Chapter Text
In the epic of the Mahabharata, there is a king who knew he shouldn't play.
The game of Dyuta was long and cruel. Inside the playing hall, Yudishtir bet his kingdom, his wealth, and his family. He lost everything that made up his life. He knew the board was enchanted, taken over entirely by his opponent. He knew that the whole council, including Krishna, had turned against him.
And yet he lifted the dice once more.
Hikaru had first heard that story from his childhood best friend, and it had stayed with him ever since. It struck a chord in his heart. How could a man watch himself bleed out over the board but still refuse to leave? And years later, under the sharp tournament lights, he understood.
Hikaru had spent most of his life in fear.
Here, there was no gold studded playing hall or marble piers- just the unforgiving race between sixty-four squares. Each loss was a stab in his heart, but also a longing to play more. Each tick of the clock thrummed through him like a pulse. And opposite from him sat Magnus Carlsen.
Carlsen was unpredictable, and the hardest opponent to outcalculate. Their games were long, exhausting, and precise. Magnus seemed to sense the tiniest crack in Hikaru’s position and would exploit it relentlessly. It was infuriating.
Back in Moscow 2010, Hikaru would spot the familiar tuft of brown hair in the crowd during his games. It would linger over the board even after he had left. Hikaru seemed to have captured the Norwegian's interest. It became evident when he was approached on the last night of the tournament. He had made a draw against Kasparov, and was on his way back to his hotel.
The raggedy elevator doors were closing when a desperate yell and a scurry of footsteps made him hold it open.
Magnus Carlsen stepped inside.
Hikaru's fists tightened on instinct. As much as the man fascinated him, he was deeply annoying to play- ruthless, persistent and constantly finding resources. His dominating record across all formats made him feel threatened. The air was thick with silence, and he could feel Carlsen's eyes boring into him.
"Great game." The deep voice uttered.
"Thanks." Hikaru replied, mustering a small smile.
Then Carlsen stepped forward, hesitating. "If you're fine with it....could we play some training games today? Privately. No cameras."
Hikaru froze. At first, the idea seemed absurd: playing against a top competitor for no fee, no cameras, no incentive. Yet each game was a window into Carlsen’s mind, all his preferences and his handicaps. A spark of hope flared. Maybe I can analyse him. I can figure him out.
And perhaps that was Carlsen’s intention as well.
“How many?” Hikaru asked, his heart already racing.
Carlsen smiled, mischievous. “A hundred.”
Hikaru scoffed.
“They’ll be blitz games,” the Norwegian clarified. “Time control of your choice.”
Blitz. His strength. He had the chance to decode Magnus' thinking, a hundred times in a row. Even if it meant playing till dawn.
“Let’s do it,” he said, swallowing the thrum of nerves in his chest.
They ended up playing forty games that night. And for the first time in his chess career, Hikaru was scared.
He'd shown up to the room with rigor, determined to undo Carlsen's confidence. He was a beast at blitz, dubbed America's best hope after Fischer. He went in with an arrogance that he would go on to regret dearly.
Carlsen didn't need enchanted dice, or a court full of magicians. The game of chess was fair in its rules. Yet it didn't seem that way after what transpired. Game after game, the Norwegian stripped away his pride, his ego, his identity. Hikaru clawed at every opportunity, searching desperately for a crack, a misstep.... but there was nothing.
Hours blurred as they blitzed one game after another in the quiet hotel room. The only sound was the relentless clicking of the chess clock, each beat hammering into Hikaru’s chest. His fingers began to tremble over the pieces, betraying the panic he was trying to hide. In the end, Carlsen won the match by three games. Hikaru felt the fear seep into his bones. How do you find a weakness where there is none?
This was the man he would be competing against for years to come, and had just laid all of his own weakness bare.
Carlsen knew. Hikaru realized it soon after, a shiver crawling up his spine. He knew the games would give him an edge over Hikaru in the long run. That's why he was approached in the elevator. Not to learn, but to execute a predatory scheme intended to eliminate competition.
