Hello Dolly

by JaninaDSM

Summary:

In a world where soulmates are marked by living dolls that appear at birth—changing with their real counterparts, sharing pain, and symbolizing connection—Hikaru Nakamura grows up unaware of the invisible threads tying him to others. At six, a doll appears beside him: a quiet boy with warm eyes—Wesley So. Ten years later, a second doll arrives, rowdy and untamed—Hans Niemann.

Notes:

I cannot fucking believe that I have not written a fic for my honorary brothers headcannons. Like, I really need to push the honorary siblings Hikaru, Wesley and Hans forward.

Chapter 1

The lodge was old. Wood creaked with every step, and the radiator hissed like it was tired of keeping up with the snow outside. Hikaru liked it. It felt… detached—a place where no one cared about ELO or drama threads or GM titles.

“Is this coffee?” Hans sniffed the chipped white mug with deep suspicion, standing in front of the rustic kitchen’s single burner stove. “Because it smells like burnt sadness.”

Wesley didn’t look up from the small chessboard between them. “It’s Hikaru’s.”

“I take offense to that,” Hikaru said from the couch, not moving. His hoodie was bunched over his eyes, and his bare feet rested on the armrest like he owned the whole cabin. “That’s Norwegian brewed despair. Very exclusive.”

Wesley quietly moved his knight. “Check.”

“Bruh,” Hans groaned, turning his back on the coffee like it personally betrayed him. “You always do this thing where you look like you’re not trying and then bam—check. What is that?”

“It’s called focus,” Wesley said, deadpan.

“No. It’s called being shady.”

“You play bullet chess like you’re on a sugar rush,” Hikaru mumbled without moving. “Maybe slow down for once.”

Hans walked over, flopped down next to Hikaru, and half-laughed. “Says the king of chaotic openings and psychological warfare.”

There was a beat of silence. The wind howled softly outside, brushing the window panes like an old ghost.

“You were quieter last night,” Wesley said softly, glancing at Hans.

The younger man stiffened. Hikaru, despite how still he seemed, shifted under his hoodie.

“I didn’t feel like talking,” Hans muttered. “Bad dreams.”

No one pushed. Not Wesley, who had his own history of silence. Not Hikaru, who understood what it meant to be haunted by pressure and noise.

“We could do a dumb thing today,” Hikaru offered after a while, voice lazy but intentional. “Snow hike, build a snow rook, sabotage each other’s gloves. Something not chess.”

“I’m in,” Hans said quickly, too quickly. “I mean, yeah, sounds dumb. I’m in.”

Wesley smiled—barely. “Only if we make a snowboard ramp and name it after Fabiano.”

“Why Fabiano?” Hikaru asked, finally lowering his hoodie.

“Because it’s cold, elegant, and makes everyone fall.”

They all laughed.

That was the thing about them. No big declarations. No "I got your back, bro" moments. Just... this. The quiet between matches, the way Wesley made tea without asking, the way Hans pretended not to look when Hikaru was spiraling, and the way Hikaru, despite everything, kept them all orbiting the same strange little sun.

They weren’t teammates. They weren’t family. They were something else.

Something steadier.
—

Hikaru didn’t remember much from when he was six.

Just the feel of rough carpeting on his knees, the dusty scent of old books no one read anymore, and the way the sun filtered through his bedroom window in soft, forgiving gold.

He also remembered the doll.

It had appeared without ceremony. No glow, no thunderclap, no harp-playing cherubs like he’d imagined.

One moment his mother was combing his hair while he pouted about his chess puzzles, and the next, she gasped.

There, lying beside him on his bedspread, was a doll. A perfect, silent miniature boy with dark almond-shaped eyes and a gentle expression—sleeping.

No one touched it at first. His mother said a prayer under her breath in Japanese. His father put down his teacup and whispered, “It’s starting.”

They’d all heard the stories.

Dolls were the world’s way of telling you that someone out there belonged to you—not in ownership, but in meaning. Soulmates. Not always lovers. Not always family. Sometimes something else entirely.

Sometimes… someone who simply steadied the beating of your heart.
---

Hikaru’s first doll was Wesley.

He didn’t know that, of course. The doll didn’t come with a name tag. It came with breathless questions, guesses, and the overwhelming need to protect something so small and still.

Wesley’s doll was calm even then—eyes closed, expression peaceful, hands folded over his chest like he was waiting. Hikaru used to talk to him when no one was listening.

He once taught the doll how to castle.
---

The second doll didn’t come until ten years later.

Hikaru was sixteen, freshly brutalized by the world. The kind of age where genius becomes suffocating and expectation twists into something toxic. He’d just lost a tournament he should have won. The post-game interviews had been brutal. "Disappointing," one article had said. “Emotional immaturity,” another whispered.

He came home furious, his voice ragged from arguing with his coach. He slammed his bedroom door, collapsed on the bed, and shut his eyes like that might shut the world out too.

When he opened them, there was another doll on the pillow beside him.

Hikaru froze.

This one looked completely different—rougher, younger, with an unruly tuft of hair and an eyebrow slightly quirked like it was judging him. It had scuff marks on its jeans, like it had already been getting into trouble.

He stared at it for a long time. There was a new kind of ache in his chest.

Not a romantic tug. Not a dramatic string-pulling fate. Just a knowing.

This one would be loud. Sharp around the edges. He would challenge everything Hikaru thought he knew, throw him off balance, and then be the one to catch him mid-fall.

He didn’t know his name yet. But the doll looked alive—defiant even while still.

Hikaru placed it next to Wesley’s, already sitting in his usual spot on the shelf, upright and composed. He whispered, “You two better get along.”
---

Wesley’s doll had never changed much over the years. When Wesley got his hair cut short in college, the doll’s hair shortened overnight. When Wesley broke his wrist that one time, the doll’s hand stiffened, making Hikaru’s chest seize in panic.

He sent three messages to check on him before Wesley could even blink.

Hans’ doll, on the other hand, was chaos incarnate.

It picked up new scrapes weekly—one time Hikaru found a streak of dried blood along its eyebrow and nearly tore the wall down in anxiety. Another time it had glitter in its hair. Glitter.

It once came home missing a shoelace.
---

The three dolls lived on a shelf now, just above his travel desk.

Wesley’s sat neatly, like a quiet reminder to breathe.

Hans’ sprawled, tilted, shirt half-untucked, arm dangling dangerously close to falling off the edge.

And then there was Hikaru’s own—because yes, everyone had a doll of themselves too, though few ever looked at it much.

His own doll sat between them. Sometimes he thought it was a metaphor. Sometimes he thought it was just shelf space.
---

Now, in the cabin’s winter quiet, Hikaru watched Hans pretend not to care while Wesley pulled a blanket over him.

The dolls were tucked away in a travel case, wrapped in soft cotton for protection. But he didn’t need them here.

He had them in front of him.

The thread had held.

Even if it had frayed, stretched, tangled—it held.
—

Wesley was born with a doll.

That wasn’t uncommon. Most children received one eventually—some within days, some years later, depending on when their soulmate was born. But Wesley’s was already waiting when he first opened his eyes.

He didn’t remember the birth, of course. But his mother told the story often enough that he’d memorized the details.

They placed him in the bassinet, and there it was beside him. Tucked under the same hospital blanket. As if it had been there first, waiting for him to arrive.

“Like he was protecting you,” his mother used to whisper when tucking him in at night.

The doll looked older than him. Five, maybe six. A serious-faced cherubim little boy with black hair, neatly combed, and almond-shaped eyes that held something sharp—like even in doll-form, he was sizing up the world.

He was Asian, like Wesley, though something about him felt… different. Not unfamiliar, just distant. A future stranger already woven into Wesley’s heart.

His family tried not to touch the doll too much. In Filipino culture, soul dolls—munting-anino—were treated almost like spirits. Revered. Protected. Prayed over.

But Wesley was a baby, then a toddler, then a small boy who didn’t care about sacred customs. He just knew this was his. The doll belonged beside him.
---

He cried when it was taken away.

Every time. No exception. The first time he was three months old and screamed until his voice gave out. Another time, during a long trip to Manila, his aunt tried to pack it into a separate case for “safety.” Wesley had wailed until the driver turned the car around.

Even in his earliest years, he refused to sleep unless the doll was near—nestled by his chest, or sitting on the pillow with its calm little face staring at the ceiling.

They tried to explain. “It’s just a doll,” some relatives said.

But he knew better. Even then.
---

By the time he was four, he’d memorized every inch of it. The faint scuff on the doll’s right elbow. The way the left eyebrow was slightly uneven, like it had been raised in a perpetual shrug.

He talked to it. Not in long conversations—just little things. Updates. Secrets.

“I got a star sticker today.”

“Lolo says I’m good at chess.”

“I miss you, whoever you are.”

He didn’t know the boy’s name. Didn’t even know if he was alive at that moment or had already vanished into some other country or continent.

But he knew this: he wasn’t alone.
---

The first change came when Wesley was 7.

It was small—almost unnoticeable at first. The doll’s bangs were shorter. Sharper. Its t-shirt had a new print: a tiny, faded logo of some American chess tournament Wesley had never heard of.

