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The thing about Beth Harmon is that she doesn't have nightmares. Ever since she was a child still living with her birth mother, her sleeping patterns weren't exemplary, to say the least, but when she slept she lost herself in slumber completely. Later, at Methuen, when she would take her pills and watch the chess pieces move on the ceiling, she would ultimately be lulled by the sounds of dull friction of the imaginary stone and then, maybe, by Mr Shaibel's soothing voice explaining her the rules in her head. Even later, she would pass out after a night of drinking, her head spinning like a carousel with constructivist knights instead of artificially cheerful horses - but still, she'd be asleep. Now everything is different.
During the day it's easier to find things to do. Although she never considered herself a perfect housewife and never wanted to be one even in the future, if she actually gets to grow old, she tries to at least keep Alma's house orderly enough for unexpected guests to not be disappointed. Not that she really cares about their opinion but being judged for every mistake, every slip-up gets tiring exceptionally quickly and these days she'd rather not give them a chance at all. But when it gets darker and the sounds of life on the streets outside, whatever it may be, start slowly wilting away, her head gets louder and louder, demanding compensation. Beth is never that busy. Even with her new status, Grandmaster Harmon doesn't spend all of her free time skipping from one tournament to another, Invitational to Invitational. She knows exactly where she will have to be by the end of the year and even plans to join the Chess Olympiad in the nearest future but she's not certain if she'll get there in reality. No one is ever around all the time. Harry Beltik still technically lives in the same town as her but she can't bring herself to ask him to be there for her whenever she fancies. Jolene still calls but only tells Beth about her life and her studies for minutes at a time - sorry, too busy, gotta go. Besides, she's not her mother, is she? No one owes Beth Harmon their time and attention in its entirety. The only person who seems to always keep her company without keeping her company is Vasily Borgov.
She treasures the last days they've spent together before he had to come back to Montpellier, to his family, to his safe haven. Treasures the letters he's sent her, material things, trivial. He's scarcely romantic in his writing and doesn't ever sign them with "yours" or "with love". Beth thinks it's better that way because if one day she had to read his declaration of love, be it in the style of Austen or Mayakovsky, she'd probably vomit. She likes to keep him sullen and withdrawn in her memory - that way it's easier not to miss his homely presence that she grew to enjoy (love?) so much. That way she can focus on pleasing him with her best behaviour in her mind, even though she knows in her heart of hearts that he wouldn't judge her anyway. It takes her two whole months of consideration and carefully choosing her every word to finally tell Jolene about him and all that for her immediate impression of him to be that he's just another old pervert dreaming of seducing the glamorous prodigy. It's not like that, she says, they've never actually done anything, and the thought of Vasily Borgov being in love with her and not once even kissing her physically hurts. She's not the one for abstinence but she saves herself, waiting for him, even though he never asks her for anything like that and they don't even know when - if they will see each other again. The idea of being conventionally faithful simultaneously disgusts and entices her. It reminds her, again, of perfect housewives, whose way of living she loathes so much but has no real experience in trying. So she tries and, if anything, it's better on her self-esteem. She doesn't squander herself, piece by piece, on people she doesn't know or care about enough to make it worth her time and strength, and it's healing. There's no telling if it'll come to anything more substantial than brushing fingers while handing each other things, accidentally colliding in the doorway or fleetingly touching each other's shoulders in the kitchen if they do get to meet, but it feels right to wait. But it doesn't help her sleep.
Beth eventually asks for his phone number. The bill will be astronomical but she doesn't give a damn. After all, for her the only material obsession truly worth spending money on is clothes but her other, higher ones - chess and Borgov - are more important. And so they start talking. Not every day, of course, though she's sure - almost sure, pretty sure - her phone is not bugged and his simply can't be. Talking in the evening becomes her new ritual, just like their walk when he was still with her in Kentucky, and, in a way, her substitute for pills. Hearing him through the receiver, his voice creaky and synthetic, isn't the same but it'll do for now. It'll have to, for now. She desperately doesn't want to let go of the idea of seeing him again.
