Chapter Text
The door clicked softly as Hikaru pushed into the training hall, still shrugging off his jacket. It was late, past midnight, but the fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead like they were waiting just for him. His steps were light, echoing faintly in the space. And there, just as he expected, was Alireza—alone.
Alireza was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the far wall, a chessboard laid out in front of him with pieces mid-game. His phone was nearby, softly playing lo-fi music as his fingers danced absently along the edge of a rook.
Hikaru didn’t greet him immediately. Instead, he walked right up behind him, leaned down, and casually flicked Alireza’s ear.
“Midnight chess, huh?” Hikaru grinned as he flopped down beside him. “You lonely without me or something?”
Alireza didn’t flinch. He reached out and moved a pawn. “You’re late. I waited for you to finish streaming.”
Hikaru blinked. “You—wait, you checked my stream?”
Alireza hummed. “You got checkmated by a thirteen-year-old girl.”
“HEY,” Hikaru squawked, jabbing him in the side. “She was a prodigy! And anyway, I let her win.”
“Of course you did.”
Hikaru made a face and flopped onto his back, limbs sprawled dramatically. “You’re so mean to me. Why do you never let me bully you properly? I set you up for gold, and you never take the bait. Like earlier! I made fun of your Balenciaga shirt for a whole five minutes!”
Alireza turned his head to look at him. His expression was calm, soft in the low light. “I like that you talk to me.”
That shut Hikaru up for a second. He stared at the ceiling. “…You’re so weird.”
“Maybe.”
There was a silence that wasn’t awkward, just full of tiny hums—the buzz of the lights, the soft shuffle of pieces as Alireza adjusted a knight, Hikaru’s restless tapping against the ground.
Then Hikaru sat up suddenly, eyebrows furrowed in theatrical confusion. “Wait. You’re not even mad I’m bratty to you?”
“No.”
“You’re letting me get away with murder.”
Alireza shrugged lightly. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“But I’m so—so annoying,” Hikaru insisted, clutching his own cheeks as if that would somehow emphasize the point.
Alireza smiled. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t sarcastic. It was quietly warm. “You’re cute when you’re annoying.”
Hikaru made a startled choking sound. “What—hey, you can’t just say that to me with a straight face!”
Alireza blinked at him. “Why not?”
“Because now I don’t know how to react!” Hikaru groaned, throwing himself back down. “Ugh. You’re killing me. This is illegal.”
Still smiling, Alireza got up slowly and walked to the kitchenette in the corner of the training hall. A moment later, he returned with a bottled water and a small bento box.
Hikaru blinked. “Wait. Did you—did you pack that?”
“For you.”
“You made me food?”
“You skipped dinner.”
“I’m not a child, Alireza,” Hikaru said, even as he pulled the bento toward himself and opened it. “Is that miso-glazed salmon? You—how do you even know I like this?”
Alireza sat beside him again, shoulders barely brushing. “You eat it when you're stressed. You order it every tournament.”
Hikaru paused mid-bite. “…You notice that?”
Alireza gave a soft, almost imperceptible nod. “I notice a lot of things.”
The brat in Hikaru threatened to rise again—ready with a smirk, a tease, maybe something outrageous just to see if he could finally rattle Alireza’s calm. But it melted away before it could land.
Because Alireza had handed him dinner. Had waited for him past midnight. Had noticed things about him that Hikaru hadn’t even noticed about himself.
“…You’re really dangerous,” Hikaru muttered.
“Because I make you food?”
“Because I don’t know what to do when you’re nice to me.”
“I’m always nice to you.”
“Exactly,” Hikaru said dramatically. “And that’s the problem.”
Alireza chuckled—quiet, breathy. His gaze softened. “Eat, Hikaru.”
So Hikaru did. And maybe, just maybe, he stopped poking at Alireza for the rest of the night.
Well. Almost.
—
The world looked different when Hikaru was in the room.
Alireza had never believed in that kind of sentimentality before. He was logical, methodical. His brain loved precision, order, clean lines on a board. But Hikaru… Hikaru entered like chaos dressed in streetwear—half sarcasm, half wildfire—and somehow, all of it made sense to Alireza.
