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Chapter Text

The first time Magnus felt it, he brushed it off as irritation.

The afterparty was in full swing, the tension of the tournament giving way to an atmosphere of celebration. The soft clink of glasses, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the upscale venue. The room was full of the usual suspects—grandmasters, commentators, sponsors, and the occasional overenthusiastic journalist trying to catch an offhand quote they could twist into something newsworthy.

Magnus had never particularly enjoyed these gatherings, but skipping them wasn’t an option. He’d learned that the hard way. The chess world loved its narratives, and if Magnus missed too many of these events, people would start whispering. Oh, there he goes again, the aloof genius, too good for the rest of us.

So, he was here. Nursing a drink, making small talk when required, but mostly observing.

And what he was observing was Ian and Hikaru.

They were seated near the bar, close enough to the crowd to still be part of the atmosphere, but tucked away just enough that their conversation felt private. Magnus could see the way Ian had his arm draped over the back of Hikaru’s chair, fingers idly tapping against his shoulder as he spoke. He wasn’t even looking at Hikaru while he did it—like the touch was second nature, something casual and unthinking.

Hikaru didn’t seem to mind.

That was the first thing that bothered Magnus, though he refused to admit that it did. Hikaru wasn’t the type to let people into his space so easily. He liked his distance. He tolerated physical contact if it was necessary, but he wasn’t exactly open to it.

And yet, here he was. Not just tolerating it—but leaning into it. Comfortable. At ease.

Ian murmured something close to Hikaru’s ear, his lips curling into an amused smirk. Whatever it was must have been hilarious because Hikaru laughed—loud, unguarded, his head tilting back just slightly. It wasn’t the kind of polite chuckle he threw around in interviews, or the dry, sarcastic snort he used when streaming. It was real . Warm. The kind of laugh Magnus rarely heard in person.

Magnus clenched his jaw.

It wasn’t that he cared about Ian. Their rivalry had always been fierce, full of sharp words and sharper games. But off the board? Ian wasn’t a threat . Not to Magnus, at least.

So why did this feel different?

Why did Ian’s smirk look so insufferable when he leaned in just a fraction closer, whispering something else against the shell of Hikaru’s ear? Why did Magnus feel his fingers tighten around his glass when Hikaru didn’t pull away?

He wasn’t jealous.

That would be ridiculous.

He was just… annoyed . Annoyed that Ian, of all people, had Hikaru’s attention so easily. Annoyed that Magnus was standing here, pretending to listen to some sponsor drone on about investments while Hikaru was over there, lost in conversation with him .

That was all it was.

“I can’t believe Ian beat you to it,” a voice murmured near him.

Magnus turned sharply, eyes narrowing at Dubov, who had materialized at his side with a knowing smirk and a glass of wine.

“Beat me to what ?” Magnus asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Dubov took a slow sip of his drink, glancing toward the bar where Ian and Hikaru were still talking. “Oh, you know,” he said airily. “Figured it would be you in his ear, making him laugh like that.” He tilted his head. “Guess Nepo moves faster.”

Magnus forced a smirk. “You’re an idiot.”

Dubov hummed, unfazed. “Sure. But at least I don’t look like I want to throw my drink at them.”

Magnus didn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, he turned back toward the bar. Hikaru had shifted slightly, his arm resting on the table, his fingers idly playing with the rim of his glass as Ian spoke. They were relaxed. Familiar.

And Magnus hated it.

The realization hit him like a slow, unwelcome burn. He hated the way Ian got to be the one making Hikaru laugh tonight. Hated the way Ian had found a way in— so effortlessly, so casually—while Magnus was standing here, acting like a goddamn spectator .

He hadn’t even noticed how close Ian and Hikaru had gotten.

Had it always been like this? Had Ian always been hovering just at the edge of Hikaru’s space, waiting for an opening? Magnus had always assumed Hikaru was his rival—his problem to deal with, to fight against, to pull close and push away at will. But maybe he wasn’t the only one who saw it that way.

Maybe Ian had been waiting for Magnus to slip up.

And maybe—just maybe—Magnus had let him.

The thought settled like a weight in his chest.

He exhaled sharply and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, letting the burn settle in his throat. Maybe if he drowned this feeling fast enough, it would disappear entirely.