"I'm filing for divorce."
A simple statement said so serenely, like a sigh of relief, makes Borgov shudder with surprise. It's true that their marriage isn't exactly like everyone else's but for a commitment of so many years, sometimes a struggle, sometimes a blessing, for a union based on understanding, support, admiration and yes, love too, though exclusively platonic, to end so abruptly there has to be a weighty reason and he doesn't see one. Or maybe he does but doesn't want to fully admit it. He's been with other women purely out of physical distress and once even tried to have an affair of sorts but essentially couldn't do it, couldn't live with himself, even though Galina knew everything and didn't ask him to refrain. Even with her being in love with someone else by all definitions of the word, he felt like he was betraying his dear companion with whom he never had such a connection. Beth Harmon is different, of course. She's not like anyone he has ever met and he knows that from the moment they see each other for the first time. Being watched by the government almost his entire life, the feeling of being watched by Elizabeth Harmon strikes him as diametrically opposite. She doesn't just watch him for the sake of being a nuisance or a menace - she sees him. He loves his wife in his own way, loves his son, loves his country (although it probably doesn't deserve it) but nothing - or no one - in his life can compare to chess. It can even be considered his life. An entire world of sixty-four squares. There's science and method to it, ruthless strategy, but there's also poetry, music and movement. Beth knows this too, she's the only one who truly does. He has never felt seen, understood like that and it scares him. It scares him, so he runs away from her like a coward. Yet, his heart longs for her.
"It won't happen right away but I'm gathering documents," Galina continues with the most earnest expression on her face. "We'll have to have a talk with Seryozha by the time you leave."
"I wasn't going to," is all he manages to say.
"Yes, you were." She finally smiles, her features softening. "I'm not blind, Vasya, you know I'm not. I've seen the way you two looked at each other when you could, heard the way you talk to her - every other day, mind you."
"That doesn't mean I was going to leave you." Vasily only furrows his eyebrows.
"My only concern is that she's so young but I can also see why it's her and not someone else."
Borgov's face is a mask made of stone but behind it is a hunted beast thrashing about.
"I want you to know that I'm not mad at you, dear." Galina moves two steps closer and gently takes his hand in both of hers. "It pains me greatly to see you suffering. If we were to trade places, would you want me to be in such peril?"
"But how..." he starts but doesn't finish, and there's no need to because she already knows what the short ambiguous beginning implies.
"You don't really think I'm so weak I won't be able to survive without a man, do you?" The question is rhetorical and in any other context would scorch a husband's ego, what's with her simply calling him a man like he's a stranger, but they both know, again, what she means. "Just... promise me you'll be careful, alright? Don't let her eat you alive."
"She's not like that," he corrects gently, not actually wanting to correct the wisest person he has ever known. "She's not as broken as they say she is."
"Well, you know her better than I do, so I'm going to have to take your word on that." In this moment Galina reminds him a little bit of a school teacher but the resemblance dissipates with another reserved smile. "But I've known you, it feels like, my whole life and I've seen how lonely it can be for you."
"I was never lonely with you, when did you ever see that?"
"When you weren't looking." She moves another step closer and places her warm hands on his shoulders. "I'm not saying you can't allow yourself this happiness, only... measure it. Don't give yourself out all at once, otherwise it might break both of you."
They look at each other intently for several long seconds until Galina can see in his eyes that he understands her completely and then, making him lean down for her just a little, kisses him on the forehead.
"I really do love you, you know?" he says, pulling away to look her in the eyes again.
"Of course," she nods with a seemingly omniscient smile. "You'd be lost without me."
After a lengthy discussion - and there are oh so many details, getting married in Soviet Russia was much easier when they did it - they decide to arrange for Vasily to have a place of his own nearby. Coming back home is out of the question and probably will be until he's at least seventy and absolutely everybody in the world has forgotten him, but so is being separated from his son and Galina completely. Seeing each other after splitting up isn't a customary thing in Russia but they are not there, they can make it work. They have to make it work. That is if Beth agrees to come with him...
