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Anatoly was doing his best to pretend that the trip to Moscow had not happened and that he was just fine, everything was wonderful and he was happy here. He wasn't sure if Aeneas was fooled, let alone anyone else but he didn't see how else he could go on. This was his burden, his pain alone. He had chosen to focus on chess at the expense of his time with his children and so his grief at losing them once more was entirely all his fault.
The problem was that he had run out of distractions. Looking at the chessboard made him ill so that was out of the question for the moment. He didn't dare try to wrestle new books from the bookcase or even enter the rec room. He had finally resorted to walking but even then, there was only so much of that he could do. The less about the nights he spent awake, the better.
He knew he couldn't keep doing this, but he had no safe way of venting - not since he and Freddie had settled into a friendship of sorts. He could hardly pick a fight with him now.
The problem was that he had run out of distractions. Looking at the chessboard made him ill so that was out of the question for the moment. He didn't dare try to wrestle new books from the bookcase or even enter the rec room. He had finally resorted to walking but even then, there was only so much of that he could do. The less about the nights he spent awake, the better.
He knew he couldn't keep doing this, but he had no safe way of venting - not since he and Freddie had settled into a friendship of sorts. He could hardly pick a fight with him now.