Then came more. A bruised knee. A nick across the eyebrow. A chipped nail on the thumb. All things Wesley hadn’t done.

But his soulmate had.

It was the first time the connection felt real. Not an idea or a story, but a living person. Someone out there, older than him, who got into scrapes, cut their hair, went places he didn’t know.

Someone alive.

Wesley had clutched the doll that night until he fell asleep. A strange warmth bloomed in his chest.

Who are you?
---

He was fourteen when he saw X’s for the first time—on someone else’s doll. A classmate’s older cousin. The doll sat on a display shelf, tiny thread-stitches over its eyes, limbs limp like they no longer remembered how to move.

It haunted Wesley for weeks.

He started watching his doll more closely. Checking its pulse—not literal, of course, but the pulse of its color, its warmth, its weight. Dolls weren’t alive, but they were never lifeless either.

If his ever faded… he didn’t know what he’d do.
---

The second doll came late.

He was 10, sitting on the edge of his bed in the chess dormitory in Spain when he heard a thump. He looked over—and blinked.

There it was. A new doll.

Younger than the first. Wild-haired. Smirking even in sleep. The kind of face that promised trouble and delivered it.

He didn’t touch it at first.

Just stared at it. Like the air had shifted. Like the rhythm of the world had gained a new drumbeat.

He thought back to his old doll—still sitting quietly near his suitcase, eyes always calm. And for a second, Wesley felt like the world had cracked open a little wider.

Now there were two threads wrapped around him.

And one of them was chaos.
---

He named the first doll “Karu” in secret.

Only years later, when he met Hikaru Nakamura at a world tournament, did he feel his stomach drop. The first time Hikaru looked at him—really looked—Wesley felt something loud and soft all at once.

Like coming home to a room that had always been yours.

He didn’t say anything then. Of course not. You don’t say things like that to people you barely know.

You just shake hands.

And pretend you don’t already know what their childhood doll looked like.
—

Hans was born screaming.

The kind of scream that shook the delivery room, according to his mother. Angry, inconsolable, like he already knew the world owed him something and hadn’t paid up yet.

And when the nurses finished cleaning him, they found two dolls in the bassinet.

Not one. Two.

No one in the room had ever seen that before.

They weren’t babies like him. They weren’t newborn-shaped bundles of yarn.

The first doll looked like it was a teenager. Fifteen, maybe seventeen. Sharp black eyes. A quiet scowl stitched into his face like it had been sewn from years of focus. His hair was thick and dark an soft that made him look both composed and disgruntled at the same time.

The second doll was younger. About ten. His expression was soft, his short black hair slightly tousled, and his black button eyes were wide and impossibly kind. He looked out of place next to the older one. Fragile, almost.

Two complete opposites.

But both his.

The nurses called it “unusual.”

His grandmother, when she arrived, made the sign of the cross twice and muttered something about “twin threads of fate.” His father said it was “creepy.”

Hans disagreed.

He couldn’t explain it—he was a baby, after all—but somewhere in his gut, he knew. These dolls weren’t strange. They weren’t random. They were right. They were his.
---

He didn’t like people touching them.

By the time he was three, he bit a neighbor for trying to “borrow” one. The older doll had been tucked into the couch cushion, and Hans nearly started a war over it.

“I need them near me,” he would say, stubborn arms crossed, “or they’ll get hurt.”

His parents humored it at first. Thought it was just a phase.

But Hans wasn’t pretending.

He talked to them constantly.

The older one he called Boss. It felt fitting. Like he ran some invisible operation behind Hans’s shoulder. Boss was always watching, always listening, always silent.

The younger one he nicknamed Kid. Kid was for his secrets, his late-night whispers, the stories he didn’t want anyone else to hear. Kid looked like someone who would listen without judging. Someone who knew how to be gentle in a house that often wasn’t.

Hans didn’t know who they were, of course. But deep down, he hoped they were somewhere safe. Somewhere better.

Because he sure as hell wasn’t.
---

He learned early how the dolls worked.

One morning when he was seven, Boss had a faint red scratch across his cheek. It wasn’t there the night before. A day later, a shallow cut appeared on his left hand.

A week later, Kid had a sprained wrist. The bandage on the doll was so well-wrapped, Hans could almost feel the tension of pain.

He began obsessing.

He took notes. Mapped changes. Compared days and injuries, weather and news reports, tournament results. When his mother asked him why he had a notebook filled with doodles of tiny wounds and hairstyle changes, he stared her down like duh.

“They’re out there. Doing stuff. I’m keeping track.”

His teacher once found him with the dolls on his desk, mid-spelling test.

“What are those?” she asked.

“My soulmates,” he answered flatly.

She thought he was joking.

He wasn’t.
---

By the time Hans was ten, he was already a rising chess star. But he didn’t care about trophies as much as he cared about what the dolls were wearing.

Every tournament, he'd unpack them first. Set them on the hotel nightstand. He’d watch to see if their clothes changed.

One time, Boss’s doll wore a tiny tournament badge—“U.S. Junior Blitz” printed in minute threadwork across the lapel.

Hans grinned for hours.

Kid’s doll, on the other hand, often changed into cozy sweaters and school uniforms from places Hans couldn’t place. His soulmate must’ve lived somewhere with proper seasons. Maybe even snow.

“Are you the nerdy one?” Hans asked one night, poking the soft side of Kid’s stomach. “Bet you’re the quiet type.”

Kid, as always, didn’t answer.
---

He grew older. The dolls stayed.

He never got new ones. Some kids did—some had three or even four over the years, as soulmates came into existence. Others lost theirs—eyes X-ed out, thread unraveling.

Hans checked every morning.

He didn’t know what he’d do if they ever went cold.
---

The year he turned sixteen, he entered the international chess circuit.

That’s when he met Hikaru Nakamura for the first time.

The second he saw him across the board, his mouth went dry.

Not because he was famous. Not because of the tension in the room.

But because Hikaru’s eyes were the same black glass that had stared at Hans from his nightstand for sixteen years. Because his hair was tied up the same way. Because his expression—resting scowl and all—was exactly the one Hans used to whisper Boss to in the dark.

He didn’t say anything. Not then.

But he lost that game on purpose.

He had to be sure.
---

The next year, he was paired with Wesley So.

The second soulmate.

The soft one.

Hans almost laughed when he saw him. Wesley’s eyes were exactly the same as Kid’s—big and warm and quietly judging everything while pretending not to.

Wesley had offered a polite handshake.

Hans hadn’t let go until someone coughed.

He was already calling them by their childhood names in his head.

Boss and Kid.

Hikaru and Wesley.

His.
—

Hikaru was twenty-one when he first met his soulmate.

The real one—not the doll.

Not the soft-bodied figure that had lived beside him for fifteen years, sharing a quiet place on his shelf, his desk, the inside of his jacket pocket. That doll had been with him for almost as long as he could remember. Always there. Always whole.

He remembered the day he got the doll like it was a glitch in reality.

He was six.

He blinked once. Twice.

It didn’t vanish.

He didn’t know what that meant then. Didn’t really care. All he knew was that it was his. It had just appeared next to his pillow, not store-bought or gifted.

Fated.
---

He grew up with that doll.

Called him “Dude” at first. Later shortened to “Wes.”

It never talked, of course. But Hikaru talked enough for both of them. Whenever he was upset, he’d sit the doll down and rant. Whenever he was lonely at tournaments, he’d tuck it in his duffel bag and whisper jokes to it in the hotel bathroom, pretending it could laugh.

Sometimes, when he got hurt—little paper cuts or tournament headaches—the doll would shift slightly. A little crease on its brow, or a change in the way it sat.

And sometimes, it got hurt.

A bruised cheek.

A swollen ankle wrapped in thread.

He’d stare at it for hours then. Wondering what the real kid looked like. Wondering who was hurting him. Wondering if that boy had him as a doll too—and if he ever felt safer knowing Hikaru was alive somewhere.

He didn’t get a second doll until he was sixteen. A wild-eyed baby in black with stitched scowl and unkempt hair. That one was a mystery for years.

But Wes? Wes had always been there.
---

Fifteen years later, Hikaru stood in the middle of a reception hall in some random country, watching a chess prodigy nervously introduce himself to the tournament press.

Wesley So.

Sixteen years old. Polite, serious, calm like glass. A fresh face in a world of sharp edges.

And when their eyes met, something in Hikaru snapped into place.

Because those eyes weren’t just familiar—they were home.

Wide, soft, deep black. The kind of eyes he’d seen on that doll every morning since he was a kid.

His chest clenched.

That was him.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t rush over or announce it. He wasn’t dramatic like that, no matter what the internet said.

He watched from across the room. Listened to the way Wesley answered questions—quiet, but clear. Careful. Like someone who’d grown up measuring every word.

Like someone who knew what silence cost.

Hikaru caught himself smiling.

And for the first time in years, he realized his old doll had been smiling too. A slight upturn of the embroidered mouth. Like it knew this day was coming.
---

Later that night, Hikaru stood outside the practice hall, doll in hand, staring at the door Wesley had just walked through.