He does tell her in advance that he's coming but they don't meet at the airport. A tiny part of her enjoys the thought of their precautions, however lazy they might be, existing - it's almost as if he's a spy, risking his life to see his love - but doesn't actually want anything bad to happen to him. Practically everyone in town knows who she is but Vasily Borgov is as much of a mystery for filing clerks, football players, bikers and stroller-pushing mothers who may see him on his way to her house as he was for her not so long ago, so there's no use in carving lines of worry on her pretty young face. So she just cleans everything up as much as she can, knowing how keen he is on things being in order, but doesn't strain herself with cooking. Beth isn't a terrible cook but she remembers him being much better at it.
"Hello, Beth." Borgov's accent is still just as austere as ever and his face isn't unlike the moʻai but only for a moment. The river blue of his eyes lights up at the sight of her face and the corners of his mouth twitch, then slowly curl a millimetre up. She hasn't changed a bit. It's only been six months but for some unknown reason he imagined there would be a change and there is none. Even her hair, rust-red but soft like a fox's fur, seems to be the same length as it was when they parted. Vasily's heart, likely clockwork, begins to contract with increasing speed making it harder to breathe and he appears to be, by all means, smitten.
"You look tired. Has the flight been long?" Beth's reaction isn't the most welcoming but she poses queenly in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her, one foot behind the other and her back completely straight. She is a good strategist, maybe the best one there is, but she isn't a great actress. She is a mess and there's an alive bird hidden inside her chest, throwing itself onto the ribcage in desperation, trying to break out. Her palms feel so clammy that she thinks they'll slip off of each other and ruin her disguise.
"Sixteen hours." He nods - for no reason. She already knows that, doesn't she? She had to have taken the same flight.
"Yeah, right." She nods too and bites her lower lip. There's no cyanide behind it, and today of all days. "Sorry, I can't-"
Beth is the first one to practically launch herself onto him and cling to his shoulders, his jacket, bury her face in his neck, breathe him in, probably car air freshener from the taxi but mostly some cologne so sharp it almost makes her sneeze. Vasily follows quickly after, exhaling heavily but, nevertheless, relieved, sinking into the embrace and pressing her closer. Was he expecting her to turn him down at the door? Maybe he was. Maybe he still is, his eyes closed and his arms still wrapped tightly around her petite frame.
"I'm pretty sure I've ruined your shirt," she laughs coquettishly instead of pointing out that the hug is getting too tight for her. She'll endure, six whole months she waited for this moment, but he pulls away slowly and she can't help but feel abandoned even though his arms are still technically around her.
"My shirt?"
"Yeah, there's lipstick on it now." Reflexively leaning ever so slightly towards him again, Beth picks at the clean fine lines of the imprint, the colour of dusted rose, on the collar with her finger. Borgov has the face of a man who values material things. Has a favourite suit, favourite watch, favourite pair of shoes - all necessary for a presentable public figure but, perhaps, a luxury for a Soviet man. It's a shame to destroy a good shirt with a classic signature for a mistress. But she's not a mistress, really, is she? No, she's so much more to him, perhaps his whole world.
"Doesn't matter." Vasily shatters the impression with a simple shake of his head. His hands are still around her waist and it feels like the right place for them to be, so they stand there for what seems like a full minute, enjoying the sensation, until it gets awkward again. She's not used to this kind of contact, not accustomed to intimacy, so she has to escape.
"I'm sorry-" She knits her brow just a little and looks down at his bag, not big enough for his whole house to fit in there but certainly enough to stay here for a few days. "You're probably starving. I'll make some tea and-"
"I can cook."