It didn’t.

Because now, for the first time in years, Magnus had the sickening realization that he might actually be losing .

Not over the board.

Not in some tournament.

But in something far, far worse.

Chapter Text

Fabiano was annoyingly smooth. That was the problem.

He wasn’t loud. He didn’t demand attention. He didn’t try too hard.

And yet, whenever he spoke, people listened.

He had this infuriating way of making words sound effortless—thoughtful, deliberate, carefully chosen. Every syllable dripped with intelligence, yet never arrogance. He wasn’t like Ian, who teased and prodded until Hikaru snapped back at him. He wasn’t like some of the other players, who wore their affections on their sleeves, making it obvious when they were trying to impress someone.

No. Fabiano was different.

He didn’t chase.

He made Hikaru want to come to him.

Magnus hated it.

The restaurant was small, exclusive, tucked away in a quiet street far from the chaos of the tournament venue. The kind of place Fabiano would pick—elegant but understated, with a menu that probably had dishes Magnus couldn’t pronounce. It had the kind of warm, intimate lighting that softened everyone’s features, casting a golden glow on polished wood and half-filled wine glasses.

It was supposed to be a casual dinner—a handful of players winding down after the grueling week. Magnus had come reluctantly, mostly because he didn’t have a good excuse to leave. Hikaru was going. That had been enough to keep him here.

And now he regretted it.

Because from where he sat, he had a perfect view of Hikaru and Fabiano across the table.

It wasn’t anything dramatic . Fabiano wasn’t draped over him like Ian sometimes was. He wasn’t touching Hikaru at all.

But that was the problem.

It was the way he looked at Hikaru—calm, steady, like he was the only person in the room. The way he spoke to him, voice low but warm, the kind of voice that made you lean in just a little closer to catch every word.

And Hikaru was leaning in.

Magnus wasn’t even sure what they were talking about. Something about a book, maybe. Or a recent game. Whatever it was, Hikaru was listening, smirking at whatever Fabiano was saying.

And then Fabiano did it.

He leaned in, just slightly, his voice dipping softer, his lips curling at the corners like he was telling a secret meant only for Hikaru.

And whatever he said—Magnus would never know—made Hikaru smile .

Not just a polite smile. Not the forced grin he gave in interviews.

A real, interested smile.

Like he enjoyed being pursued.

Like he wanted it.

Magnus felt something twist in his gut.

He wasn’t sure what irritated him more—the fact that Fabiano was so damn smooth about it, or the fact that Hikaru was responding to it.

Hikaru wasn’t easy to impress. He was stubborn, brash, guarded when it came to things like this. He bickered and fought and rolled his eyes when someone tried too hard. Magnus had never seen him be openly receptive to anyone’s attention before.

Certainly not to Magnus’ .

Magnus scowled at his plate.

He stabbed his fork into his food a little harder than necessary, pushing the vegetables around with far too much force.

“Are you okay?” Someone—probably Anish—asked from his side.

“Fine,” Magnus gritted out.

He wasn’t fine.

Because Fabiano was still talking, still holding Hikaru’s gaze in that unshakable, focused way of his. He was still making Hikaru smirk, still making him lean in just enough to suggest interest .

And Magnus—who had spent years knowing Hikaru better than most, who had played hundreds of games against him, who had fought and bickered and existed in Hikaru’s world for what felt like a lifetime—had never seen Hikaru look at him like that.

It shouldn’t bother him.

But it did.

More than he was willing to admit.

The evening stretched on, slow and unbearable. The conversation flowed easily for everyone else, but Magnus was stuck—half-listening, half-seething, and fully aware of every single moment Fabiano spent monopolizing Hikaru’s attention.

Fabiano was good at this. Too good. He knew exactly how to hold a conversation, how to make it feel like an exchange instead of a performance. He didn’t overwhelm Hikaru. He didn’t push. He just... was .

And Hikaru, to Magnus’ growing horror, was enjoying it.

“You should read it,” Fabiano was saying, his voice smooth as ever. “I think you’d like it.”

Hikaru tilted his head slightly. “Oh yeah? What makes you so sure?”