Now, as Hikaru rambled about something—probably Twitter drama—while sprawled across Alireza’s hotel bed, Alireza just listened. Or pretended to. Most of his attention was focused on the way Hikaru’s hands moved as he talked, sharp and quick, animated like his thoughts were too big for his body.
He’s so pretty, Alireza thought, not for the first time.
Not pretty in the polished way others tried to be. Not in the styled, sterile way magazines capture a person. Hikaru’s beauty was careless. Natural. Something in the curve of his mouth when he was thinking. In the slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the flicker of intelligence behind his eyes.
And his eyes—God, his eyes. Brown and gold and fire and mischief, all at once.
“Are you even listening to me?” Hikaru whined suddenly, turning his head from where he lay. His lips pouted, and Alireza wanted to press his thumb against them just to flatten the expression. Or kiss him.
“You said something about… chess Twitter imploding?” Alireza replied mildly.
Hikaru narrowed his eyes. “That was fifteen minutes ago.”
Alireza blinked. “Sorry.”
“You were doing that quiet thinking thing again,” Hikaru accused. He rolled over, flopping onto his stomach, chin propped on his arms. “Are you secretly plotting world domination or just calculating how many brain cells I’ve killed in your presence?”
“Neither.”
“Then what?”
Alireza hesitated. He almost told him. Almost said I was thinking about how beautiful you are when you’re being dramatic. Almost said You’re the most fascinating thing I’ve ever studied, and I’ve studied endgames obsessively for six years.
Instead, he said, “Just thinking about something.”
Hikaru narrowed his eyes suspiciously but didn’t press. That was another thing about him—he knew when to push, and he knew when to let silence sit comfortably between them.
Alireza reached over and tugged the sleeve of Hikaru’s hoodie gently. “You didn’t eat breakfast again.”
“Wasn’t hungry,” Hikaru said. “My stomach’s weird before matches.”
Alireza didn’t say anything, just stood and walked over to the kitchenette. He came back a few minutes later with toast and jam. Not much. Just enough.
He didn’t offer it with a lecture. Just set it on the table and nudged Hikaru’s foot with his own.
“You’ll feel better if you eat a little,” he said softly.
Hikaru stared at the plate, then at Alireza. “…You treat me too well,” he muttered. “It’s suspicious.”
Alireza smiled faintly. “It’s just toast.”
“It’s not just toast. It’s toast at my exact preferred level of burnt. It’s strawberry jam instead of grape, which I hate. And it’s served to me by my emotionally unreadable rival-turned-teammate who knows my habits better than I do.” Hikaru pointed accusingly. “That’s suspicious.”
Alireza sat back down. “I observe people.”
“You observe me,” Hikaru said, voice teasing but eyes watchful.
Alireza didn’t answer.
Because it was true. He did. Always had. From the first time he watched Hikaru crush an opponent with a smile so casual it seemed cruel. From the way Hikaru flicked his wrist like he was casting spells instead of moving pawns. From the way Hikaru tilted his head when he was annoyed, just a few millimeters, just enough to notice if you cared enough to look.
And Alireza always looked.
He didn’t say You’re the most fascinating person in the chess world. He didn’t say I’d rather watch you pace in a hotel room than study a world championship replay. He didn’t say You are my favorite puzzle, and I don’t want to solve you—I want to keep you alive and moving and unpredictable forever.
Instead, he said, “You’re hard not to notice.”
Hikaru blinked. Then flushed, just slightly, turning his face away. “You’re annoying,” he grumbled, picking up a slice of toast and taking a bite. “Why do you say things like that so calmly?”
Alireza watched him chew and tried to ignore the way his heart sped up at the sight.
He thought, You don’t even know what you do to me.
But he said nothing at all.
—
Alireza didn’t know when it started.
There was no clear line. No dramatic realization or cinematic moment where his breath caught and the world shifted. No sudden heart-stopping clarity. Just a slow, quiet accumulation of feelings—like falling asleep in a warm room, unaware that the sun had already risen and poured over everything.