While Vasily is working on something that looks like a soup but may very well be a stew, a model aircraft or an oil painting, Beth props herself, with her knees pulled up to her chin, on the stool behind the counter, so there's a border between them once again. Borgov, the heartless robot man that he is, doesn't seem particularly out of place performing simple acts of domesticity. He doesn't seem out of place in her kitchen. His guileless movements mesmerise her but in a way that a python circling a poor shaking rabbit is mesmerising. Could she honestly actually live with him like that? They sort of did, for three months, but that time he always left her alone for the night and she felt secure, at ease, in her castle for an orphan. This time he brings his belongings and doesn't protest when she takes them to the bedroom upstairs. It certainly feels novel, like a new level of trust, and the anticipation tickles her innards, makes her positively giddy, but also terrifies her to no end. She knows he won't cross any lines unless she specifically states that she wants them to be crossed - she could jokingly give him a written permission to kiss her but she's half-afraid he won't get it - so it's not the danger of staying alone with an older man in an empty house. Rather, the danger of ruining everything with a careless word, a nonsensical prompt, or even her recoiling back into her protective shell like a snail under a salt shaker. She cares about him and that's what makes it so much harder. She cares about Benny and Harry, too, but they can't possibly compare. And for once in her life it has nothing to do with chess. It's about her entire self being utterly exposed in front of him and feeling free, unburdened, unincumbered with the scars of her troubled past. Losing it would snap her in two unequal lifeless parts, burst her lungs, crush her skull. She knows she'll relapse and it weighs on her like a massive lead ball chained to her neck.
"Have you come to live with me?" she finally asks, feeling like her heart just sank to her stomach.
"Not exactly," he replies in Russian, evidently still more comfortable using his mother tongue, even though she can tell from their phone calls that he's practising English for her. "I just thought that speaking in person would be more effective."
"So you flew sixteen hours just to tuck me in?" Beth uncurls with a kittenish smile and crosses her legs, leaning closer to the counter. He doesn't turn but she knows he can feel her watching him and this is probably what makes him sound so coy. Even if he refutes, she's still going to be immensely pleased with herself.
Borgov dares to give her a look-over, quickly but, no doubt, attentively measuring her entire body, even the parts that are inaccessible to him from behind the counter, with his eyes. The outer layer of her confidence stays firmly in place but the inner one evaporates and she feels her face getting hotter. The neverending circus of her memories opens its curtains for yet another number: that was probably the same look he gave her when she showed up to their match in Paris hungover. Damn it. How does he manage to affect her with just a look?
"Maybe."
Vasily wakes up in the middle of the night from the faint, barely audible whimpering coming from the room opposite his. The first honest thing that comes to his somnolent mind isn't particularly decorous but he can't brush it off completely as Beth is a young woman with needs. Needs that he can't bring himself to meet - evident from the fact that they still sleep in different rooms. He sits up in bed sleepily and habitually rubs his face with one hand. It's 3:43 in the morning - this time the American norm isn't that much different from the European - and he's still in her mother's bedroom. It really is a mystery why this was the wallpaper of her choice. Maybe if he had a pleasure of meeting Alma in person, a lovely woman in Beth's recollection of her, he would have an inkling. He half-turns in search of a light switch but finds his book on her bedside table instead, next to the very king he gave her after his grand defeat in Moscow. Borgov's opinion about his own appearance is like any other man's of his age but the picture on the cover is truly dreadful by all means. He remembers hating it but not being able to change it as the copies were already being sold. Does she just have it here all the time or is this some kind of attempt to make him self-conscious? Maybe his mug is the true reason behind her insomnia. The whimpering grows louder, more distressed, so he finally decides to get up and check on her.
Beth is sprawled in her bed in the most dramatic manner imaginable with her covers tied around her in a sea knot but her face, nearly buried in the pillows but still visible, is plagued by fear and her body is unmoving, unable to shake the terror off. It's impossible to say what she's dreaming about even with their ever-developing ability to read each other's minds but it doesn't really matter in the moment.
"Beth..." Allowing himself to sit down on her side of the bed, or rather the one she's closest to, Borgov gingerly places his hand on her shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. "Beth, wake up."
She doesn't hear him, still entangled in her nightmare web, so he caresses her shoulder gently, afraid to wake her up too abruptly and startle her. No response.