Fabiano took a slow sip of his wine, considering. “You like books that challenge you,” he said. “This one will. It’s not just about chess—it’s about how we process patterns, how we instinctively make decisions before we’re even aware of them. It’s the kind of thing I think you’d obsess over.”

Hikaru huffed a soft laugh. “You think I obsess ?”

Fabiano’s lips quirked. “I know you do.”

Magnus felt his grip tighten around his fork.

And Hikaru—damn him—didn’t even deny it. He just gave Fabiano this small, knowing look, like he liked being seen that way. Like he was flattered .

It was unbearable.

The worst part was that Fabiano wasn’t even being flirty in the obvious sense. He wasn’t throwing around compliments. He wasn’t trying to impress Hikaru. He was just talking, effortlessly weaving himself into Hikaru’s world in a way that made it feel natural .

Magnus wanted to break something.

The dinner wrapped up eventually, the group slowly gathering their things, making their way toward the exit. Magnus barely registered the conversations around him. He was too focused on the way Fabiano walked beside Hikaru, their pace falling in sync without even trying.

At the door, Fabiano touched Hikaru’s wrist—just for a second, a fleeting brush of fingers against skin.

“I’ll send you the book recommendation,” Fabiano said smoothly.

Hikaru smirked. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll check it out.”

Magnus hated everything.

He watched as Fabiano lingered a second longer, as if testing just how much space Hikaru was willing to give him. And Hikaru—who never let anyone in easily—didn’t step back.

He didn’t move away .

Magnus clenched his jaw.

He wasn’t jealous.

He wasn’t.

But as he watched Hikaru nod at Fabiano, watched the way his smirk lingered even as they stepped outside, Magnus knew one thing with absolute certainty.

He was losing.

And for the first time in years, it had nothing to do with chess.

Chapter Text

Levon was the worst of them all.

It wasn’t because he was overbearing. It wasn’t because he was particularly intense, like Fabiano, or openly smug, like Ian. It was because he didn’t even need to try.

Levon made everything look easy—like charm was something he was born with, like he never had to work for anyone’s attention because it was given to him naturally. People just liked him. Hikaru liked him.

And that was the problem.

Magnus had been invited to this sponsorship event more out of obligation than desire. These kinds of gatherings were always the same—brands showing off their latest investments in chess, corporate executives shaking hands with grandmasters, cameras flashing, interviews being conducted. Magnus tolerated it because he had to, but he rarely enjoyed it.

But tonight, there was something particularly annoying about the whole thing.

And it was standing directly in his line of sight.

Levon had one arm draped over Hikaru’s shoulders, his posture casual and possessive all at once. He was grinning as he leaned in, murmuring something against Hikaru’s ear.

Hikaru rolled his eyes at whatever Levon said, but he didn’t move away.

Magnus clenched his jaw.

It wasn’t even that Levon was saying anything particularly interesting. Magnus had been close enough earlier to hear snippets of their conversation—just the usual teasing, Levon’s signature brand of half-jokes and mischief.

But that was exactly what made it unbearable .

Because Hikaru was letting him.

He was letting Levon drape himself over his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. Letting him lean in close, letting his fingers brush lightly against his collar when he adjusted his grip. It wasn’t a one-time thing either. It wasn’t just a fleeting moment. It had been happening all night.

And Magnus had been watching it happen.

From the moment Levon had walked in, he’d made a beeline for Hikaru, and Hikaru—who usually had a sharp comment for anyone who got too close—had just let it happen.

Magnus wasn’t sure what irritated him more—the way Levon touched Hikaru like he had every right to, or the way Hikaru let him.

His grip tightened around his phone, fingers curling so hard that his knuckles turned white.

It wasn’t his business.

It wasn’t.

And yet, he couldn’t stop watching.

Levon had that effortless way about him, like he had Hikaru completely figured out. He teased Hikaru just enough to get a reaction, but never so much that Hikaru actually got annoyed. He hovered just at the edge of Hikaru’s personal space, close enough to blur the line between familiarity and something more.

And Hikaru—Hikaru didn’t shut it down.

Not like he usually did.

Not like he had done with countless other people who tried to get too close too fast.

There was a moment—just a brief second—where Levon whispered something, and Hikaru actually smirked. Not just an exasperated smirk, but a real one, his lips quirking like he was genuinely entertained.

Magnus had to look away.

