She wants to feel badly that Freddie resigned. That he forfeited. She expects to feel badly, because Freddie has always made it a point to make her feel badly about everything.
It doesn't come.
When Anatoly is announced the new world champion, he's whisked away into a sea of reporters and towards Walter's winning smile and Florence can't even find it in her to be anxious about it - he's so happy, she can tell, beneath that stoic facade of his and he deserves this, and Freddie is nowhere to be seen and for the first time in years, excitement bubbles in the pit of her stomach.
This is new, this is real - this is happening.
They spend nearly another week in Merano while arrangements are being made. It's like they're on honeymoon - they eat and talk and laugh and watch old sitcoms in Italian, and discover that they know four of the same languages, and spend an entire day in bed just talking back and forth in English and French and German and Italian, sharing chocolate-covered kisses.
They go out to eat, once or twice, but for the majority of their stay they hole up in bed and make up for what feels like eons of lost time.
Florence never, ever wants to stop touching this man.
The days do dwindle eventually, though, and finally Florence wakes the morning the day before their departure to the sound of rain drizzling on the ground below, pattering softly on the window like the gentle sounds of her troubles washing away.
She lies there, naked and tangled in the sheets beside him and stares at the ceiling in hazy, sleepy bliss, listening to the rain fall in the silence.
There is no one in the corner, muttering about pawns or communists.
Just silence.
She breathes it in and lets it out, turning onto her side to gaze at her lover in his sleep. His lashes fan dark across his cheekbones; she marvels at how much darker his skin is than it looked in the interviews. He's older than Freddie, but beautiful, and God, he loves her, he wants her, and Freddie never ever had, and -
"Mmh…" She sighs, nudging him as a tingle runs down the length of her body. There's something nostalgic about this - perhaps it reminds her of her childhood, her adolescence, when she was alone and always dreaming in her room, of things far greater than what she had become. "Tolya," she murmurs, full lips curving at the way that his lips part at the sound of his name.
This is their last day abroad before they return to reality. The last blissful day, free of interruption, free of politics and chess. Free of the ghosts of Freddie's angry, wounded eyes on the back of her neck.
The sheets slip from the Russian's hips. Florence's eyes are drawn downward with it - she bites her lip, and reaches out her hand to gently caress.
God, but Anatoly was an attractive man.
"Wake up," she whispers mischievously into his ear, and he groans his response, arching his hips.
"Good morning," he gasps, long fingers clenching in the sheets.
The rain patters softly on the window, and Florence lets it wash everything away, everything but this.