"Liza."
Perhaps it's the novelty that wakes her up at last as his voice stays just as quiet but when she does wake up, all she can do is look around aimlessly, trying to discern what's real and what's just another figment of her vivid imagination. Her hair is a mess of red and her face is covered in lines from the rumpled fabric of the pillowcases. She looks adorable.
"Vasily?.." Beth finally stops and focuses her attention on him, having chosen him as an anchor. Her face changes, relief washing over her, but then changes again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
"It's alright." He just shakes his head and intuitively moves closer as she decides to rest her head on the pillow. "I'm here for this."
The phrase sounds somehow incorrect, though his grammar is much improved, but she can't quite put her finger on it, so she lets it go and decides to inspect him instead. He's wearing pajamas, of course, the dullest kind, and the only thing missing is a tie but she feels like if he did go to sleep in his usual clothes, she'd probably strangle him. Yet, there's also a sensation of seeing a bare ankle for the first time as she's never actually seen him in this number either, which makes her want to laugh out loud. At first, she chooses not to, afraid of embarrassing him for something he most likely doesn't even understand about himself, but then succumbs to the urge and presses her fingers to her lips in the last attempt to hide it.
"What's wrong?" The look of pure confusion on his face only adds to her amusement. God, she missed him.
"No, nothing. Really, it's nothing." With the same hand that she held over her lips just now, Beth reaches out to find his fingers and intertwines them with her own. "Thank you for coming to my rescue."
The corners of Borgov's mouth quiver lopsidedly as he lowers his gaze. Their first contact for today was, perhaps, of the more passionate from the ones they've shared so far but this feels so much more intimate. It reminds him of those times they've shaken hands before, during tournaments, when seemingly everyone around them had cameras in their eyes, so if he were to suddenly grow bolder and kiss her hand, all the king's horses and all the king's men would jump to their destruction. And if he were to do it now...
"Will you stay with me for a while? At least until I fall asleep."
Before he can even answer, Beth moves away, to the now colder side of the bed, and all is left for him is to lay down. The idea of being so close to her fills him with horror again and he instinctively tightens the grip around her fingers, though not enough to hurt her. She's, of course, not the only one afraid of ruining everything.
"No reason to blush like a schoolboy, Mr Borgov, I'm not going to try to seduce you this time," Beth teases with a sleepily flirtatious smile, patting on the bed. "I just need company, that's all."
Vasily feels the lead of his skeleton softening as she pulls on his hand invitingly and ultimately obeys, laying down beside her. It's not the first time in his life Borgov has to do what he's told but this might be the scariest one of all, and although he naturally doesn't show his full range of emotions on his face, his whole body is stiff. Right until the moment she slips under his arm, cosying up like a cat, save only for the purring. They lie there for a few seconds in complete silence and suddenly Beth feels like crying. She can hear his heart beating so fast in his chest - beating for her - and he is so incredibly warm, patient, gentle with her that she wants to run as far away as possible before she manages to drive him crazy but she is so tired.
"I was so scared of you at first..." She tries to speak again but her voice betrays her, creaking, trembling, and Vasily places his hand on her shoulder, pulling her closer, until she calms down a little. Was she actually shaking? Or does he just always know what she's thinking about? "Genuinely afraid. I wasn't in the beginning but all of that talk of you being unbeatable from the age of like- ten... Your book didn't help."
"What's wrong with the book?" Oh, so he does give her nightmares after all.
"Nothing, it just... made you more distant, I suppose." Beth just shrugs. "I saw how relentless you could be when you wiped the floor with me in Mexico City but the book really put things in perspective. It made me terrified of Paris, of... well, of you. I knew in the back of my mind that you're not impossible to beat and I wanted to do it so badly that I just snapped before I could even try."
There's a truly theatrical pause.
"Terrified?" he clarifies in Russian, making sure he understands the word correctly, but even as Beth nods in confirmation, he still appears to be as bewildered as before. "Of me?" Another nod. "Beth, I was terrified of you."