He didn’t know what he’d say. “Hey, I’ve had a tiny version of you in my sock drawer for fifteen years”? No way.

But as he looked down at the doll—its familiar soft face, its stitched shirt now mirroring the one Wesley wore earlier that day—he felt something shift inside him.

Not romance.

Not even friendship yet.

Just… recognition.

Like a song he didn’t realize he’d been humming all his life had finally found its chorus.
---

That night, he slept with both his dolls beside him. The older one, wild-eyed and scowling. The younger one, peaceful and still.

And in the silence, he whispered:

“Found one.”
—

Wesley had always known that his soulmate was older than him.

He didn’t have to guess. The doll made it obvious.

The first time he saw it, he was still in the hospital, wrapped in soft blue blankets. The nurses had barely finished wiping the blood from his face when it appeared—pop—on the pillow beside him. A tiny doll, dressed in a hoodie and jeans, eyes closed like it was asleep.

It was older. Not baby-faced like him. It looked about five or six.

Asian. With dark brown hair that stuck up in tufts and a grumpy frown stitched across its mouth. Whoever he was, the boy already looked like he’d seen the world and didn’t like what he saw.

Wesley was just a few hours old. But when the doll was taken away to be cleaned and recorded, he screamed like his soul was being split in two.
---

As he grew older, the doll aged alongside him— its presence never faded either. It was always nearby. On the bookshelf during piano lessons. In his backpack during school. Sometimes even hidden under his pillow on nights when he cried too hard to explain why.

He didn’t have friends, not really. Too shy. Too quiet. Too strange.

But he had the doll.

And the doll didn’t ask him to talk. It just was.

It felt like… comfort, distilled into cloth and thread.

He named it “Karu.”

He didn’t know why. Just a syllable that popped into his head one day. Karu. Later he would wonder if that name had always been stitched into his heart, waiting to be remembered.
---

When Wesley got sick, the doll did too.

He’d had a fever so high his vision blurred, but even through the fog, he remembered the nurse gasping—“It’s bleeding.”

The doll’s nose had a faint red thread soaking through.

That was the first time he realized it wasn’t just a toy.

That was the first time he realized the other side of the connection. His soulmate could feel him, too.

He used to imagine the older boy receiving his doll one day. He pictured someone brash but kind, protective, like the older brother Wesley never had. He imagined that older boy staring down bullies and holding his doll protectively, never letting it get hurt.

He imagined a safe place. Someone who would understand him.
---

He didn’t expect to find him in a chess tournament.

Wesley was sixteen when he first qualified for an international invitational. It was intimidating, overwhelming—cameras, spotlights, journalists. But he kept his head down and answered the questions politely. He was here to play, not make a scene.

Then someone called out, “Hikaru Nakamura’s arrived.”

He didn’t look up at first.

But then the air shifted. Like the room folded slightly at the edges.

When Wesley finally glanced toward the doors, his breath caught in his throat.

There he was.

Him.

It wasn’t instant recognition like in the movies. Not thunder or lightning.

But something settled. Something inside him, that had always been folded in a strange way, just… unfolded.

The man who walked in wasn’t exactly the doll. He was taller, of course. Real. Lean and confident, wearing sunglasses indoors like he couldn’t be bothered with anyone’s opinion.

But the eyes. The hair. The presence.

It was like seeing the doll brought to life. Not just similar—identical.

Wesley stared.

And for a second, just a second, Hikaru’s gaze met his.

And held.

Wesley’s cheeks flushed red. He looked away immediately, heart hammering like he’d just dropped his king in blunder.

He felt foolish. Hikaru was famous. Wesley was just a teenager from Bacoor.

But deep in his backpack, zipped into a hidden pocket, was the doll. A little older, a little scuffed. But still holding the same quiet expression it always had.

Still waiting.

Still his.
---

That night, Wesley couldn’t sleep.

He kept rolling over, thinking about the way Hikaru had looked at him. The slight pause. Like he’d known.

Maybe he had.

Maybe he didn’t.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

Wesley would play his best tomorrow.

And for the first time, he wasn’t playing just for the game.

He was playing for the boy who’d held his doll for fifteen years.
—

He didn’t expect the kid to look so… calm.

Not dead-eyed or robotic like the other teenage prodigies. Just quiet. Quiet in a way that made Hikaru’s brain itch. Like there was something hidden beneath the stillness—still water with an undertow.

The kid's name was Wesley So.

Hikaru had seen it on the brackets before. A Filipino sixteen-year-old with a decent Elo and an eerily clean record. But names on paper didn’t prepare you for that first in-person glance.

When he walked past the rows of players, Hikaru paused—just for a second—when he saw the boy sitting there with his fingers curled over a travel chessboard.

Black hair.

Soft black eyes.

And even though Hikaru had never seen him before, something pulled at his memory like a loose thread.

Like a glitch in the world.

Something misaligned.

 

---

He made it all the way to his assigned table before he realized.

The doll.

His doll—the one that had appeared when he was six years old and had been haunting his shelves, bags, and glove compartment ever since.

It had black hair and eyes.

It looked about five or six.

Asian.

Hikaru had never understood how he could have a soulmate that young. At first, he thought it was a cosmic mistake. He had other dolls since—two others, actually—but none of them matched the deep confusion that the first one brought.

It had always felt like a mystery he didn’t want to solve.

Until now.

Now the mystery was sitting across the tournament hall from him.

And he was real.
---

They didn’t speak the first day.

Hikaru made sure of that.

He avoided eye contact. Left immediately after his matches. Kept his headphones in even when there was no music playing.

But the next day, fate—or the organizers—decided otherwise.

They were paired for a rapid round.

Wesley So vs. Hikaru Nakamura.

Board 3.

 

Wesley was already seated when Hikaru approached. Polite, motionless, and poised like a glass of still water set too close to the edge of the table.

"Hi," Hikaru said, sitting down and adjusting the clock. He tried to keep his tone casual.

Wesley looked up. “Hi.”

That was it.

No bow. No handshake. Just hi. And Hikaru saw it again—that thing behind his eyes. Not fear. Not awe. Just knowing. Quiet knowing.

Hikaru moved his pawn forward.

The match began.

 

It was the quietest 25 minutes of his life.

No words. Just pieces.

But Hikaru noticed the way Wesley played. The deliberation. The restraint. Like he was trying to make the board comfortable for both of them.

And when Wesley blundered slightly on move 32—a minor knight misstep—Hikaru realized something else.

He’s nervous.

Not because I’m a grandmaster.

But because of me.
---

After the match—draw, barely—Hikaru stood up, hesitated, then leaned in slightly.

“You play clean,” he said.

Wesley blinked up at him. “Thank you.”

"Do you always carry that little green pouch in your backpack?" Hikaru asked, letting the words slip before he could stop them.

Wesley froze.

Then slowly nodded. “…Yeah.”

Something sparked between them—recognition, not just familiarity.

"I had a doll like that once," Hikaru added, as casually as he could manage. "Looked kind of like you."

A beat passed.

Wesley’s lips parted, just slightly.

Then: “I still have mine. He looked like you. He still does.”
---

They didn’t say anything for a long while after that.

No crying. No dramatic hug. Just the sound of players moving chairs and clocks ticking.

But when Wesley stood and bowed slightly, a smile flickered on his face—small and fragile and real.

“I’m glad you remember.”

And Hikaru, for the first time in years, felt the world line up correctly.

Like all those nights holding the doll and wondering if it meant anything—

Finally meant something.
—

Wesley had never liked small talk.

He didn’t understand how people filled silences so easily—how they could laugh with strangers and not feel raw afterward. For him, words were something to be chosen. Measured, stitched together like quiet patches in a quilt.

But with Hikaru, he didn’t feel like he had to sew anything.

The space between them was already lined with something softer than familiarity.

Recognition.

And that was enough.

After their first conversation—if it could even be called that—Hikaru didn’t disappear.

He wasn’t warm, exactly. He didn’t pat Wesley’s head or act like a long-lost brother. But he lingered.

After rounds, he started hanging around the water cooler longer than necessary.

Sometimes, Wesley would sit across from him in the practice room without a word exchanged for an hour. Just two boards. Two clocks. Silence.

But it didn’t feel empty.
---

One evening, Hikaru walked over after dinner, holding a paper bag and a chessboard under his arm.

“Want to play?”

Wesley blinked. “You just had five rounds today.”

“Yeah,” Hikaru said. “But none of those were you.”

They played on the floor of the hotel hallway, backs against the wall, tournament badges still hanging around their necks.

Wesley lost. Twice. But Hikaru didn’t gloat.

Instead, he leaned his head back and asked, “What do you do when you’re not playing?”

Wesley thought. “Read. Or… just walk. Sometimes I write short prayers.”

“Prayers?” Hikaru asked. Not mocking. Just surprised.

Wesley nodded. “For people I miss. Or people I hope are okay.”

There was a long pause.

Then Hikaru murmured, “You ever write one for me?”

Wesley turned red to his ears. “I didn’t know your name until last week.”