Maybe he had always been in love with Hikaru.
Maybe it started when he was thirteen, hunched over a laptop in Shiraz, watching Hikaru play blitz like he was breathing lightning. The screen was grainy. The audio low quality. But Hikaru's energy bled through every pixel—taunting, laughing, eyes gleaming with wicked joy as he crushed grandmasters like it was a game of speed, wit, and defiance.
Alireza remembered how his chest had felt tight. Not with jealousy. No, never that. With awe. With something deeper and more reverent.
Back then, Hikaru had felt like a different world. A star Alireza could see but never touch. Too wild. Too far. Too him.
And yet now—now Hikaru was here. In his life. On his bed, again, asleep with one leg dangling off the side and mouth slightly open in an unflattering sprawl. His hoodie was bunched at his waist, and his phone—still playing some chaotic meme compilation—had slipped from his fingers.
Alireza stood by the doorway, watching him for a moment longer than necessary.
He couldn’t say when admiration had turned into affection. When affection became need. When that need became… this.
Hikaru mumbled something in his sleep and rolled over, curling into the sheets like a cat. His hair was a mess. He looked impossibly soft.
How did I get here? Alireza thought. How did we get here?
It wasn’t just about Hikaru being beautiful—though God, he was. It wasn’t even about his genius, or his playstyle, or the way he carried himself like nothing could touch him, only to melt into laughter when something did.
It was the way he made Alireza feel. Grounded. Seen.
No one else teased Alireza like Hikaru did. Not cruelly—never that. But with intimacy. With familiarity. Like he knew where all of Alireza’s walls were and where he could poke without breaking them. Like he wanted to know.
And Alireza—he let him.
He let him in.
Sometimes Hikaru would burst into his room with snacks and bad ideas. Sometimes he would fall asleep on Alireza’s shoulder on long flights. Sometimes he would grab Alireza’s wrist during press interviews and tug him closer, like proximity gave him strength.
And Alireza let him. Every time.
Maybe that was it. Maybe love had crept in quietly between all those tiny moments. Maybe it had never needed permission—just time.
He moved quietly now, picking up Hikaru’s phone from the floor and setting it on the nightstand. Then he tugged the blanket up gently, covering him.
Hikaru stirred but didn’t wake.
Alireza stood there for a long time, just… looking.
Maybe it started when his younger self first saw Hikaru on a screen, fingers dancing across a board like a pianist. Maybe it started the first time Hikaru called him Ali and didn’t realize he’d given Alireza a nickname no one else dared to use. Maybe it started when Hikaru made fun of his cologne but still leaned in every time they shared a car. Maybe it had started before all of that.
Or maybe—maybe it never started at all.
Maybe loving Hikaru was like breathing.
A fact of his existence.
And maybe, just maybe… it would never end.
—
There were words Alireza said often—“Check.” “Your move.” “Good game.”
And then there were the ones he never said.
Like:
Your laugh makes me forget that this world is cold.
You look like chaos and sunlight, and I’d let you ruin me.
When you leave a room, I still feel you everywhere.
He never said those. Not to Hikaru. Not to anyone.
Some things, he believed, should remain unspoken. Precious. Sacred. A kind of soft worship. Because Hikaru was poetry written in a language Alireza wasn’t sure the world deserved to hear.
Sometimes, when they walked through airports together, Alireza would let their arms brush. Just enough to feel the spark. Just enough to remember that Hikaru was real. He didn’t need to hold his hand. Didn’t need to say the words. He had those secret verses memorized already.
Once, during a tournament, Alireza caught Hikaru asleep in the players’ lounge, curled up on the couch with a hoodie pulled over his head. He hadn’t meant to stop. But he stood there for nearly a full minute, just… watching.
The world moved so fast around Hikaru. Reporters. Fans. Opponents hungry for a glimpse of weakness. But here—sleeping like a child in a too-cold room—he looked weightless. Peaceful.
Alireza wanted to protect that version of him. Not the grandmaster. Not the legend. Not the firebrand streamer. Just the man who curled up under his own arms and trusted the world not to wake him too soon.