It's her turn to look surprised.
"I've read about you before Mexico City, everything that they gave me, learned your every move. You were stubborn back then but there was a possibility of you winning that tournament - it was simply a question of me being focused enough. But you were breathing down my neck already. When I found out you were going to Paris too, I even had to train more, had to invent things so that we would be on the same level. I thought, well, I'll put up a fight but if someone can beat me, it's Elizabeth Harmon. Something happened then, yes, but as I understand it, it wasn't completely under your control." He's heard about that woman, Cleo, from Beth herself and had his own feelings on the matter but never dared to voice them and now is definitely not the right time to accuse her possible friend. "My play in Moscow was so... obvious, so rash, I thought I'll hang myself afterwards so I won't have to look at myself in the mirror. It was all because of you, because you were always the only one who could beat me."
His is ecstatic and even beautiful when he says this. Beth listens intently, catches every word, hears every heartbeat, sees every granule of emotion hidden in the deep lines of his face. As he speaks, she begins to remember all those times he did make an unexpected move, offered a resolution unheard of in the USSR. For Vasily Borgov to adjourn but then come back only to suggest a draw must've been equal to a suicide mission. She was the only one who truly saw him during the final showdown, saw him fight until his hands were numb, it was all for and because of her. She caught a glimpse of his upcoming downfall when he stood up in the middle of his other, less important match to see what she was doing, but was too high from all of her other victories to fully register it until now. The realisation that this whole time they existed in the same world, the one that no one else could ever even conceive of, makes her head spin like the strongest drug she ever tried.
"Okay." She nods but before Vasily can notice the glint of her epiphany in her eyes, Beth quickly raises up to his face and kisses him. Her mouth is like a rose, all delicate velvet and morning dew, and in an instant he feels drunk from it. Malleable from the unusual sensation, he doesn't reciprocate for a couple of seconds. Only a couple of seconds but it seems like a lifetime to her and her hopes begin to falter. She even considers pulling away, calling him a virgin, even slapping him across the face for practically forcing her to make the first move again, but when he finally comes to his senses and catches up, she forgets everything but her name. Another moment passes and she's not even sure about that anymore. His natural restraint slowly fades away and he allows himself to touch her, fix the strand of her hair that's getting in the way, caress her tender jawline, lingering at the corner of her mouth. She feels weak but this time it doesn't scare her - she's enjoying this too much to let the doubts get the best of her. She's still the first to pull away but only so her breath doesn't betray her, having left her lungs almost completely.
"Did you call me Liza?" Beth furrows her brow just a bit, a little lost for words and actions. It's usually so different but then again everything is. No one ever looked at her like they were happy to die at her hand and Vasily's face says exactly that.
"I did, yes," he nods lightly, afraid to shake the spell. "Should I not have done it?"
"No, no, I like it." And she kisses him again, unable to resist the urge. Borgov truly is at her disposal, she could do anything she wanted to him right now but as much as it tickles her to see him so flustered, so discomposed, what she really wants is to make it as special for him as it is for her. He probably kissed many women in his lifetime (he really didn't) and she hasn't exactly kept her mouth away from people either but this has to be the one they both treasure the most.
When she moves away again to look at him, to drink in the effect she has on him, revel in it, Vasily is all but collected. His heart is still beating like the drums in the Radetzky March and his breathing is a little unsteady. Suddenly he feels older than he actually is and the challenge of being not with any young woman but with Elizabeth Harmon herself, all fire, recklessness and emotion, finally dawns on him. But before he even tries to open his mouth to voice his concern, to say he's too old for her, to call himself names he doesn't deserve and otherwise express his doubts about the decision they've made together, Beth reads his mind again and presses her dainty fingers to his lips, stopping him from ruining the moment.
"Don't you dare. I've never killed a man but I can try."
Borgov smiles faintly, in his usual manner. He's going to be very sad once she gets tired of him. He's going to try very hard to not let that happen.