For a moment, the old story flickered in Hikaru's brain.
Shakuni had played with Yudishtira's mind, drawing out his emotions, forcing him to play more. His tactful manipulation cost Yudishtira everything. He knew there was something wrong. He knew that every turn, Shakuni would win. But he kept playing. And it cost him so dearly that the all-knowing Krishna had to step in.
Hikaru had returned to his own room exhausted, yet unable to rest. Thoughts of their games ran like whirlwinds through his mind. Finally, he retired to his bed, reluctantly giving sleep a try. When he lifted his sheets, however, he spotted a single peacock feather tucked under them.
It was strange. He didn't think the hotel cleaning staff used peacock feathers as decoration, as they didn't fit with the hotel theme. Who could it be that slipped it here? He turned the feather over in his hand, and a ripple of adrenaline ran through him.
It made him think of Krishna.
The bearer of peacock feathers, the omniescent witness of the playing hall. The one who gave a thousand warnings to both parties, but was forced to see them crumble. The one who only stepped in when the situation grew too dire to be salvaged. He remembered hearing about Krishna's ominous words:
Kartaham iti manyate.
The deluded self thinks, I am the doer.
What if the insecurities were constructions of Hikaru's mind? What if not letting the defeat weigh heavy on his heart might help him in future tournaments? Hikaru tucked that feather into his pocket. The warning could never be needed, not by Hikaru, not in this lifetime.
Since that night, Carlsen had claimed a part of his mind. His name brought a pit to Hikaru's stomach, but along with it came a wave of anticipation. Carlsen didn't offer private games to everybody. If it was a scheme, it was an oddly intimate one. There was something raw about spending hours taking each other's minds apart over the chessboard, and sharing thoughts only the two of them understood.
He didn't know that he hated more. Losing to Magnus over the board, or craving a chance to sit across from him again.
He noticed the change in the way Magnus looked at him. The night in Moscow seemingly made them attuned to one another; it was evident in the way their eyes sought each other after an emotional moment during their game, and how every handshake sent pinpricks down his skin. They never really talked about that night. But he knew it weighed heavy on Magnus' mind.
When Magnus first became World Champion, Hikaru was terrified. He watched every one of his games, noticing things that were too small to matter. The way Magnus adjusts his chair before finding a defensive resource. The slight narrowing of his eyes before a shift in tactics. Hikaru tried to catalogue every piece of him and store him his mind. He told himself it wasn't obsession, but his heart had long since betrayed him.
They faced each other in Stravanger for a classical game. It went on for five hours. There was no sound in the hall except for the clicking of the clock, the occasional camera shutter and the desperation in Hikaru's breaths. He refused to look up at Magnus, because he knew that the passion burning in his eyes would take him over entirely.
Magnus had steered the position into a stragetic middlegame, waiting, patiently, for Hikaru to slip up. And he had tried not to. For five hours, he fought tooth and nail to defend himself. But near the end, he knew he was losing control. His eyes flickered to the heart rate monitor. The one on Magnus's side read 42.
No one else in the world could so strategically break Hikaru Nakamura's position apart without a sweat. And then Hikaru understood, deep in his heart, why Yudishtira kept fighting a losing battle. Hikaru found it addicting: the adrenaline flaring through his veins, the blinding hope after every good move, the constant sense of movement.
Playing Magnus was intoxicating, even though it was tearing him apart.
In the end, he resigned with a sigh. The constant fear of messing up had wrung him to exhaustion. He felt a little dizzy, gripping the table for support. And when he shook Magnus' hand, he noticed the long fingers squeezing tighter than normal. Hikaru didn't think anything of it, though, as he grabbed his jacket and left.
In the break room, Hikaru collapsed in the couch. He curled into himself, cheeks burning in shame. The humilation twisted painfully in his stomach. He replayed the moves in his head, going over the sequences, wondering what he could have improved. The realisation came slowly; he couldn't. Magnus would get the better of him even if he did the best he could.