I think I loved you even before I understood what that meant, Alireza thought as he quietly draped his own scarf over Hikaru’s curled-up form. I think my heart decided before my mind did. And I’ve been playing catch-up ever since.
He didn’t wake him. Just sat beside the couch, knees pulled to his chest, and let the silence stretch. That was the thing about love, he was learning. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t loud. Sometimes, it was sitting beside someone who didn’t know you were in love with them and thinking: Please stay like this. Please stay in my world.
He wrote poems in his head that he’d never say out loud. One for each of Hikaru’s expressions. A hundred verses for every way he said Alireza’s name.
And maybe someday, if Hikaru ever turned and asked, Did you ever feel it too? Alireza would smile and say, Only always.
—
In the back of his mind, there was a crown. Not gold. Not literal. Just something heavy, ever-present.
They called him Magnus’s heir. Sometimes with admiration. Sometimes with venom. Sometimes like it was a prophecy, or worse—an inevitability.
He didn’t ask for that title. Didn’t chase it. But it clung to him. Like Magnus’s shadow wrapped around his spine, whispering, This will be yours. Everything I built. Everything I ruled. All of it.
And maybe—maybe a part of him believed it. Believed that if he played better, trained harder, endured longer, then eventually everything that belonged to Magnus would fall into his hands.
The records. The throne. The fear. The worship.
The myth.
It messed him up. He knew that. He knew it every time he sat across from someone and thought, You don’t matter. I’ll burn you just to prove I can. He knew it every time his fingers hovered over a risky move and he took it anyway, just to feel alive.bHe knew it every time he looked at Hikaru—
And thought: You should belong to me, too.
It wasn’t fair. Hikaru wasn’t a title. Wasn’t a trophy. Wasn’t a throne to inherit. He wasn’t part of the legend Alireza was supposed to carve from the bones of those before him.
But the thought lingered, deep and quiet:
Magnus had him. And Magnus doesn’t get to keep what I want.
It was childish. Twisted. A product of too much pressure and not enough peace. But sometimes Alireza would see them talking—Hikaru laughing at something Magnus said, shoulders brushing—and that quiet thought would flare into something more.
Possessive.
Ugly.
Raw.
He’s mine. He just doesn’t know it yet.
Not in a cruel way. Alireza wasn’t cruel.
But he was…
Entitled, maybe.
Wounded.
Desperate for something that was real, something that wasn't handed to him with the condition of comparison.
He didn’t want Hikaru because Magnus had him. He wanted him in spite of it. Because Hikaru didn’t treat him like a prince waiting to be king. Because Hikaru poked at him, mocked his style, ruffled his hair like he wasn’t fragile crystal but someone worth bothering. Because Hikaru’s voice was warmth, not reverence.
And yet—
Yet that cursed voice in the back of his mind whispered: He’s part of the world Magnus touched. And that world is mine now.
Alireza bit his cheek. Hard. The taste of iron grounded him.
He wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t become like that.
Still… when Hikaru smiled at him—just at him—and said something bratty and ridiculous, Alireza felt it again:
That gnawing, searing, aching need. To have something. To keep something. To choose someone who wasn’t his by legacy or birthright—but by heart.
And maybe…
Maybe he’d never inherited Hikaru. Maybe he’d just loved him. Quietly. So deeply that his own mind couldn’t untangle want from wound anymore.
—
Magnus had him.
Alireza knows this. Everyone knows this.
They were history—rivalry and tension and almosts and might-have-beens stretched over a decade of glances and silence and loaded endgames.
But Magnus? Magnus was a god who never knew what to do with devotion.
He had Hikaru. And he let him go. Or worse—never even reached for him properly.
He talked over him in interviews. Dismissed him, praised him, mocked him, admired him—all in the same breath. Magnus made it a game, never a gesture. And Hikaru, for all his bite and fire, had been waiting. Hoping.
Alireza saw it. When he was younger. Watching from behind a screen, a chessboard, a hotel lobby door cracked open. He saw Hikaru’s brightness bend toward Magnus’s gravity, again and again. And he saw Magnus look away.