“But you knew me.”

“…Yes.”

Hikaru looked away, but Wesley caught the faint twitch of a smile.

“I… I called you Hik,” Wesley admitted quietly.

Hikaru laughed. Not loud—just a brief exhale. “That’s better than what I named yours.”

Wesley tilted his head.

“Dude,” Hikaru said, grinning. “I called you Dude for, like, five years.”

Wesley let out a soft laugh, his first real one since the tournament began. It made Hikaru’s smile grow wider.

"Glad you upgraded me," Wesley mumbled.

“Hey,” Hikaru said, nudging him lightly with a foot. “You always looked like a Wesley. Even before I knew.”

They sat in silence after that.

Not awkward—just quiet. Threaded with the kind of peace that can only grow between people who’ve been carrying each other in secret for years.

Wesley glanced down at the little doll peeking from his pocket. The same one he’d pressed close to his chest through countless airport rides and chess camps.

He saw it now on Hikaru, too—a tiny dollhead tucked into his jacket, barely visible. Black hair. His face.

They still carried each other.

And now, they were learning what that meant.

Later, Hikaru stood and stretched. “Same time tomorrow?”

Wesley nodded.

As Hikaru turned to go, he paused and glanced over his shoulder.

“I don’t really talk about the dolls much,” he said. “People think it’s too sentimental.”

Wesley shrugged. “I don’t talk to people much anyway.”

Hikaru’s smile turned softer. “Lucky me.”

And with that, he walked off, leaving Wesley sitting under a dim hallway light, heart a little steadier, like someone had finally mended the fraying thread between who he’d been and who he was becoming.
—

The thing about being soulmates with Hikaru Nakamura was…

People noticed.

They didn’t say anything outright—no one dared—but you could feel it. The way the air in a room shifted when Hikaru entered. The way heads turned. And now… the way they turned to Wesley too.

He’d spent most of his chess life in quiet places. Provincial tournaments in Cavite. Long silent bus rides. Libraries where the only sound was the clicking of a mouse as he scrolled through puzzles. He had learned to be invisible, and he liked it that way.

But invisibility didn’t work when Hikaru sat beside you.

And Hikaru—despite the aloof sunglasses, the curt nods, the earphones always in—was the kind of person who made gravity feel personal.

He had presence. Not just fame, but pull. And now, that pull included Wesley.
---

It started small.

Someone at the venue offered him free coffee. Wesley declined.

A GM he’d never spoken to before asked him how he liked Europe. Wesley mumbled something polite.

A well-known streamer slid into the practice room and “accidentally” picked the board next to his.

None of this happened before. Not before Hikaru sat beside him in the hallway, not before they laughed about the dolls, not before Hikaru clapped a hand on Wesley’s shoulder and said, “C’mon, we’ll warm up together.”

Suddenly, he wasn’t “that quiet Filipino kid.”

He was Hikaru’s.

Wesley wasn’t stupid. He knew how this worked.

Soulmates didn’t choose each other—not in this world.

The dolls did.

But the public? The public decided who was worthy of their soulmate. And being Hikaru’s meant everyone looked twice now. Once to recognize him.

And a second time to measure him.

Was he good enough? Strong enough? Cool enough?

Would he embarrass the connection?

He could hear it in the silence, in the polite smiles and the too-careful questions. It was as though people were trying to figure out if Hikaru had gotten a defective one.

Wesley wanted to hide.

But the problem was: Hikaru didn’t let him.

Hikaru didn’t look clingy. Not with the way he rolled his eyes and called everyone “bro” and talked like nothing mattered.

But Wesley had been carrying the doll for sixteen years. He knew the shape of that presence better than anyone.

Hikaru was the kind of person who didn’t ask if he could sit with you. He just did.

He didn’t say, “I’ll come with you.” He just walked at your pace.

He didn’t say, “Don’t talk to him,” but he stood at Wesley’s back like a looming shadow until others melted away.

Not possessive.

Just… protective.

Like someone who’d waited a long time and wasn’t about to let go now.

And so Wesley was trying very hard not to look in the direction of the top players’ lounge today.

He could feel them. Magnus, with that distant smirk. Fabiano, always watching behind his glasses. Ian, lounging like a bored prince. They were all inside, chatting and laughing behind the half-open glass door.

If he looked now—just once—someone would wave him over.

And Hikaru, sitting beside him on the bench with his feet up and hoodie bunched under his neck, would pretend not to notice.

But Wesley would feel the slight shift in his posture. The sudden silence.

Because Hikaru had that kind of gravity.

And Wesley had spent too long wondering what it meant to be seen by him.

So instead of looking toward the lounge, Wesley kept his eyes fixed on the chess puzzle in front of him.

“Bishop f6?” he offered softly.

Hikaru peeked at the board. Then grinned. “Brutal. I like it.”

Wesley smiled, small and secret.

Gravity, after all, went both ways.
—

It was a strange thing, watching the best chess players in the world orbit around a man who didn't seem to realize he was their sun.

Hikaru, as usual, was leaning back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world, hoodie strings in his mouth, fidgeting with a knight piece between his fingers. He looked bored. Utterly bored.

But Wesley had eyes.

And what he saw?

It was almost ridiculous.
---

Magnus walked in and immediately made a beeline toward their side of the prep room. Not to greet anyone else, not to grab coffee. Just straight to Hikaru, with that careless grin that stretched wider when Hikaru barely acknowledged him.

“Still alive?” Magnus asked, tossing himself into the chair beside him like they were childhood friends.

Hikaru didn't even look up. “Unfortunately.”

Magnus laughed like that was the cleverest thing anyone had said all day.

Wesley glanced away, biting back a sigh.

Then there was Fabiano. Always quiet. Always calculated. He never said much in public. But the moment Hikaru entered a room, his eyes would drift. Even when he was talking to Levon or reviewing an opening, they shifted—subtle, like a pawn waiting to promote, watching from the edges of the board.

Wesley once saw Fabiano frown for an entire hour just because Hikaru sat beside someone else.

Then, of course, Ian.

Ian was the least subtle of all.

Loud. Laughing. Competitive. He always had to be heard, even when Hikaru didn’t respond.

Wesley had overheard him once in the hallway, loudly declaring, “Hikaru and I are due for another rematch. I play better when he's watching.”

When Hikaru smirked in response, Ian’s face lit up like it meant something—like it mattered.

Wesley noticed it all.

The casual touches.

The pointed questions.

The way Anish always had some inside joke ready, always nudging Hikaru with his elbow, leaning close like Hikaru was a secret worth whispering about.

Even Levon, always warm and poetic, had a way of lingering when Hikaru spoke. The kind of listening people only do when they’re a little too invested.

The strangest part?

Hikaru didn’t notice. He genuinely didn’t see it. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care.

Either way, it left Wesley baffled.

Because to him, the signs were obvious—blaring. The way these powerful, brilliant men softened around Hikaru. The way their eyes sharpened when someone else got his attention. The way they tried, in their own languages, to earn something from him: a laugh, a glance, a word.

Wesley wasn’t sure what they all wanted, but he knew what it looked like.

They liked him.

A lot.

And Hikaru, somehow, went around the world thinking he was just “that guy people play against.”
---

Wesley folded his arms across his chest and watched as Magnus leaned over Hikaru’s shoulder to “check out a puzzle” that Hikaru wasn’t even working on.

He watched as Ian sauntered over with two energy drinks and left one by Hikaru’s elbow without a word.

He watched Fabiano hover near the window, pretending to study the light but glancing at Hikaru’s reflection in the glass.

And all Wesley could think was:

How is it possible to be this oblivious?
---

Later, as they walked back to the hotel, Wesley kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk and muttered, “Do you even notice how they all act around you?”

Hikaru blinked. “Who?”

“Magnus. Ian. Fabiano. Levon. Anish.” Wesley glanced up at him, slightly exasperated. “All of them.”

Hikaru squinted. “What about them?”

“They like you.”

Hikaru snorted. “No, they don’t.”

“They do.”

“They’re just competitive.”

Wesley stopped walking. “They’re not competing with you, Hikaru. They’re competing with each other.”

Hikaru looked at him, confused, like Wesley had spoken a completely different opening variation.

And that was when Wesley realized:

Hikaru wasn’t ignoring them.

He just didn’t believe he could be the kind of person people wanted.

And somehow, that made Wesley ache more than all the flirting combined.

Because Hikaru didn’t see himself the way they did.

And Wesley—Wesley was starting to see that maybe he did.

Maybe he always had.

Chapter 2

Hans was sixteen when he met his soulmates.

Sixteen. Loud. Unpolished. All sharp edges and untamed energy. A kid who talked too much, moved too fast, and rarely, if ever, stopped to feel.

Until he saw them.

Wesley So and Hikaru Nakamura.

He knew them both by name, of course. Anyone who breathed chess knew them. But knowing a name was different from recognizing the way your soul bent toward someone.

And when Hans saw them together—Hikaru leaning against the side of a tournament booth, Wesley quietly beside him with that calm, unreadable expression—something inside Hans jolted like a bell struck too hard.