He forced himself to focus on something else, anything else. His phone. The crowd. The completely uninteresting conversation happening to his right. But it was useless. His mind kept drifting back, kept replaying the image of Levon’s easy grin and Hikaru’s unconcerned acceptance of it.

It shouldn’t bother him.

Hikaru could do whatever he wanted.

It had nothing to do with Magnus.

And yet—when he heard Hikaru laugh at something Levon said, a light chuckle that sounded too damn comfortable—Magnus knew, without a doubt, that he wasn’t going to be able to forget this any time soon.

“Carlsen.”

Magnus barely managed to school his expression into something neutral before turning toward the voice. Levon stood there, still wearing that same easy grin, still looking infuriatingly relaxed.

“Aronian,” Magnus acknowledged, keeping his tone even.

“Enjoying the event?” Levon asked, sipping from his glass.

Magnus had the distinct feeling that Levon already knew the answer.

“Sure,” Magnus said flatly.

Levon hummed, unconvinced. He glanced over his shoulder—right where Hikaru stood, currently talking to some sponsors. His posture was looser than usual, his demeanor easy, like he was actually having fun. Magnus could still hear the occasional chuckle from him, punctuated by Levon’s teasing remarks.

Levon turned back to Magnus, looking him up and down like he was sizing him up.

“You know, you’re really bad at hiding when something annoys you,” he said cheerfully.

Magnus scowled. “I’m not annoyed.”

Levon raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Magnus knew he should walk away. This conversation wasn’t going anywhere, and Levon was clearly enjoying himself far too much at Magnus’ expense.

But he stayed.

And so did Levon.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just a second too long, before Levon smirked. “You know, Hikaru’s pretty fun when you actually get to know him.”

Magnus’ fingers curled into his palm.

“I’ve known him for years,” Magnus said coolly.

Levon tilted his head. “Sure.” Then, with deliberate slowness, he added, “But have you ever tried flirting with him?”

Magnus’ expression barely flickered, but he felt it—the quick, unwanted twist in his stomach.

Levon laughed. “Thought so.”

Magnus exhaled sharply through his nose. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

Levon shrugged. “I don’t have to try, do I?”

Magnus set his jaw.

Levon grinned, clearly satisfied with himself. He clapped Magnus on the shoulder, light and friendly—like they were just two guys having a perfectly normal conversation and not a silent battle of wills.

“Don’t worry, Magnus,” Levon said, voice bordering on amused. “I’m not greedy. There’s plenty of Hikaru to go around.”

Magnus didn’t respond.

Levon gave him one last knowing look before sauntering back toward Hikaru, slipping seamlessly into the conversation like he belonged there.

And Hikaru—damn him—didn’t seem to mind at all.

Chapter Text

Alireza was young, cocky, and utterly shameless.

Magnus should have seen it coming from a mile away. Alireza had always been ambitious—on the board and off it. He knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it, no matter how ridiculous, no matter how audacious.

And right now, it was painfully obvious what— or who —Alireza wanted.

Hikaru .

Magnus had lost count of how many times he had watched Alireza trail after Hikaru like a particularly determined shadow. At tournaments, during press conferences, even in casual online streams, Alireza was always there, inserting himself into the conversation, vying for Hikaru’s attention.

It would have been funny if it wasn’t so damn irritating.

Because Hikaru let him.

Magnus wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that Alireza was so blatantly smitten or the fact that Hikaru seemed to enjoy it.

For all of Hikaru’s usual grumbling about people being annoying, about the chess world being exhausting, he never seemed to push Alireza away. In fact, he indulged him. Encouraged him.

That was what really got under Magnus’s skin.

The way Hikaru always seemed to have a smirk ready when Alireza threw some over-the-top compliment his way. The way he let Alireza sit next to him at every event, even when there were plenty of other open seats. The way he didn’t seem to mind how close Alireza always got—leaning in, looking up at Hikaru with that sharp-eyed intensity, hanging onto his words like they were gospel.

Magnus saw it.

Everyone saw it .

Alireza wasn’t subtle. He was practically broadcasting his intentions to the world.

And Hikaru wasn’t stopping him.

It grated on Magnus in a way he couldn’t fully explain.