Idiot, Alireza thinks now. Magnus had a star in his hands and thought it was a matchstick.
And now, Hikaru sparkled in front of him—grinning, relentless, bratty, beautiful—unclaimed. Untouched, really. Because no one had dared to touch Hikaru right.
Not the way Alireza would.
Magnus never figured it out—what Hikaru needed. Someone who listened when he complained. Who kept up when he ran off on tangents. Who didn’t try to outshine him, just walked beside him without fear. Someone who thought his chaos was charming. Someone who saw him.
Alireza sees him. Has seen him for years. Not the Grandmaster. Not the Blitz Demon. Not the Meme Lord. But the boy behind the bravado. The man beneath the noise. Sharp and soft and dazzling.
You should’ve kept him, Magnus, Alireza thinks, watching Hikaru from across the lounge. He’s laughing with Giri, socks mismatched, hoodie half-zipped, drink in hand like he doesn’t care about posture or cameras or legacy. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You were too afraid to look at him and admit he made you weak.
Alireza isn’t afraid of that. He’s already weak for him. Already ruined.
So he lets himself imagine it. What it would be like if Hikaru leaned on him instead. Laughed at his jokes. Rolled his eyes at his dry humor. Tugged on his sleeve and said, I’m bored. Entertain me. What it would be like to be the one Hikaru trusted. Picked.
Not because of the crown. Not because of who Magnus was. But because Alireza waited when no one else did.
And maybe—just maybe—Hikaru would look at him one day and realize: You never wanted to use me. You just wanted me.
Magnus lost him. Alireza wouldn’t.
Not this time.
—
He’s taller than Magnus. Not by much—but enough that it matters when they’re standing side by side in photos, that subtle edge of elevation that says, I’m not your shadow anymore.
He’s younger. That one’s undeniable. The media reminds him daily: the prodigy, the heir, the future. Time is on his side. Magnus’s reign is a sunset. Alireza’s hasn’t even reached its zenith.
He’s richer now too. Sponsorships. Endorsements. Smart investments. The kind that Magnus shrugged off for most of his career, too proud or too careless to chase the game beyond the board. But Alireza knew better. Legacy isn’t just carved in rating points—it’s built in empires.
He’s sharper. Polished. He doesn’t mumble in interviews or dodge questions. He speaks several languages fluently and can charm a room in any of them. He knows his angles. Wears fashion that makes headlines. Talks like a diplomat, plays like a killer. He is, objectively, everything the world tried to pretend Magnus was but never quite could be.
Everything but one thing.
Just one.
Chess.
It burns, that truth. Quiet and constant, like a low fever that never breaks. Because even now—after years of grinding, studying, bleeding for Elo—Magnus is still the one. Still the standard. Still the myth.
Alireza can beat him. Has beat him. But not always. Not yet when it counts most. Not in the way that ends things.
And maybe… maybe it would matter less if it weren’t for Hikaru.
Because Hikaru still lights up around Magnus in this way—this reflexive way—like a muscle memory of rivalry and tension that the world never let them fully explore. Hikaru’s not in love. Alireza knows that. He knows.
But there’s still a part of him that looks when Magnus speaks. Still a part that remembers. And that—that—is what makes it worse.
Because Alireza is taller, younger, richer, brighter. And he knows Hikaru better. Knows what calms him, what riles him up, what snacks he likes at 2 AM, how to get him to laugh even when he’s tilted beyond reason. He understands Hikaru in ways Magnus never could.
But still, in Hikaru’s heart, there’s a flicker of Magnus-shaped nostalgia. And Alireza hates it. Not Hikaru. Never Hikaru. But the part of himself that still believes he has to win love like a title. Earn it. Conquer it. Hold it like a trophy.
He’s everything Magnus wasn’t. Except the one thing that still seems to matter.
And if Hikaru ever says it—if Hikaru ever tells him that it doesn’t matter, that chess was never the metric by which he gave his heart—Then Alireza swears he’ll stop keeping score.