It wasn’t attraction. Not in the way people assumed.

It was gravity.

Like he had spent his whole life slightly off-balance, and now, suddenly, the universe realigned. It was jarring. Like the dolls he’d been carrying for years had stepped out of their little velvet boxes and into reality.

The first time he’d seen them, he didn’t speak. He just… stared.

Wesley had been talking quietly, eyes down, and Hikaru had been nodding, mouth chewing a hoodie string. Neither noticed Hans. Not really.

But his dolls did.

They pulsed. That strange, warm heartbeat through fabric. Hans had carried them since infancy—his tiny Wesley doll always tucked in a flannel pocket, the Hikaru kept in a sealed box under his bed, untouched but never ignored.

He remembered being seven and lifting the Hikaru doll for the first time, whispering, “What kind of person are you?”

He remembered pressing the Wesley doll to his chest after bad days, like its soft quietness could keep him from boiling over.

And now… now they were real.

And older.
---

Hikaru was thirty-one, and it showed. Not in wrinkles or tiredness—he still had that boyish grin, that impish sharpness in his eyes—but in the way he carried himself. Like he didn’t care what the world thought, but he knew the world was watching anyway.

And Wesley was twenty-six, already solid with calm strength. He had a monk-like stillness. Like he was always praying with his silence. And when he looked at Hikaru, it was different.

Not romantic. Not infatuated.

Just… devoted.
---

Hans had stood there, frozen, hands clenched in his jacket, trying to figure out what to do.

What do you do when the people you’ve been connected to your entire life are real and close enough to touch—but you’re a hurricane, and they look like they’ve already found shelter in each other?

Hans had always assumed soulmates would be discovered together. That they’d all be the same age, or close enough. That they'd grow up side-by-side.

He hadn’t expected to walk in like an afterthought.

He hadn’t expected to feel like a child crashing into a constellation.
---

He found himself staring again the next day. Hikaru caught him this time.

The older man raised an eyebrow, then looked over at Wesley and said something Hans couldn’t hear. Wesley didn’t turn, but Hans felt it.

A soft recognition in the air. A ripple through his soulstrings.

He looked down at his bag. Both dolls were warm.

Hans swallowed hard.

He wasn’t ready for this.

Not when they looked so complete without him.

Still, he didn’t walk away.

Because even if he didn’t know how to stand beside them yet—

He knew he belonged there.

Somehow.
—

There were many things Hikaru Nakamura had been called in his life.

Brilliant. Reckless. Fast. Unstoppable. Arrogant. Infuriating.

But no one had ever referred to him as maternal.

And yet here he was, watching a sixteen-year-old Hans Niemann stomp across the training hall like someone had personally insulted his ancestors, muttering curses under his breath, hoodie sleeves bunched at the elbows, and fists clenched like he was ready to bite someone.

It was like watching a very aggressive chihuahua try to pick a fight with a bulldozer.

Hikaru blinked once.

Then again.

Yep. Still a chihuahua.

Hans had all the energy of a bottle rocket. Explosive. Unpredictable. Loud.

And what made it worse—what made it almost charming, in a chaotic gremlin sort of way—was that Hans was smart. Really smart. Sharp-eyed and quick-witted, even when he pretended he wasn’t listening.

Hikaru had tried to ignore it at first.

There was a vibe he was used to in elite circles. Polite distance. Passive-aggressive formality. Calculated ego. Hans was the opposite of that—raw and unfiltered and full of snark. Like the chess world was a board someone flipped over and Hans just picked up the pieces and pocketed them out of spite.

He was the exact kind of person Hikaru usually avoided.

But the dolls didn’t lie.
---

Hikaru still remembered the day his Hans doll appeared.

It had been late. Sixteen years old. He’d already had Wesley’s for a decade by then—quiet, warm-eyed, dependable Wesley, whose doll rarely made a fuss unless Hikaru got hurt or did something especially stupid (which happened a lot).

But that morning, Hikaru woke up with a second doll lying at the foot of his bed.

It was smaller than Wesley’s had been when it appeared. Younger. Fiercer.

Black hair. Black eyes.

Face scowling in permanent judgment.

The thing practically vibrated with disdain. Even as a doll.

Hikaru stared at it for ten minutes before finally muttering, “Oh god, it’s gonna be a gremlin, isn’t it?”

He hadn’t been wrong.
---

Now, watching Hans in real life, it all made sense.

He was brash and bold and absolutely unbearable in interviews, and Hikaru knew the exact moment he realized Hans was his soulmate was the exact moment he stopped being annoyed by any of it.

Instead, he found it funny.

Weirdly endearing.

Even when Hans tried to start beef with people three times his age.

Even when he was practically vibrating with righteous teenage fury over a botched pairing.

Even now, when he was scowling at the vending machine because it ate his money and Hikaru could hear him threatening to “blow the whole thing up.”

Hikaru stood, walked over, and tapped the side of the machine.

The bag of chips dropped.

Hans blinked. “You just hit it?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a wizard.”

Hikaru snorted. “I’m your elder. Show some respect.”

Hans rolled his eyes but took the chips. “You look like a raccoon in a hoodie.”

“And you look like a rabid gremlin with trust issues,” Hikaru shot back.

They stared at each other.

Then Hans grinned.

A little too wide. A little too unguarded.

And something in Hikaru’s chest pulled tight.
---

He wasn’t used to this.

Soulmates had always felt like a myth dressed up in silk and ceremony. A doll you kept somewhere sacred. A metaphor for the rare, perfect connection you earned after years of patience.

But Hans was neither sacred nor patient.

Hans was chaos.

And somehow… it fit.

Not like a crown.

But like a bruise that told you exactly where the fight had been.
---

“You’re gonna be a problem,” Hikaru muttered, half to himself.

Hans beamed like he’d just been knighted.

“Good.”
—

The first time Wesley properly saw Hans speak, he almost dropped his tea.

It wasn’t that Hans was loud—well, he was—or that he had a particular presence—he definitely did—it was just…

He reminded Wesley of someone.

No.

Not just someone.

Someone very specific.

Someone currently sprawled across the prep room couch with his hoodie pulled over half his face, humming to himself while idly spinning a bishop between two fingers.

Someone Wesley had spent years trying to ground with calm words and steady presence.

Hikaru.

Hans Niemann was a smaller, somehow louder, more volatile, and far less filtered version of Hikaru Nakamura.

Wesley blinked as Hans launched into a rapid-fire rant about tournament pairings, fide politics, and something to do with yogurt.

Hikaru, from his corner, didn’t even lift his head.

“Breathe, chihuahua,” he said flatly.

Hans didn’t miss a beat. “I am breathing. I’m breathing the injustice.”

Wesley coughed into his cup to hide a laugh.
---

There were… similarities. Obvious ones.

Both had zero verbal brakes. Both had that hardwired contrarian streak that made them argue for the fun of it. Both pretended they didn’t care, then proceeded to care a lot, just in extremely roundabout, emotionally inefficient ways.

But there were differences too.

Hikaru was controlled chaos. He knew where the line was—he just didn’t respect it.

Hans didn’t even see the line.

Wesley watched them interact like someone witnessing a mirror argue with its reflection. The rhythm, the jabs, the energy—it all crackled between them like static.

It was… weirdly endearing.

And exhausting.

So, so exhausting.
---

Wesley had thought Hikaru was difficult to handle on his own.

Now there were two of them.

Two temperamental, brilliant, soul-bonded chaos goblins—one with thirty years of chess fire behind him and the other with the emotional self-control of a spicy toddler.

And somehow…

They liked each other.

Wesley wasn’t sure if that was heartwarming or terrifying.

Possibly both.
---

At lunch, Hans poked at his food like it had personally offended him.

"This is garbage. I can feel myself losing brain cells."

"It’s tofu and steamed rice," Wesley said gently.

"It tastes like the color beige."

Hikaru, mouth full, mumbled, "Beige is a color of peace. Respect it."

Hans looked personally betrayed.

Wesley sighed and handed him half of his banana bread.

Hans blinked.

“…Thanks.”

Wesley nodded, quietly amused. "Don't tell Hikaru."

"I'm telling him immediately."

“You’re both children,” Wesley muttered.

Hikaru threw a straw wrapper at him. “You knew what you signed up for.”
---

And maybe he did.

Maybe this was what having soulmates meant.

Not perfection. Not romanticized promises.

But this.

A constant balancing act.

A chihuahua. A raccoon. And the tired, quiet man between them who had once cried when someone took his doll away.

Wesley sipped his tea.

They were ridiculous.

But they were his.
—

Being Hikaru Nakamura’s soulmate was like being strapped to a comet, launched into the atmosphere, and told to smile for the cameras while your eyebrows caught fire.

Being Wesley So’s soulmate, on the other hand, was like quietly being crowned a saint and then being held to that standard every second for the rest of your life.

Hans wasn’t sure which was worse.

But he was starting to suspect it was both at once.

When the world found out Hans Niemann had two soulmates—two of the most prominent players in the chess universe—it became a circus.

The media called it destiny.

Fans called it scandal.