It was one thing to watch Fabiano charm Hikaru with his quiet intensity, to watch Ian push Hikaru’s buttons just for the fun of it, to watch Levon drape himself over Hikaru like he belonged there. That had been bad enough.

But Alireza—

Alireza had the audacity to look at Hikaru like he hung the stars.

And Hikaru—

Hikaru let him.

Magnus could still picture it perfectly.

They had been at a post-tournament gathering, nothing formal, just a few players winding down after a long week of matches. Alireza had, predictably, planted himself right next to Hikaru, eyes practically glowing with admiration.

Magnus had been trying—really trying—to tune them out, focusing on his drink, on the conversation at his own table. But then, Hikaru had done something Magnus had not been prepared for.

He had ruffled Alireza’s hair.

Just reached out, smirked, and messed up his hair like he was some kind of affectionate older brother or—

Magnus had to look away.

Because Alireza had practically melted under the touch, all but preening, and Hikaru had just laughed.

And Magnus—

Magnus had gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

It wasn’t just the hair-ruffling. It was the way Hikaru looked at Alireza sometimes, a touch of amusement in his gaze, like he actually found Alireza’s antics endearing. It was the way he never really shot him down, no matter how blatant Alireza got.

Like the time at the chess hall.

Magnus had been analyzing a game with Ian and Fabiano when he overheard it—Alireza, sitting at the board next to Hikaru, leaning in with a lazy grin.

“You know,” Alireza had said, his voice smooth, just a little teasing, “I’m starting to think you let me get good at bullet just so I’d spend more time playing with you.”

Hikaru had scoffed, but there had been a smirk playing at his lips. “Yeah, sure. That was my evil plan all along.”

Alireza’s grin widened. “You’re saying you wouldn’t mind if I just kept challenging you forever?”

Hikaru didn’t even hesitate. “As if you’d ever stop.”

Magnus had clenched his fists under the table.

That was the problem.

Hikaru liked it.

Just like how Hikaru had never pushed Magnus away back then. How Hikaru used to cooed at him and call him his little puppy .

Back when Magnus was young and brash, confident to the point of arrogance, desperate to prove himself. Back when he had trailed after Hikaru, pestering him for games, pressing into his space, making himself impossible to ignore.

Hikaru had indulged him too.

And now—

Now, Magnus watched Alireza do the exact same thing.

And Hikaru was letting him.

There had been whispers before. People calling Alireza Magnus’s heir, the next king of chess, the one who would inherit Magnus’s throne.

At first, Magnus hadn’t cared. He had heard it all before—pretenders, challengers, rivals who thought they could surpass him.

But this was different.

Alireza wasn’t just after Magnus’s title.

He was after Hikaru.

Magnus had seen him shut people down before, push them away with sharp words or an unimpressed stare. But Alireza? Alireza had wriggled his way in, all bright confidence and relentless energy, and somehow, Hikaru had let him stay.

It made Magnus bristle.

Especially because Alireza had no shame about it.

There was no subtlety, no hesitance. He flirted with Hikaru like it was second nature, all charm and playful arrogance. And what was worse—what was absolutely infuriating—was that Hikaru responded to it.

At the dinner after one of their tournaments, Magnus had watched Alireza practically press himself into Hikaru’s space, speaking to him in hushed tones, grinning like he had just won something far more important than a chess game.

Hikaru, to Magnus’s growing irritation, wasn’t moving away.

And then Alireza had said something—something low and teasing, something Magnus couldn’t hear from across the room—but it had made Hikaru laugh.

Not just a polite chuckle. A real laugh .

Magnus had felt something coil tightly in his chest.

Alireza turned to look at Magnus then, his eyes glinting with something triumphant, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Magnus had forced himself to look bored. Unbothered .

But Alireza had just smirked.

That little—

Magnus inhaled sharply, gripping his drink a little too tightly.

He had no right to feel like this.

Hikaru could do whatever he wanted. He could let Alireza flirt with him. He could laugh at his jokes. He could run his fingers through Alireza’s hair like he didn’t care that it made Magnus feel like tearing his own out.

It didn’t concern him.

It wasn’t his problem.

And yet—

Yet —

When Alireza nudged Hikaru’s shoulder, leaning in just a little closer, Magnus had to fight the ridiculous urge to stand up and drag Hikaru away himself.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, fixing his gaze somewhere else, anywhere else.