Until then, though—He can’t help but stare at the board.
And think: I’ll beat him. One day. I’ll beat him and you’ll look at me like I’m the only one who ever mattered.
Even if he already is.
Alireza knows he can have anyone.
It’s not arrogance. It’s not even confidence.
It’s just… truth. A fact, plain and solid, like gravity or daylight. People look at him and want. The attention isn't subtle—it never was.
He’s twenty-two. Tall. Gorgeous, even by influencer standards. Sharp cheekbones, elegant hands, dark curls that fall just right when he doesn’t try too hard. His voice has that soft, lilting charm—part Parisian, part Persian—refined and distinct in every room he walks into.
People flirt. Champagne heiresses. Models in Monaco. Chess streamers. Journalists. One shy grandmaster who blushed violently when Alireza handed him a pen.bHe could smile, say a few words, and hearts would tilt. He knows.
His family is old-money rich, the kind that owns land on both Persian and French soil, with homes in Tehran and Lyon and a chalet near Mont Blanc. Oil wealth, architectural firms, vineyards, old houses with libraries no one’s entered in decades. He’s not just a prince of the chessboard—he’s an actual heir.
And Hikaru?
Hikaru is five-foot-seven on a good day, wearing platform sneakers and righteous indignation. He’s loud. Chaotic. Always chewing something. Never on time. He wears hoodies worth twenty dollars and holds grudges like a grumpy cat. He’s unpredictable, brilliant, bratty. And Alireza—rich, tall, composed, adored—Wants only him.
It makes no sense. It makes every kind of sense.
Because with Hikaru, it’s not about what Alireza can have. It’s about what he can’t control.
Hikaru doesn’t fall for pretty. Doesn’t care about pedigrees. He rolls his eyes when people call Alireza “the heir,” scoffs at titles and sponsorships and the quiet, burning envy that follows Alireza everywhere.
Hikaru treats him like a guy. Just a guy.
And maybe that’s the problem. Because Alireza isn’t used to being “just a guy.” Not since he was twelve.
He’s used to being exceptional. The chosen one. The future. But when he’s with Hikaru—when Hikaru yells at a laggy server or complains about match schedules or snorts when Alireza tries to subtly flex—Alireza feels like something else.
Not a prodigy. Not an heir. Just a boy with too many feelings and a hopeless crush on someone who doesn’t notice how the room bends when he walks in.
Sometimes, Alireza thinks it would be easier to just… win. Turn the charm on. Say the right things. Make Hikaru fall the way everyone else does.
But that would be too easy. Too hollow. He doesn’t want Hikaru’s attention. He wants Hikaru’s affection. His choice.
So he waits. Smiling quietly as Hikaru complains about tournament coffee, or leans his head on Alireza’s arm during a late-night flight without realizing it. And in the quiet spaces, Alireza thinks:
I could have anyone. But I want you. Just you.
Even if you don’t see it yet.
There’s a certain kind of precision in being better. Alireza understands it the way other people understand math or music. It’s geometry, posture, restraint. It's the deliberate absence of chaos. It’s not being messy when the whole world gives you permission to be.
And Magnus—
God, Magnus is so messy. Washed-out t-shirts, a stubborn curl of indifference in every photo. Those unshaven press interviews. That smugness like a second skin. Even when Magnus was world champion, he acted like the job was beneath him. Like the crown weighed too little.
Alireza is better. Obviously.
He wears his titles like tailored suits. Not loud, but exact. He doesn’t slouch. He doesn’t argue online. His hair is never out of place unless the wind makes it that way—and even then, it still somehow lands in effortless curls.
He speaks. People listen. He plays. People gasp. He walks into a room and never needs to say he’s arrived.
Magnus was brilliant, yes—but rough-edged, impulsive. The kind of genius that sets fires just to see what burns.
Alireza? He builds empires from stone and silence.
He’s better-looking. Symmetry, grace, that soft-angled beauty that photographs love and critics respect. He knows which watch to wear with which suit. He can quote poetry in Farsi and make it sound like a spell. He doesn’t need to posture. His presence is the statement.
