#borgov

beth harmon + vasily borgov — an illicit affiar, ch 2

She is an orphan. A survivor. She is like us, losing is not an option for her.

Title: The Grandmaster and the Queen

Word count: 1.9K

Attention: Lastachka - meaning little swallow, a term of endearment

pozhaluysta - please in russian

lyubimaya- beloved 

...

The evening had settled into a comfortable silence, one that you had grown accustomed to in your time married to Vasily. Long gone were the days of staying out late to see what night life had to offer on your travels. Instead, you sat contentedly across from your husband, whose cool gaze carefully analyzed the black and white figurines that were scattered across the hand carved chess board laid out in front of him. 

Vasily always pieced out his games after a match, to pour over his plays, searching for any perceived weaknesses in his strategy, though there never were any. He was the best after all. You noted every time his head would shake, almost imperceptible to anyone other than you, as he hesitantly shuffled around a piece or two, trying to decipher what his opponent was thinking when they moved their piece. What was their end game? 

You loved the way his strong hand would grip his jaw, deep in thought. Next, his eyes would squint, which told you that he was really pondering something, especially when it was a move that was unexpected. Unexpected moves were a rarity, he had the gift of anticipating plays and understanding the chain effect it would cause on the board. He always managed to be three steps ahead of his opponent, which gave him the upper hand. 

You, on the other hand, had your fingers firmly wrapped around a hoop that contained a beautiful array of embroidered flowers that you had stitched on yourself, without a pattern at that.  It was delicate, even intricate work, but paled in comparison to your husbands accomplishments. Occasionally you would peek over the wooden frame to admire Vasily as he hovered around the table, lost in thought. The two of you often shared quiet moments like this, enjoying the close company without much thought to the matter. It was the norm for you guys, and you both loved it.

However, there had been some inadequacy looming in the back of your mind, egged on by watching today’s match that was adjourned against Miss Harmon. You couldn’t help but think about their game, and how invigorating it must have felt. Beth Harmon was evenly matched in every way possible. She could keep up with the plays, and challenge Vasily in ways no opponent had been able to. You couldn’t help but notice the childlike joy that hid behind his eyes. Even the reporters noticed how relaxed Vasily seemed, making moves that were unusual and risky, even for himself - the reigning world champion.

Vasily’s concentration broke away from his well loved figurines, stolen away by the sound of your skirt ruffling as your leg bounced up and down. Your gaze was frozen, locked on your work but unfocused, as if you were staring right through the muslin fabric. 

“What is the matter, Lastachka?” He asked, peering over at you from behind the little pieces he was dancing around. His deep, honeyed tone was almost enough to coax out what was troubling you, but you would rather bite your tongue than bother him the night before a big match. So instead you turned your gaze back to the needlepoint that you had been working on. Endlessly, you weaved in and out the purple and pink threads through the canvas in an intricate pattern - the vibrant colors a stark contrast between the precise, crisp black and white that was in front of them on the chess board.

“Nothing is the matter, my love.” You stated, your gaze unwavering from your artwork.

Vasily pondered his next move prudently, as if he were pondering a move that could win a match. Your agitation was much more important than a chess game that had already taken place, of course. But he knew that your nature was to keep your problems to yourself, not wanting to bother him with something trivial, as you put it. So he sat back in his chair and watched you intently for a moment, searching for any sign as to what was on your mind. Your usual, expressive features were rather stoic, but he knew you well enough to see that your features were the key to understanding your mood. He noted a small downward tug at your lacquered lip that was out of place. 

“I know you well enough to know that something is the matter, lyubimaya” He stated, matter of factly, a soft lilt in his voice.

You couldn’t bring yourself to say it quite yet, so instead you readjusted your canvas and once again began to weave and plot out where your thread was to be placed. The hotel room felt stuffy causing you to shift uncomfortably against the leather chair which you were perched on. You hated how Vasily always seemed to figure you out. He was immensely good at reading cues, at looking at someone and finding the faintest of tells that would reveal their feelings. Of course, he knew you best of all. Even when you were trying to hide, you were an open book in his eyes. A small sigh passed your lips, unable to force yourself to reveal your insecurities.  It took a few moments for you to compose your thoughts carefully, to make sure that you weren’t bitter or jealous in your words.

“Wouldn’t you be happier with someone more intelligent?” You asked, though your tone sounded more like you were implying your thoughts as truth. You dare not take your gaze away from your work, too nervous to hear the answer. Your hands were practically trembling with nerves, but you would show no sign of it to the man opposite of you. The room quieted, except for the repeated sounds of the thread being drawn through the canvas.

Mr. Borgov was known for being a man of few words, and of even fewer expressions but at that moment he was dumbfounded. His thick brows knitted together, concerned that he had given you any inclination that he was unhappy in this relationship -  because of course he wasn’t.  He stared at you impassively, trying to decipher where this was coming from. 

Carefully, he stretched out an arm, warm fingers curling around the hoop you were intently working on, and pushed it down so that it was laying in your lap.

“Lastachka, look at me.” He paused, waiting for you to comply with his simple request. His tone was gentle and patient, he would not rush you to comply.

Once you were able to muster up enough courage to look him directly into his eyes-despite the growing pit in your stomach, he finally proceeded.  “Where is this coming from?” There was a slight waiver in his voice, an uncertainty that had your stomach dropping.

“I see how you light up when you play against Miss Harmon, how she is intellectually your equal, and can even keep you on your toes. Don’t you think you would be better suited with someone like her?” As much as it hurt you to say those words, it hurt him even more to know that you thought that low of yourself.