It didn’t bother him.

Not at all.

…Except it absolutely did.

Chapter Text

Magnus had played the long game his entire life.

Chess had taught him patience—how to wait, how to calculate, how to position himself for the inevitable checkmate. He knew how to be relentless without being reckless, how to grind his opponents down move by move until they had nowhere left to go.

And yet, when it came to Hikaru, patience was a losing game.

Magnus had spent years watching him. Years wanting him.

And he was beginning to realize that someone else had been watching just as long.

Daniel Naroditsky.

Magnus had never thought of Daniel as a threat.

He was likable, sure. Charismatic in a way that felt natural, unforced. People gravitated toward him, and Magnus supposed he understood why. Daniel had a way of making people feel comfortable, of making them feel seen. But Magnus had never imagined that Daniel, of all people, would be the one to get under Hikaru’s skin.

Daniel wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud about it.

But Magnus noticed.

He always noticed.

The way Hikaru's posture relaxed whenever Daniel entered the room. The way their conversations stretched on, unhurried and unforced, like they spoke in a language only the two of them understood. The way Hikaru smiled more—real, unguarded smiles, the kind that Magnus rarely saw directed at anyone else.

The way Daniel looked at him—like he was watching something precious, something irreplaceable.

It made Magnus sick.

Because he should have seen it earlier.

Daniel had always been there, lingering at the edges of Hikaru’s world, never overstepping, never pushing too far, but always there. Slipping into Hikaru’s life so effortlessly that no one had even noticed. And worse—Hikaru let him.

And worst of all, the way Hikaru didn’t realize what he was doing.

Magnus had spent years watching people try to get close to Hikaru. Most of them failed spectacularly. Hikaru wasn’t easy to approach—too sharp, too wary, too good at keeping people at arm’s length. It took a certain kind of persistence, a certain kind of patience, to break past his walls.

And somehow , Daniel had done it.

Magnus had no idea when it had started. One day, Daniel had just been there, slipping into Hikaru’s life so seamlessly that it was like he had always belonged. And the worst part? He wasn’t even trying.

There was no over-the-top flirting like Alireza. No dramatic displays like Ian. No effortless charm like Levon. No slow-burn intensity like Fabiano.

Daniel was just there.

And Hikaru let him be.

It was infuriating.

Because Magnus had known Daniel for years. He knew him as the affable commentator, the rapid and bullet specialist, the one everyone liked. Smart, hardworking, well-spoken. But he had never thought of Daniel as a threat. He had never considered that Daniel—of all people—might be the one to actually get under Hikaru’s skin.

Until he started seeing it.

The way Daniel looked at Hikaru.

The quiet, unwavering admiration. The kind that never demanded anything, never forced itself into the conversation, but was always there. The way Daniel’s gaze lingered just a little too long. The way he always seemed hyper-aware of Hikaru, even when he wasn’t looking directly at him.

At first, Magnus thought he was imagining things.

But then he saw it.

Really saw it.

The way Daniel would rearrange his schedule just to be available when Hikaru was streaming.

The way he was always ready to jump into a game the moment Hikaru wanted one.

The way he spoke about Hikaru, with a kind of reverence that bordered on obsession.

"There's no one like him."

Daniel had said that once, offhandedly, when they were discussing top players. But Magnus had seen the way his expression shifted, just slightly, when he said it. Like it was a fact so deeply ingrained in him that it wasn’t even worth questioning. He wrote that line in his manifesto.

And then there was the other thing.

The way Daniel tolerated things from Hikaru that he would never tolerate from anyone else.

"I really hate saying this, but I would not have accepted such language from any other person in the entire world. But he's Hikaru Nakamura. I don't believe he's a bad person."

It was unsettling.

Because Daniel wasn’t weak. He wasn’t the kind of person who let himself be walked over. He had standards, principles. And yet , when it came to Hikaru—

When it came to Hikaru, Daniel bent .

Magnus had seen him go out of his way to keep Hikaru happy.

"I’ll preface this by saying that I want to maintain a good working relationship with Hikaru, and always have. This is nonnegotiable for me."

Nonnegotiable .