Chess Twitter called it fake.

“Of course the troublemaker got paired with the two golden boys,” one article snarked.

“Hans must be riding their coattails.”

“They don’t even look compatible.”

Hans read the headlines and shrugged.

He’d been hated before. He could take it.

But what he couldn’t quite stomach—what made his jaw twitch and his spine coil—was the difference.

The way people praised Wesley.

The way they worshipped Hikaru.

And the way they judged him.
---

When people talked about Wesley, it was always with reverence. “Soft-spoken.” “Elegant.” “Disciplined.” They called him a prodigy, a saint, a breath of fresh air in a competitive world.

When people talked about Hikaru, it was with awe and anxiety. “Brilliant but erratic.” “Unstoppable.” “Unpredictable.” He was the storm, the headline-maker, the legend. The King

And when people talked about Hans?

They said he didn’t belong.
---

They couldn’t fathom it. Not the bond. Not the connection.

Because how could a reckless, blunt teenager possibly be tied by soul-thread to someone like Wesley So?

And how dare Hikaru Nakamura allow it?

“Must be some kind of anomaly,” a commentator said once, unaware Hans was two doors down.

Hans almost punched a wall.

 

He started noticing it in the little things.

When Wesley stood near him in press conferences, people looked at Wesley like a shield, like he was calming Hans down just by existing.

When Hikaru touched his shoulder or cracked a joke at his expense, people assumed Hikaru was trying to “handle” him.

No one considered, for a second, that maybe Hans belonged there too.

That maybe he offered something just as real.
---

The only people who didn’t treat him like a problem were, ironically, his soulmates.

Wesley never judged. He didn’t say much at all, but when Hans sat beside him, there was quiet. Not silence. Just peace. A space that said, “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Hikaru, meanwhile, was chaos. But his kind of chaos. Their banter was its own language. Their fights always ended with snacks thrown across the room and half-hearted apologies muttered under laughter.

They made Hans feel known.
---

Still.

Still, there were days it got under his skin.

When a reporter asked him if he ever felt "inferior" to his soulmates.

When a fan asked Wesley, in front of Hans, what it was like being “stuck” with someone so different.

When cameras caught Hikaru rolling his eyes after Hans snapped at a an arbiter, and people online clipped it like it was proof Hikaru regretted their bond.

Hans almost threw his phone across the hotel room.
---

But then Wesley knocked once, entered without a word, and placed a warm cup of salabat in front of him.

“You’re overthinking,” Wesley said softly.

“You didn’t even ask what’s wrong.”

“I didn’t have to.”

Hans stared.

Then muttered, “Thanks.”

Wesley nodded, moved to leave, then paused. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“You’re not like either of us.” A small smile. “And that’s not a flaw.”

Later that night, Hikaru shoved a banana in Hans’ face and said, “Eat something before you implode. You’ve got your self-destruction face on.”

Hans flipped him off and took the banana anyway.

They bickered for twenty minutes straight after that.
---

Being Hikaru’s soulmate meant fire. Storms. A thousand eyes watching, wondering how you’d survive.

Being Wesley’s soulmate meant quiet pressure. Expectations. The weight of invisible halos.

But being both meant…

Maybe it wasn’t about how the world saw him at all.

Maybe it was about how they saw him.

And for once in his life—

That was enough.
—

Hans was not a saint.

He never pretended to be one.

He was prickly, sharp-tongued, and utterly unapologetic about the space he carved out in the chess world. There were people who thought he was too brash, too young, too confident. There were people who hated his name on sight. And to those people, Hans usually had two responses:

1. A winning smile.

2. A crushing checkmate.

But there was one person who brought out something special in him. Something darker, pettier, and far more satisfying.

Magnus Carlsen.
---

There were rivalries.

And then there was this.

Hans didn’t know when exactly it started, but ever since he entered the same competitive orbit as Magnus, it was like setting a lion and a raccoon in the same cage. And not even a noble raccoon. A gremlin raccoon that knew exactly how to set fire to someone’s carefully curated dignity.

Magnus hated him.

And Hans?

Hans thrived on it.

But nothing—nothing—was more delicious than when Magnus had to sit there, twitching, while Hikaru Nakamura doted on Hans like he was some helpless little puppy fresh off the adoption truck.
---

It started small.

A single, offhand comment after a match.

“You okay, Hans?” Hikaru had asked, ruffling his hair absently, like he didn’t just demolish a grandmaster in thirty-nine moves.

Hans, sensing an opportunity, blinked up at him. “My head kinda hurts…”

And just like that, Hikaru had pulled him closer, tugged his hood up, and said, “Take it easy, kid.”

Hans had seen Magnus watching from the corner of the room. Jaw clenched. Eyebrow twitching. Entire posture stiffening like he’d bitten into a lemon laced with betrayal.

And Hans—sweet, devilish Hans—smiled.

It escalated from there.

Every time Magnus was around, Hans leaned in.

“Can I sit next to you, Hika?”
“I don’t like this lighting, it makes my eyes tired.”
“My hands are cold, Hika, feel.”

Each time, Hikaru—infuriatingly warm beneath all that sarcasm—responded without hesitation. Jacket draped over Hans’s shoulders. Snacks handed over. Even water bottles opened for him when he said, “The cap’s too tight.”

Wesley saw through it immediately.

“You’re provoking him,” Wesley said once, deadpan, while Hans was fake-pouting into Hikaru’s shoulder.

Hans grinned. “He deserves it.”

Wesley didn’t argue.
---

The real highlight, though, came during a post-tournament dinner.

Magnus was seated across from Hikaru. Hans plopped down beside Hikaru uninvited and slumped against his side with a very audible sigh.

“I’m tired,” he whined, chin resting on Hikaru’s shoulder.

Hikaru didn’t even flinch. “Tough match?”

“No. Boring match. I miss Wesley.”

“Aw,” Hikaru chuckled, handing him a dumpling with chopsticks. “Want me to feed you?”

“Yes,” Hans said sweetly. “My arms are tired.”

Magnus made a sound that was somewhere between a cough and a scream.

Hans made eye contact with him over Hikaru’s shoulder and smiled with the serenity of a child who just spilled grape juice on a white carpet and blamed the dog.
---

It wasn’t about jealousy. Not really.

Hans didn’t want to “win” anything. Didn’t care if Magnus liked him (he didn’t) or respected him (unlikely). But there was a power in it. In knowing that the man who stood at the top of the world, the so-called King of Chess, was slowly being driven to madness by a smirking teenager and his overly affectionate soulmate.

Hans could almost hear Magnus’s thoughts.

Why does Hikaru like him so much? Why does Wesley let this happen?

The answer was simple.

Because Hans was theirs.

Because Hikaru did like him that much.

And because Wesley let it happen only when he found it funny. Which was often.
---

Later that night, Hans crawled onto the couch between his soulmates, half-asleep and smug.

“You’re evil,” Wesley muttered as Hans curled up like a cat.

Hans smirked against his arm. “I’m adorable.”

“You weaponize baby energy,” Hikaru muttered, eyes still on his phone. “And I fall for it every time.”

Hans yawned. “You love it.”

Hikaru grumbled something in Japanese, but Hans caught the warmth behind it.

He closed his eyes with a content sigh.

Being loved was nice.

Being annoying while loved was even better.
—

It happened after round four of the Grand Invitational.

Hans had just beaten Magnus in a brutal game that left commentators blinking and boards buzzing. It was sharp, clean, venomous—a win carved with precision and defiance.

He should’ve been proud.

Instead, all he remembered was Magnus standing up too quickly, his chair scraping back with the force of something personal.

“You’re not that good,” Magnus said.

Hans froze.

The room hadn’t gone quiet—yet. There were still whispers, applause, the crackle of broadcast equipment. But to Hans, everything tunneled around those words.

Magnus didn’t stop there.

“You cheated.”

The room did go silent then.

You could hear a bishop drop.

Hans’s fingers curled into fists, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and rage. “What did you just say?”

“I’m not playing in a tournament where someone like you can win like that,” Magnus snapped. “It’s suspicious. Too precise. Not natural. Like you had help.”

The implication wasn’t subtle.

It wasn’t meant to be.

And now everyone—organizers, players, fans—turned their heads.

Not to Magnus.

Not to Hans.

But to Hikaru.

Because Hikaru Nakamura wasn’t just one of the greatest minds in chess.

He was Hans’s soulmate.

He was also Magnus’s long-time rival, old friend, former teammate, and occasional source of explosive chaos.

Everyone wanted to know:

Which way does Hikaru fall?

Does he defend the golden king?

Or the “troublesome brat” who'd been hated since the moment he stepped into the spotlight?

Hans felt it then—that pressure. That spotlight-shaped burn in the center of his chest. It was the same weight he always carried, only now it bore expectation.

Magnus was waiting.

Wesley was still seated, unmoving, but his eyes were locked onto Hikaru’s back.

Hikaru stood slowly. Not with drama. Not with power.

But with finality.

He walked forward, past the players, past the arbiters, right to the space between Magnus and Hans.

Magnus raised his chin.