Hikaru felt weak. His arms were like stone, unable to lift. There was a hollowness within him, long and gaping, as if someone had ripped out his insides. His legs were hanging loosely off the end of the couch. There was a dull ache at the back of his head, persistent, a stark reminder of his loss.
For a brief second, he wondered if this was what Yudishtira felt after the final game.
He didn't remember how long he was slumped there, boneless and exhausted, until he saw the light being turned off. Hikaru raised his head from the couch, realising it was really late. He cursed himself for not informing Atousa about his whereabouts. Before he got himself to move, however, a deep voice rang through the room.
He knew it well. It was engraved inside him since Moscow.
"You were winning on move sixty-four."
His head twisted to see Magnus leaning against the doorframe, eyes boring into him.
Hikaru stood with a sigh. "You mean before I moved my rook to a8?"
"Yes." Magnus took a step forward. His silhouette wasn't very pronounced in the darkness of the room, making him look almost ghostly.
"Hm, probably." Hikaru replied, tired. "But it was a bit risky, considering your bishops were staring right at my king."
"You hesitated way too long." Magnus drawled, stepping around the sofa and coming to face him. At this distance, the height difference was more apparent, and Hikaru had to tilt his face up to look at him.
The air felt charged, and he felt sweat crawling at his skin.
"I wasn't too worried about using up time." Hikaru replied, swallowing dryly. "Besides, your pieces were doing damage in the diagonals."
"You should've sacked your rook." Magnus said, coolly. "On move sixty four. You definitely thought of it. Why didn't you play it?" He tilted his face to the side. "Were you scared?"
"I wasn't!" Hikaru snapped.
He was exhausted of trying his best but still bearing defeat, of being held to an impossible standard that drew out his strength every day. "You expect me to be perfect, Magnus, but I'm just not as competent as you."
A beat passed in silence. Magnus' eyes darkened, and Hikaru almost looked away. The heat in his gaze was palpable, and he felt weirdly exposed.
"I think you are." The Norwegian whispered. He moved even closer, each step a jolt to Hikaru's gut. His heart was ramming against his throat. He could make out the small indents on Magnus's face, and the slight crinkling of his lips as he took him in. He wanted to paint the sight in his mind.
"I know you beat yourself up, especially when you lose against me." Magnus whispered every word, and Hikaru could feel the breath against his face.
Heat crawled up his stomach, spilling into his chest and making his legs tremble.
"But why do I do that to you?" Magnus' husky voice rang in his ear. "Was it those blitz games? Is that why I'm in your head, Nakamura?"
"Y-yes." Hikaru replied, taking a tiny step backwards.
Magnus hummed, and the sound vibrated through his body. "I've been looking forward to our games too, you know. To be honest, they're all I could think about."
The revelation wasn't too abrupt. Hikaru could feel it in the way the Norwegian stared at him during tournaments, as if he wanted to take his mind apart. Hikaru clenced his fists, erratic.
"Me too." He replied.
"Well then," Magnus' finger wedged under his chin, tilting his face up. He was faced with two big eyes, hardened with something he couldn't name. "Get out of your head, and face me like an equal."
His fingers lingered on his jaw before withdrawing. Magnus took a few steps back, breathing heavily, before he left.
He left a trail of longing in his wake. Hikaru watched the tall frame retreat into the light, and turned back into the darkness of the room. He let out a long sigh. The heat of the moment still ran steadily through him, sending gooseflesh down his skin. His mind replayed Magnus' words. Get our of your head, and face me like an equal.
Hikaru stepped forward, and felt something thin yet firm against his shoe. He looked down, furrowing his brows. And the sight sent a jolt to his spine.
It was a peacock feather, nearly the same as the one he found in Moscow four years ago.
Hikaru bent down to pick it up. It was fragile in his grip, its tiny threads frayed at the edges. Krishna is omniscient.
He tucked it into his pocket once again, and walked forward.
The game would go on.