Not a preference. Not an option. A necessity.

That was what made Magnus uneasy.

Because it wasn’t just admiration. It wasn’t just respect.

It was something deeper.

Daniel wasn’t just fond of Hikaru. He wasn’t just a friend.

He was obsessed.

Not in the way Alireza was, all brash and eager. Not in the way Ian was, reveling in their push-and-pull dynamic. Not in the way Fabiano was, with his quiet, smoldering intensity.

No, Daniel’s obsession was different.

It was quieter. More insidious.

Magnus had gone back and read old interviews, old clips, trying to pinpoint when it had started.

And what he found was unsettling.

"I would follow him every single time he came online."

Not "I played him sometimes." Not "I enjoyed our games."

He followed him. Every. Single. Time.

Like a shadow.

Like a devoted disciple hanging onto every move his master made.

Magnus exhaled slowly, gripping his drink a little too tightly.

And then there was the moment that cemented it for Magnus.

A casual tournament, a meaningless game, but Magnus had been watching. He had seen the way Daniel—usually the picture of control, of composure—had faltered.

"I wish he knew how hard I've tried to control his reactions."

Control.

That was what unnerved Magnus the most.

Daniel wasn’t just aware of Hikaru’s moods. He wasn’t just adjusting to them.

He was trying to manage them.

To control them.

Like Hikaru was something fragile, something that needed to be handled with precision and care.

Magnus had seen it in the way Daniel spoke to Hikaru, in the way he always seemed to know exactly what to say to keep him from getting frustrated, to keep him from tilting.

"I've gone so far as to play him from my phone while driving (lmao), warn him assiduously when I might need to pee."

Who did that?

Who was so desperate to maintain a connection with someone that they played them while driving? Who thought that needing to use the bathroom was something they had to warn Hikaru about?

Daniel did.

And Hikaru—

Hikaru didn’t even seem to notice.

Magnus had read the Manifesto once. Then again.

Then a third time, just to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind.

He read that damn Manifesto a dozen times.

It wasn’t just admiration. It was devotion.

And when Magnus had finally confronted Hikaru about it, Hikaru had just rolled his eyes..

“Yeah, Danny’s a nerd,” he had said, completely unbothered, scrolling through his phone. “He gets dramatic sometimes.”

Dramatic.

That was what Hikaru thought this was?

Magnus had stared at him, waiting for some sign that he understood—that he grasped the weight of what Daniel had written, that he knew how deeply someone had studied him, respected him, wanted him.

But Hikaru had just moved on, completely oblivious.

And that had been the moment Magnus realized something dangerous.

Daniel Naroditsky was playing the long game.

He wasn’t loud about it, he wasn’t obvious, but he was there. A quiet, constant presence in Hikaru’s life, with an entire manifesto to prove it.

And Magnus had no idea what to do with that.

Magnus had watched them across the room at yet another tournament afterparty, watching the way Hikaru leaned just slightly into Daniel’s space, laughing at something he said.

And Magnus was glaring.

He didn’t even realize it until he felt someone nudge him.

“Something wrong?”

Magnus snapped out of his thoughts, forcing his expression into something more neutral. He turned to see one of the other players raising an eyebrow at him.

Magnus smirked, trying to play it off. “Just wondering how long it’ll take before Danny confesses.”

The words were meant to be a joke.

But they tasted bitter in his mouth.

Because deep down, Magnus wasn’t sure if he actually wanted the answer.

Chapter Text

Magnus had had enough.

It had been years—too many years—of watching Hikaru slip through his fingers. Of watching him let everyone else in, while Magnus stood just outside the perimeter, burning with something he refused to name. Hikaru had never been the type to make things official, never one for public declarations, but the closeness—the way he let people linger in his space, the way he laughed at their jokes, the way he touched them—drove Magnus insane.

It wasn’t fair. It had never been fair.

Because Magnus had been there first.

Magnus could still remember the first time he ever saw Hikaru. He had been eight years old, standing in some tournament hall, clutching his scoresheet with shaking hands. And then—then there was Hikaru. Thirteen years old. Sharp, confident, reckless in a way Magnus had never seen before. He was nothing like the others—he played chess like it was a storm, like it was alive, and Magnus had been struck dumb by it.