Hans couldn’t breathe.

And then—

Hikaru turned to Hans.

And gently, without a single word, pulled Hans behind him. Like a barrier. Like a choice. Like a declaration.

The air snapped.

Gasps. Murmurs. Shock.

Magnus’s expression twisted. “You’re choosing him?”

Hikaru looked over his shoulder, voice low but razor-sharp. “I’m not choosing. I’ve already chosen.”

“You know what this looks like.”

“I don’t care what it looks like,” Hikaru said, stepping closer to Magnus now. “You crossed a line. You don’t get to throw that kind of accusation without proof.”

“He beat me with perfect accuracy!”

“So have I,” Hikaru said. “You accusing me next?”

Silence.

Magnus’s jaw clenched. “He’s your soulmate. Of course you’ll protect him.”

Hikaru’s stare didn’t waver. “Exactly. So unless you have hard evidence, back off. This isn’t strategy. This is slander.”

Hans, standing behind Hikaru, felt something cold in his chest melt away.

Not because someone defended him.

But because Hikaru didn’t hesitate.

He had thrown himself between Hans and the world.

Not for optics. Not for politics.

But because he believed him.

Later, when the organizers intervened and the tournament was placed under review, Hans sat beside Hikaru in the hotel lounge. Silent. Tired.

Wesley joined them without a word and placed Hans’s doll on his lap.

Its head had been slightly damaged during travel—scratched on one cheek. Wesley had bandaged it.

Hans blinked.

Hikaru handed him a mango smoothie without looking.

“I’d fight the pope for you,” he said casually.

Hans choked. “Why the pope?”

“Because you’d probably say something that’d get us both excommunicated.”

Hans laughed, small and unsteady.

But it was real.

The world could scream all it wanted.

Hans didn’t need its approval.

He had Hikaru’s fire.

Wesley’s quiet.

And that was enough.
—

Wesley wasn’t confused often.

He didn’t like being confused. He liked logic. Order. Clean solutions, clean slates, clean endings.

But right now, he sat at the corner of the tournament lounge, cup of hot tea in hand, watching as Hans scowled into his mango smoothie and Hikaru pretended not to hover—and he was completely, utterly, thoroughly confused.

Not because of Hans.

Not because of Hikaru.

But because of Magnus.

Magnus Carlsen, reigning golden boy of chess, five-time World Champion, giant of the game, who for the past decade had done a very poor job of hiding a very obvious, very long-standing crush on Hikaru Nakamura.

Everyone knew.

Literally everyone.

You could drop a piece of bread into any chess server, and someone would joke about “Magnus’s tsundere arc.”

Even before Wesley met Hikaru, he’d heard about it.

How Magnus watched Hikaru’s streams with the intensity of a rejected boyfriend. How he made snarky jabs during interviews that only ever happened when Hikaru was mentioned (Hell, even interviews that didn't have Hikaru, Magnus still would manage to bring him up). How he and Hikaru would spend years orbiting each other—rivals, partners, enemies, teammates—never landing, never moving on.

And now—now—Magnus was surprised that Hikaru had chosen Hans?

That he’d picked his soulmate over some awkward almost-rivalry-turned-long-term-pining?

Wesley sipped his tea and tried not to laugh.
---

It wasn’t even that Wesley liked Hans right away.

Hans was loud. Reckless. A sparkplug with teeth.

But he was real. Hans didn’t try to impress or flatter. He was rude in the way people are when they’re too tired to play nice. And over time, Wesley had grown used to him. Grew fond of him. Enough to know when the brat was genuinely hurting and when he was just acting dramatic because Hikaru hadn’t bought him boba.

Wesley understood Hans in a way that Magnus never understood Hikaru.

And that was what puzzled him.

How could Magnus be so smart—so brilliant—and miss the most basic, fundamental truth about Hikaru?

That Hikaru Nakamura was insane about the people he loved.

He didn’t show it like Wesley did, quiet and steady. He didn’t show it like Hans did, loud and demanding.

Hikaru showed love the way a dragon guards treasure: violently, excessively, and with a very real willingness to incinerate anyone who got too close.

It wasn’t cute. It was alarming.

When Hikaru chose you, you didn’t get half of him. You got all of him. Chaos, teeth, loyalty, pride. You got the possessiveness, the defense mechanisms, the late-night texts asking if you’d eaten, and the thinly veiled threats to anyone who made you cry.

And Magnus—of all people—should’ve known that.

So why did he act surprised?

Why did he accuse Hans?

Wesley shook his head slowly.

Maybe it wasn’t about Hans.

Maybe Magnus was never aiming at Hans.

Maybe he was lashing out because deep down, he knew that no matter how many games they played, how many years passed, how many times he edged closer to Hikaru’s orbit—

—he was never going to be chosen.

Not over Hans.

And certainly not over Wesley.

Because here’s the thing:

Hikaru always chose his soulmates.

Even when it was inconvenient. Even when it hurt. Even when it burned down everything else around him.

That was just who he was.

Wesley watched as Hikaru tilted Hans’s head back to make sure he was drinking water. As Hans swatted his hand away with a muttered “I’m fine,” and Hikaru rolled his eyes but stayed close.

Wesley sipped his tea and smiled.

Honestly?

Magnus should’ve known better.

Maybe Wesley had misread Magnus before.

Maybe he’d assumed too much—that Magnus was always calculating, always precise, always three steps ahead in every room, in every match, in every interaction. Maybe Wesley forgot that even kings could act like children when they were hurting.

Or maybe—Wesley thought as he watched Magnus slump in his seat, face stony and unreadable under the overhead lights—maybe this was the part Magnus never learned how to calculate.

Hikaru.

Hikaru was not a puzzle you could solve. He was not a mountain you climbed once and conquered. He moved—sharp, warm, infuriating, brilliant. He picked people with his gut and stuck by them with claws.

And Magnus had always wanted his attention.

That, Wesley understood now.

Not in the obvious ways—not in the interviews or the headlines. Not even in their infamous games, though those certainly fed something between them.

It was subtler. Sadder.

Wesley remembered how Magnus always walked a little slower into a room if Hikaru was already in it. How he always brought up Hikaru’s name unprompted in interviews, like tossing out bait. How he’d post memes about him online and pretend he didn’t care if people noticed.

Magnus didn’t know how to ask for closeness.

So he made himself indispensable instead.

And what’s more indispensable to Hikaru than a rival?
---

Wesley stirred his tea slowly, gaze lowered.

Maybe that’s why Magnus climbed so high, so fast. Not just for the glory. Not just for the wins.

But because being the King of Chess was the second-best thing you could be in Hikaru Nakamura’s life.

The first was soulmates.

And Magnus wasn’t that.

No matter how much he wanted to be.

Wesley didn’t pity him. Not really.

Magnus had a throne. He had talent. He had people. He would be okay.

But even Wesley, quiet as he was, could feel it—that thing twisting underneath Magnus’s accusations, his anger, his spiraling performance at the tournament.

Because it wasn’t just losing to Hans.

It wasn’t just a few terrible games in a row.

It was losing Hikaru’s gaze.

It was realizing that no matter how far Magnus pushed himself, no matter how much he achieved, there would always be something Hikaru gave to someone else—to Wesley, to Hans—that Magnus could never earn.

Not with talent.

Not with titles.

Not even with time.
---

Wesley let out a quiet sigh and set his tea down.

Across the room, Hans had his legs kicked up on a chair, babbling something to Hikaru. Hikaru was scrolling on his phone but nodding occasionally, and every so often he’d glance up to make sure Hans was okay. Not irritated. Not tired.

Wesley didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t need to.

Because later, when Hikaru was worn out and Hans finally quieted down, Hikaru would look for him. Always did. He’d find Wesley with a mug or a book or nothing at all and sit beside him like a weight, like an anchor.

And he’d say something stupid like, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

And Wesley would say, “No reason.”

Because he didn’t need to fight for Hikaru’s attention.

He already had it.
---

Some people rose to the top of the world to be seen.

Wesley?

He just stood quietly beside the storm.

And that was enough.
—

What the hell just happened?

Hikaru sat on the edge of the hotel bed, one leg bouncing, fingers curled tight around his phone even though the screen was dark. Across the room, Hans was snoring into a pillow, and Wesley was seated cross-legged on the carpet with a book, calm as ever.

But Hikaru?

Hikaru was still spiraling.

Because he could not, for the life of him, understand what kind of neuron misfired in Magnus Carlsen’s brain for him to stand up, in the middle of a broadcasted international tournament, and accuse Hans of cheating.

Cheating.

His. Soulmate.

Hikaru’s eye twitched.

And not in the “oh, I’m stressed” kind of way, but in the “I might actually track this man down and yeet him into the sun” kind of way.

He’d seen Hans fall apart before. Not in front of people, no—Hans was a brat, but he was private about his real damage. He’d snap and swagger and talk big, but sometimes—when it was quiet—he’d break down in these miserable little shards, like glass that had been hit too many times but didn’t know when to collapse.

So when Magnus stood there, all righteous indignation and cold superiority, and said Hans’s win wasn’t real—

Hikaru had almost lost it.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

He had actually clenched his fist so tight the knuckles cracked.