Vasily’s lips pursed into a thin line before he stood up and rounded the table, knocking a few of the pawns over in the process. They clattered against the wooden board as they fell. He couldn’t have cared though, as he knelt before you, outstretching his large hands so that they were caressing the curve of your flushed cheeks. “ I am happy with things just the way they are.”

You let out a dissatisfied sigh, “Vasya, I’m serious! Look at me. I work on needlepoint, my hobbies are domestic at best, you deserve someone who is your equal, someone you can strategize with and push you to be your best.”

For the first time that night, Mr. Borgov frowned and dropped one hand to your thigh, patting it comfortingly through your dress. “I reiterate, I am happy just the way things are. Nor do you give yourself enough credit.”

Vasily’s blue eyes were the most expressive part of him, no doubt.  With just a quick glance, you could feel the sorrow he deeply felt, and the tenderness he wished to convey. His eyes were both warm and inviting, and yet so sad all at the same time, and for that you felt guilty. It was not your intention to make him feel bad by voicing your feelings. 

Carefully, he stood up shaking his head, and silently waited next to you for a moment. You returned to your needlepoint, weaving the thread back into an intricate pattern. He admired your work, how each stitch was perfectly placed, something that not everyone could do with such precision and grace. It took careful planning and consideration in order to do what you did, he certainly wasn’t that skilled in his mind. His arm snaked around your shoulders, pulling you toward him so that your cheek was pressed into the dark wool of his suit coat.

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to revel in the compassionate gesture. Vasily radiated a mild demeanor as he stood there, just taking in the small connection between the two of you. Despite your fleeting insecurities, you never failed to feel comfort in his presence. That was something you were grateful for. 

Once again he leaned down, only this time to press a tender kiss to the top of your head before smoothing back some hair that had fallen in front of your face. “You are smarter than you think. Play a game of chess with me, pozhaluysta.” He gestured toward the chess board in front of you.

“You know I don’t play chess, not like you.” You looked over at him from behind your hoop, a slight smile tugging at the corner of your lip. While you weren’t a complete stranger to the game given your surroundings most of the time, however you were a novice at best. Still, you hated to tell him no - loving when he invited you into his world that he was so wrapped up in, even if just for a moment.

“Will you just try? I think you will find you know more than you think.” His expression was warm and sure, he had every confidence you could at least start a game.

“Very well then.” You nodded, carefully folding up your needlework and putting it in the bag on the floor.

Before departing from your side, he ran his warm fingers comfortingly over the back of your shoulders, then took his place back at the seat across from you. You eyed the pieces, making sure they were all lined up just so, each one in it’s own spot. As always, the grandmaster played the white, though he would let you play that color in a heartbeat if you asked. With a half smile, you started the clock and looked to Vasily for his move.

He lightly chuckled and moved his pawn to E4, tapping the clock to tag you into the game. With nimble fingers, you moved your own pawn to C5  without much thought, instinctive. As he picked up his next piece he glanced over at you, this time his smile erupting from his lips. “And that is?” He questioned, the noise of his other pawn hitting the wooden board echoed through the room.

“A sicilian defense.” You replied, your neatly manicured fingers tucked neatly under your chin as you pondered your next move.

“Very good, Lastachka.” Vasily commended, giving you a proud nod.

“Everyone knows the Sicilian defense Vasya.” You teased, allowing your pawn to take his own, and setting it off to the side.

“On the contrary. You knew it was a favorable approach for you playing as the black pieces.”

A peaceful silence fell between the two of you as you got into a comfortable rhythm of moving pieces around the board. Admittedly, you loved the soft click of the pieces atop the wooden board, as well as punching the little time clock with the piece if you were able to take one. He smiled affectionately over at you each time you pondered your move, adoring the little tug of your lips to the side while you strategized.

Vasily began his next move, and you happily looked him over, noting just how tranquil he looked, at ease in front of a chess board. This was like his home, everything he found comfortable in life, and you were grateful that he was willing to have you be a part of it. He looked so gentle, tucked back into the chair, his square jaw relaxed.

“Vasya?” Your voice was incredibly soft, almost imperceptible, except for his ever attentive ears.

“Yes, Lastachka?” He paused, setting his rook down so that he could give you his full attention.

“May I sit with you? I want to be close.” You flashed him a bashful smile, knowing he could not resist when you asked like that.

Without hesitation, he nodded and pushed his chair back, then patted his lap, a signal for you to take a seat. Your stature was engulfed within his broad shoulders once you settled yourself atop his lap. You fit easily into him, able to tuck yourself sideways so that you were resting securely against his chest, your head tucked neatly beneath his chin, close to his heart and safe within his embrace.

Vasily’s heart beat resolutely, which you could feel through the fabric of his shirt. With your head tucked against his shoulder, your nimble fingers reached out to tinker with the fabric of his yellow necktie, loosening it just a bit. He was always so proper it seemed.

“Oh, lyubimaya.” He sighed contentedly, fingertips beginning to draw circles into the exposed skin of your thigh. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably the same thing, winning match after match, traveling around the world. Doing what you love.” You remark, pausing briefly, only to take one of your hands around his cheek, pressing it to your lips for a kiss, “But I’m glad you allow me to tag along.”

Note: I just binge watched the queens gambit and I am completely obsessed. I high key fell in love with Borgov, even though we didn’t get to see all THAT much of him outside of the matches. So please enjoy my own little slice of what I think he would be like.