DISCLAIMER: Chess is the property of Benny Andersson, Björn Ulvaeus, Tim Rice, Richard Nelson, Trevor Nunn, all the casts and all the creative teams that had ever produced any production of Chess. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright infringement is intended.

IMAGINED CAST: Josh Groban as Anatoly; Kerry Ellis as Svetlana; Idina Menzel as Florence; David Bendella as Molokov; Adam Pascal as Freddie; Clark Peters as Walter de Corcy; Marti Pellow as the Arbiter.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I recently watched the 2008 concert of Chess at the Royal Albert Hall (and stayed up until twelve o'clock to finish it and had a flight the next day) and absolutely loved it. It was hard to understand at times, but I loved it just the same.

I'm hoping this will turn out to be very, very long. Not to torture anyone, but to see if Svetlana and Anatoly could ever rebuild their marriage after Anatoly's time with Florence.

Prologue

He dreamed he was back in Bangkok. For whatever reason, he was in the Wat Phra Kaew, the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, where he and Viigand, along with their advisors, had been given a tour since the championship had been such a big deal to the Thai people.

Why he was dreaming he was inside this temple, he didn't know— but you can't question the source of your dreams or make your dream-self do something you would rather be doing. He was Russian Orthodox, not Buddhist, but his dream-self didn't care about that, apparently.

But here he was inside the temple, barefoot— his dream-self remembered the dress code, he supposed— and looking up at the huge, dark green Buddha statue. Was the statue going to blink and speak to him, like what sometimes happened in dreams? It didn't, which didn't surprise him.

What surprised him was that Svetlana stepped beside him, barefoot as well, and joined him in silently looking at the statute.

Guilt. All he felt was complete and utter guilt.

Did that mean he still felt something for his long-suffering, faithful wife? He didn't know.

She looked the same way she had when he had last seen her. Long, silky blonde hair pulled back in the fashion of the day, a simple black dress (for the dress code, his dream-self realized), her blue eyes still as beautiful and clear as the day they had first met.

The worst part was that she wasn't even angry, as she should be. She was just so... disappointed. He couldn't stand it.

"Katherine and Alexei miss you, you know," she said softly. She still wasn't looking at him, only at the Buddha statue.

He looked away, shame filling him. "I can guess. But— you don't, do you?" He hated how his voice admitted his defeat.

He was shocked when she responded.

"I... I do. I do miss you. Things have been hard since you left. I've had to take a job as a secretary, and my mother has to take care of the children while I have to work long hours. It's affecting them, I know, and not for the better."

"So it's only because I'm not there to support you, then?" he asked.

She finally turned to him.

"No, it's— I still love you. God, I love you. I don't even know why anymore. You tell me; why do I love a man who left his family to struggle in Russia while he was having the time of his life with his mistress in England?"

"So deep down, what really is bothering you is Florence?"

"Yes." There was a desperate catch in her voice, which made him feel so, so guilty he almost felt sick. "Yes, it is. That somehow, after nearly ten years of marriage, I'm not good enough for you anymore."

"You are, Svetlana—"

"Then why did you leave me?" He knew she hated it when she begged, but now she couldn't seem to stop herself. "Tell me. Please. I've made myself sick imagining you with her. Her instead of me, while I still love you."

He passed his hand over his eyes. "God, Svetlana, I'm sorry—"

"If you're sorry, then tell me why you did it."

Did he know, though? Did he know why he left his wife and his family and his entire life back in Russia?

"Well, why didn't you have an affair of your own?" He was making a pathetic display of himself by having the nerve to actually try and make excuses. "I'm sure it crossed your mind."

Her eyes, blue as a clear Russian sky, stared at him. "I did. People kept telling me I should. But I couldn't. Damn you, can't you understand that?" She was nearly in tears. "I couldn't because I still love you, and the children deserved to have at least one parent who would stay with them."

But she composed herself and retreated beneath her shell, and she became the same distant and cool woman that he saw in interviews. If she would have let him he would have tried to comfort her.

But she had brought up the jab of their children. She meant to, he was sure, she wanted him to feel guilty and terrible. That wasn't the Svetlana he remembered— but a year apart, he considered, was a long time. Much could change.

"Please come home, Anatoly," she said in a pleading, throaty voice. "Please."

"Anatoly..."

"Mr. Sergievsky. Mr. Sergievsky, sir!"

He woke abruptly to feel someone's hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly, and someone's face over his. He had fallen asleep in the armchair, he saw, the armchair where he had sat down wearily and told himself he would just shut his eyes, not even doze.

"What?"

It was a maid, he gradually realized. "Mr. Sergievsky, sir, Mr. Molokov sent me to tell sir that sir's plane is leaving in one hour and a half, sir. Mr. Molokov says sir needs to get ready to leave."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, sir." The maid bobbed a curtsy.

"All right. Tell him I'm coming. Thank you."

The maid curtsied again and left the hotel room. Anatoly stood, wincing as he unfolded his tall— and now extremely stiff— frame from the chair. Hotel chairs, hotel anything, were not the most comfortable.

But Florence opened the door and slipped inside, silent.

Was there never a time when he didn't feel guilt? Here he was, with wonderful, chess-loving Florence, and he had been dreaming about his wife. He should have been dreaming about — God, he didn't even know who anymore.

There was nothing that could be said. They had talked it out last night, as the sweat attempted to dry on their skin in the muggy Thailand air and their heads were on the same pillow. She had looked so beautiful last night.

He stepped forward and hugged her, both feeling that anything romantic wouldn't be right, not now. Just being in the proximity of each other was enough, still playing the parts of defected husband and his mistress for a few more moments, because soon it would be over. One wonderful year would end the second he stepped on the plane.

He drew back out of the embrace and looked her in the eye. "I'm going to do my best to get your father out, Florence."

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Even if we can't— even though we'll only be acquaintances from now on... I'll still remember you."

She nodded, but the light had gone out of her eyes. "It's time for you to go back to where you belong, Anatoly. With Svetlana, in Russia. Not with me."

She kissed his cheek, gently. He sighed and hugged her once more, trying to memorize the way she felt in his arms. But she drew back after a few seconds and didn't meet his eyes as she left.