Because what Magnus did wasn’t just petty. It wasn’t just unprofessional. It wasn’t even just wrong.

It was personal.

You don’t just go around accusing someone’s soulmate of cheating like it’s nothing. Not when you’ve known Hikaru for over a decade. Not when you know exactly how protective he is. Not when you know he would set a building on fire with his mind if anyone touched what was his.
---

Wesley glanced up from his book. “You’re doing the foot thing again.”

“I’m not angry,” Hikaru said.

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m not—okay, fine, maybe I’m a little angry.”

Wesley raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, a lot angry.”

Hans mumbled something in his sleep that sounded like ‘idiot Magnus’ and rolled over.

Hikaru scrubbed a hand through his hair and stood up, pacing. “Like—why, right? Why would Magnus even say that? He’s had a string of bad games. Everyone could see he was off. He’s tilted. Frustrated. Probably hates that Hans is younger and winning. But cheating? That’s low. Even for him.”

Wesley didn’t answer.

Hikaru turned to face him. “I should’ve punched him.”

“You definitely shouldn’t have punched him.”

“I should’ve punched him!”

“Hikaru—”

“Don’t ‘Hikaru’ me. You don’t accuse my soulmate of something that serious and expect me to just sit there like a monk.”

The worst part?

Magnus knew exactly how Hikaru felt about his soulmates.

He knew.

He knew Hikaru wasn’t some cool-headed guy who could just brush things off. He knew Hikaru would tear apart a press conference, a friendship, a career, if it meant protecting Hans or Wesley.

So what was it?

A tantrum?

A test?

A last, desperate attempt to get Hikaru’s attention in the most toxic, destructive way possible?

If so—well.

It worked.

Because now Hikaru couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He dropped onto the bed again, gritting his teeth, and leaned back.

Wesley closed his book and looked over. “You’ve already made it clear whose side you’re on.”

“I know. But I want to do more. I want to, I don’t know, wreck something. Break his chair. Smash his stupid smug face into a rook.”

Wesley gave him a long-suffering look.

“You’re making me sound like a criminal in my own head,” Hikaru muttered.

Wesley snorted. “You do that all on your own.”

But Hikaru meant it.

Because he’d seen the look in Hans’s eyes after the accusation. That flicker of I knew this would happen. That ache of someone who had been waiting for the world to turn on him again.

And Hikaru would never forgive Magnus for putting that look there.

Not now.

Not ever.
—

The worst part wasn’t the accusation.

It wasn’t even the way Magnus said it—stone-faced and sharp, as if the words didn’t matter. As if they hadn’t landed like a knife in Hikaru’s chest.

No. The worst part was that Magnus knew.

He knew exactly what Hikaru was like when it came to soulmates.

Because here’s the thing.

Everyone had dolls.

That was the rule of the world. Everyone had soulmates—most people had one, maybe two. And when your soulmate was born, a doll of them appeared beside you. A strange little replica. A whisper of the future.

People grew up with them like pets. Like playthings. Like curiosities.

But Hikaru?

Hikaru treated his like sacred objects.

Even as a kid, he guarded his Wesley doll like a knight with a crown jewel. When he got Hans’s at sixteen—a loud, scruffy little thing with sharp eyes and a stitched-on scowl—he didn’t sleep for two days. Spent the entire weekend sitting on his bedroom floor, just staring at them both, like he’d stumbled onto some divine miracle.

And then he brought them with him.

To every tournament.

Hidden in the bottom of his backpack, bundled in cloth, tucked beneath his lucky shirt.

They weren’t just dolls to him.

They were his soulmates.

So Magnus knew.

He had to know.

He knew Hikaru wasn’t casual about this. That he wasn’t the kind of person to shrug and go, “Oh well,” if someone hurt the people he loved.

Magnus had seen it—seen Hikaru clean blood off Wesley’s doll’s hand after a biking accident. Seen him panic when Hans’s doll got a stitched wound across its face that matched a real one from a stupid skateboarding trick. Heard Hikaru, in the dead of night, whisper to the dolls like they could hear him across time and space.

So yeah.

He knew.

He knew that Hikaru had waited his entire life for them. That he would’ve quit chess, left the spotlight, burned every damn bridge if it meant keeping them safe.

He knew—

And still, he accused Hans of cheating.

The betrayal lodged in Hikaru’s throat like glass.

Because it wasn’t just an insult to Hans.

It wasn’t just arrogance or envy.

It was a slap in the face to everything Hikaru had ever felt. Everything he’d ever protected. The time. The love. The faith.

Magnus didn’t just throw dirt at Hans’s name.

He’d desecrated something sacred.

And the fact that he did it knowing what those soulmates meant to Hikaru—

That was the part Hikaru would never, ever forgive.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, grounding himself.

Wesley hadn’t said anything since Magnus walked out of the match hall.

Hans had barely spoken, just muttered something about needing space and crashed.

But Hikaru?

He didn’t need space.

He needed to scream.

No. Worse.

He needed to make Magnus understand.

If Magnus had gone to the arbiter in private, maybe—just maybe—Hikaru wouldn’t be this angry.

If he had walked off stage, clenched his jaw, pulled aside a FIDE official, and said, “Hey, I’m concerned about that kid. Can you double-check everything?”—then fine. It would’ve still been annoying, still been insulting, but reasonable. Civil.

But no.

No.

Magnus, golden fucking king of chess, had to do it on stage. In front of the cameras. In front of the audience. In front of the world.

He didn’t go to the arbiter. He didn’t take a moment to breathe. He didn’t even look at Hans like a person.

He looked at him like a threat.

And that was where Hikaru’s tolerance ended.
---

Hikaru leaned against the windowsill of the hotel room, eyes narrowed at the night skyline. Somewhere behind him, Hans was still out—stormed off with a hoodie half-zipped and fire in his eyes after Magnus left the press conference. Wesley sat on the bed, quiet, scrolling through headlines with a deadpan frown.

The chess world was already buzzing.

"Magnus Carlsen accuses Hans Niemann of cheating live."
"Soulmate connection under fire: Hikaru Nakamura’s youngest faces scandal."
"The chess drama we didn’t expect: personal, professional, explosive."

And all Hikaru could think was: This didn’t have to happen.

Magnus didn’t have to nuke everything.

He chose to.

“I mean seriously,” Hikaru muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think someone’s cheating? Fine. Go through the channels. Get a tech sweep. Submit a protest form. Ask for a review. We’ve got systems for that.”

He turned, voice rising. “But you don’t get to ambush my soulmate on stage and act like it’s a noble fucking crusade.”

Wesley said nothing, but the sharp inhale told Hikaru he agreed.

“You know how many people are going to believe him just because he’s Magnus?” Hikaru growled. “How many people are going to look at Hans and think, ‘Oh, he had to be cheating, because the golden boy said so’?”

Wesley set down his phone and nodded slowly.

“He didn’t just question Hans’s win,” Hikaru continued. “He didn’t just throw his reputation under the bus—he lit the whole thing on fire. On purpose.”

And for what?

Attention?

Frustration?

Some childish, bitter hope that Hikaru would turn around, look at Hans, and doubt?

No. He wouldn’t.

Not once.

Because Hikaru had waited his whole damn life for his soulmates.

He had watched Wesley’s doll grow up beside him, wrapped it in flannel when it got cold, whispered secrets to it when his parents fought. He’d gotten Hans’s doll when he was sixteen and carried it with him on planes, stuffed it under hotel pillows, panicked the first time it got a tear because what if Hans was hurt?.

You don’t build that kind of bond and break just because some bitter man had a bad tournament.

Hikaru trusted Hans.

He trusted Wesley.

Magnus?

Right now, he trusted Magnus about as far as he could throw him.

“It’s the cowardice, you know?” Hikaru said finally, softer this time. “He didn’t have the balls to say it in private. He wanted the stage. The drama. The outrage.”

He shook his head.

“He wanted to drag Hans into the dirt because losing to him wasn’t painful enough. He had to shame him.”

 

Behind him, Wesley stood and crossed the room. He didn’t say anything. Just bumped his shoulder gently into Hikaru’s, and let them both look out at the skyline in silence.

“Are you going to talk to him?” Wesley asked eventually.

“I don’t know,” Hikaru admitted. “I want to punch him. I also want to yell. I also want to never speak to him again. It’s a full menu tonight.”

“…I vote yelling.”

Hikaru huffed. “I thought you’d say ‘punching.’”

“I’m the responsible soulmate.”

 

The room settled again.

But the fire in Hikaru’s chest didn’t.

Because Magnus made a move on the board that couldn’t be undone.
Not just in the tournament.
But in the one place that mattered most to Hikaru—
His circle.
His people.
His home.

And if Magnus thought for one second that Hikaru would stand by and watch it fall apart—

Then he clearly never understood him at all.

Notes:

Also, I know I said I was gonna write another fic but I got distracted by My honorary siblings 🥺 I love them so much. I promise imma write the multiple fics I promised to write tomorrow 🫶