple of hours.
Even then, knowing exactly what is about to happen, knowing what she came here to see, Florence is bowled over the moment Anatoly walks onto the stage.
He’s older now—how could he possibly have gotten older? In her mind, he’s frozen in time, exactly as he was when she left. Even from the back, she sees speckles of gray in his hair and beard. He looks a little bit thinner now, and sits a little more hunched over. She can’t make out the lines of his face from back here , but her heart aches—with distant familiarity, a little, but more than that, it aches from the profound distance.
Jaya lays a hand on her arm. Florence realizes she’s been white knuckling her program. She forces herself to relax.
Anatoly’s opponent appears. They shake hands and begin to play. Florence doesn’t take in any of it. She knows, distantly, that there is a game being played, but she won’t be able to say later what moves were made, what positions were taken. Her world narrows to a single point, to where Anatoly Sergievsky is sitting on stage.
She watches him move, and she sees him split in two—she sees the man she loved, the man she gave a year of her life to. She sees him in the way his body moves, the tilt of his head, the concentration in his brow. But, she also sees the years that separate them now, stretching much farther than the 20 feet between Florence’s chair and the stage. He’s wearing a new style of shoe. His hair is cut differently, longer than when they were together. He captures a piece, and his brow arches just the slightest bit, into an expression she’s never seen before.
This is a different person, she realizes as the two players stand and shake hands. She doesn’t know who this is.
She’s only distantly aware that people have started to get up around her. The stage is empty now, and the rows in the front are empty. Jaya doesn’t move and doesn’t speak, giving her whatever time she needs. Florence appreciates her more than she knows. Her attention lingers on the empty chair.
She doesn’t know how much time has passed when she finally pulls herself together. She tears her gaze away from the stage and looks down at her crumpled program. “Well,” she says.
“Good game,” Jaya says conversationally.
Florence nods automatically, then stops and laughs to herself. “I don’t even know who won.”
Jaya laughs easily with her. “Your guy,” she says. “He played really well. I’ll tell you about it later.”
They stand and start making her way to the exit, and Florence lets Jaya talk at her, not really processing what she’s saying but appreciating the distraction anyway. When they get to the door, Jaya turns around to hold it open for her, and then her expression changes. Wordlessly, she points back at the stage, and Florence turns.
There he is. Looking at her.
He stands on the stage to the side, barely peeking out from behind the curtains. There's another man further back, a generic bodyguard type, watching him closely. Anatoly doesn’t come any closer. Florence can’t quite make out his expression from here.
She doesn’t know what he’s thinking anymore. He’s a different person now.
Well. So is Florence.
She raises a hand in a meek wave. Anatoly returns it.
Florence can’t help it—she smiles, and turns to Jaya. “Are you ready?”
They leave the venue, and it’s an unusually sunny day for London in August, the light falling on her face and taking the edge off the chill. She kind of wants to cry, but her smile lingers, and it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
“You alright?” Jaya asks.
“Yes,” Florence says, and she knows for certain that she means it. “Let’s go to dinner. My treat. And maybe after I’ll rethink going out for drinks.” Jaya pumps her fist in the air in excitement, and they leave arm in arm.
For the first time in a long time, Florence feels at peace.