He had followed Hikaru around like a shadow after that. He couldn't help it. Hikaru was everything Magnus wanted to be—bold and brilliant, the kind of player who didn’t flinch, who met the world with fire in his eyes.

And Hikaru had noticed.

"You're like a puppy," he had teased once, ruffling Magnus' hair in a way that made Magnus go red to the tips of his ears. "Following me everywhere. You should be focusing on your own games, you know."

Magnus had only grinned.

But then—things changed.

Magnus got better. He got better fast. By the time he was thirteen, people were whispering about him the way they used to whisper about Hikaru. And Hikaru—Hikaru had pulled away.

It hadn’t been obvious at first. Just small things. The way he didn’t ruffle Magnus’ hair anymore. The way his laughter became a little sharper, more distant. The way he stopped calling him "puppy."

Magnus had told himself it didn’t matter. That they would always find each other at the board, and that was enough. But it hadn’t been enough. Not when Hikaru started treating him like just another rival.

Not when Magnus wanted more .

And now—now he was standing at yet another post-tournament gathering, watching Hikaru lean too close to Daniel and Alireza, talking too easily, his eyes crinkling at something the other men had said. How Alireza had his arm around Hikaru’s shoulders. How Daniel was playing with Hikaru’s ring on his right hand.

Something sharp and unbearable curled in Magnus’ chest.

Enough .

He didn’t let himself hesitate. He couldn’t—not anymore.

He moved before he could talk himself out of it, crossing the room with the kind of determination that had won him world championships. His heart was hammering against his ribs, but he didn’t let it show. When he reached Hikaru, he didn’t wait for an invitation.

He grabbed Hikaru’s wrist.

Hikaru startled, blinking up at him in confusion. “Magnus—?”

“Come with me,” Magnus said, voice low. He wasn’t asking.

Hikaru raised an eyebrow but let himself be pulled along, muttering something that sounded like, “Well, this should be interesting.”

Magnus heard Alireza snickered and said. “Finally. I wondered how long he was gonna last.”

Magnus heard Danya faintly say. “I wonder if he knew what happened earlier. Is that why he decided to act now?”

Magnus didn’t stop until they were outside, away from prying eyes. The night air was crisp, but Magnus barely felt it. His pulse was a roar in his ears, his grip on Hikaru’s wrist just shy of desperate.

Hikaru stared at him, skeptical but not annoyed—yet. “Okay. You gonna tell me what that was about?”

Magnus exhaled sharply. He should have planned this better. He should have had the words ready, something smooth, something convincing. But the problem was—

He had never been good with words when it came to Hikaru.

And this wasn’t chess. He couldn’t sit back and calculate the perfect move.

So, instead, he asked, “Are you ever going to notice?”

Hikaru gave him a blank look. “Notice what?”

Magnus clenched his jaw. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Me.”

For a moment, Hikaru just stared at him. Then he laughed—soft, incredulous. “Magnus, what the hell are you talking about?”

Magnus stepped closer.

Hikaru didn’t back away.

Magnus didn’t let himself second-guess it. If he thought too much, he’d lose his nerve. He’d go another year—maybe another lifetime—watching from the sidelines, biting his tongue, pretending he didn’t care.

He wasn’t going to do that anymore.

So he grabbed Hikaru by the collar, yanked him forward—

And kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful.

It was frustration and longing and every ounce of jealousy Magnus had ever swallowed down, finally breaking free.

Hikaru made a startled noise against his lips, but he didn’t pull away.

Magnus almost couldn’t breathe. His world had narrowed to the feel of Hikaru against him, the way he fit, the heat of his skin, the way his breath hitched—

Then Magnus forced himself to pull back, his forehead nearly touching Hikaru’s as he stared at him, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

Hikaru blinked. His lips were slightly parted, his expression unreadable.

Magnus smirked, because he had to—because it was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind completely. “Now do you get it?”

Silence.

Then Hikaru let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe him.

“Took you long enough, my puppy” he muttered.

Magnus’ heart stuttered .

And then—Hikaru grabbed him, fingers curling in the front of Magnus’ shirt, pulling him right back in for another kiss, this one slower, deeper.

Magnus felt himself melt into it.

Yeah.

It took him long enough.

But not anymore.

Not anymore.