He’s better-mannered. Never blows up in interviews. Never throws shade unless it’s cloaked in wit. He remembers names. Knows how to talk to journalists, to sponsors, to little kids asking for autographs.
He’s better-liked—at least publicly. The fans adore him. The organizers trust him. Even his rivals hesitate before trash-talking, because there’s nothing to latch onto. No scandal. No weakness. Just precision. Excellence. Poise.
And maybe most of all—
He’s better for Hikaru.
Because Hikaru doesn’t need another storm. Doesn’t need someone who looks at him like a puzzle to be solved or a threat to outmaneuver.
Hikaru needs someone steady. Someone who listens. Someone who lets him be loud and wrong and chaotic and brilliant, all at once, without ever trying to dim him.
Magnus tried to tame him. Alireza?
He’ll let Hikaru set the whole world on fire if he wants—And he’ll be standing right beside him, handing him the match.
—
It starts at some stupid gala.
Well—okay, technically it’s a FIDE charity event, but everyone’s wearing suits and pretending they care about the wine pairings, so Hikaru’s brain files it under stupid gala.
He’s here because he has to be. For the cameras. For the fans. For the image. He’s good at pretending to enjoy things when there’s free food and a decent amount of chaos in the room.
But right now, the chaos is happening across the floor. And it’s wearing red lipstick.
Hikaru watches—half out of boredom, half out of what the hell—as some tall WIM from Spain flirts shamelessly with Alireza. She’s gorgeous. Like, movie star gorgeous. The kind of face that makes people freeze mid-sentence.
And Alireza?
Alireza is smiling.
Not his usual diplomatic smile, either.
Not the careful, closed-lip grin he uses for press.
This one’s—
warm.
He laughs at something she says. Tips his head. Leans in a little. Hikaru doesn’t catch the joke. Doesn’t hear the punchline. He hears blood in his ears.
What the hell.
Why is he— Why does he feel weird? It’s just Alireza. Alireza who always lets Hikaru steal his fries. Alireza who listens to him ramble about openings at 2AM without telling him to shut up. Alireza who looks at him like he’s made of stars even when Hikaru’s being an annoying little gremlin.
It’s not like he cares who flirts with him.
That’s ridiculous.
Still—his gaze sharpens as she touches Alireza’s forearm. The kind of touch that says I could be yours.
Hikaru blinks.
Oh.
Oh.
He’s glaring. He is one hundred percent glaring. His wine glass is halfway to his lips and he’s just. Staring. Like some brooding ex in a bad drama.
He looks away fast, face burning, heart suddenly doing that fast weird thing he pretends only happens during time scrambles.
Across the room, Alireza glances over.
Their eyes meet.
Hikaru lifts his glass and scowls into it.
Alireza’s smile turns secret. Almost smug.
Something flutters in Hikaru’s chest. Something terrifying and suspiciously like realization.
He excuses himself from the table he’s pretending to care about. Walks to the balcony. Breathes. It’s cold out. The air bites. But it’s not enough to kill the thought:
I don’t want him smiling like that at her. I want him smiling like that at me.
And when Alireza joins him ten minutes later—casually, like he didn’t notice Hikaru’s tiny spiral—
Hikaru blurts:
“She wasn’t even funny.”
Alireza blinks. “What?”
“That girl. The one with the lipstick. Whatever. Her joke sucked.”
Alireza leans against the balcony rail, grinning now. “You were watching us?”
Hikaru sputters. “I wasn’t—! You were just—! No!”
Alireza’s eyes are dark and amused. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not,” Hikaru snaps, voice embarrassingly high. Then, softer, muttering, “Maybe. A little.”
Alireza doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at him. There’s something warm and terrible in that silence—like a door being cracked open.
Then:
“I wouldn’t have let her flirt with me,” Alireza says softly, “if I thought you’d finally look at me because of it.”
Hikaru stares at him. Mouth suddenly dry. The wind steals his next words.
And for the first time all evening—
He’s not annoyed.
He’s not bratty.
He’s just—
Oh.