Chapter 28: Precision

Summary: What starts with quiet training and a drawer full of erasers slowly shifts into something far more intentional—small moments of clarity, teasing layered with weight, and a kind of affection that doesn't need to be spoken to be understood. Between volleys of mischief and pauses of silence, lines are crossed without resistance, and by the time the evening settles, what's left behind is no longer a maybe, but a certainty waiting to be named.

Notes:

Author's Note: Xiǎo Tùzǐ, Chessman and Furry Shenanigans all in one chapter! And the Chessman? He is asking for it from our beloved Da Bing.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The hum of training filled the ZGDX base like a second pulse—sharp key clicks, the low crackle of voice comms, and the measured cadence of Kwon's instructions as he moved through the opening strats of the latest scrim. At the center setup, Sicheng sat where he always did—slightly hunched, one hand curled around the mouse with deadly precision, amber eyes locked to the screen. Beside him, Lao K and Lao Mao flanked the jungle and top lanes, Pang's fingers drummed in rhythm as he mapped out cooldown windows, and Ming, ever steady, was cycling through his defensive rotations.

Behind them, near the back of the room in her usual seat beside Yue, Yao sat curled up with her knees tucked under her chair, her screen lit with movement charts, match pacing data, and her signature custom filters. Yue sat lazily beside her, one leg draped over the opposite chair, pen tapping lightly against the corner of his notebook as he scribbled formations and reaction times while sneaking bites of dried squid from a bag he definitely wasn't supposed to have in here.

Yao's eyes flicked to the screen, training was going well enough. Not perfect. Not crisp. But fine. Then she leaned over, drawn by a flicker of curiosity that tugged at her idle thoughts, and opened the small drawer under her desk. She wasn't looking for anything in particular—just reaching on instinct. What she found instead was a small, neatly arranged set of miniature erasers shaped like stylized OPL Shikigami—each one painted in exaggerated colors and adorable, chibi-like expressions. There was even a Fire Kirin among them, its mane spiked and ferocious despite being barely the size of her thumb. Her brows furrowed in confusion. 

Tucked beneath the erasers was a note, scrawled in the familiar sharp penmanship of their coach.

These are safer and more effective than pillows.

- Kwon

She blinked. Once. Then twice.

Yue peeked over her shoulder and let out a soft wheeze of laughter. "Oh, Kwon is bold today."

But before he could say anything else, Yao's eyes slid toward the training screens where Kwon's voice had just stopped, cut off mid-instruction by a sigh from Lao Mao, followed by a lazy mutter from Pang.

Then, Sicheng's voice came in over comms, dry, sharp-edged, and dipped in the exact kind of biting sarcasm that meant he was starting to get irritated. "If you're all going to play like wet tissue, I suggest we turn this into a knitting circle instead and let Xiǎo Tùzǐ solo carry."

Yue froze.

Yao didn't.

She reached forward, grabbed a small handful of erasers—two Spirit Foxes, a Blue Rakshasa, and one particularly smug-looking Fire Kirin—rose from her chair with practiced grace, and without a word, strode toward the front of the room.

Yue barely managed to sputter, "Wait—wait, are you actually—"

Too late.

Yao squared her shoulders, eyes narrowing just slightly as her fingers curled around the first eraser. The Fire Kirin.

Sicheng turned toward the sound of her footsteps just in time for it to smack dead-center into his left shoulder.

Thunk.

He blinked.

Then—

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Blue Rakshasa bounced off Pang's head. Lao Mao took a Spirit Fox to the ear. Lao K yelped as one smacked into his keyboard. Even Ming wasn't spared, catching one with the quiet acceptance of a man who had known this was coming.

Sicheng turned slowly in his chair, amber eyes sliding to meet hers, his voice calm, deceptively neutral. "Feeling expressive today, are we?"

Yao tilted her head slightly, as if considering it, then calmly let the last eraser roll from her palm into her other hand—turning it over once. "Play better." she said simply. And with that, she turned and walked back to her seat.

The room fell into silence. Just for a beat.

Then Yue, still stunned, murmured, "You know what? I think I just saw the birth of a new form of crowd control."

Sicheng, still holding the Fire Kirin in one hand, let out a soft exhale and smirked. Because his Xiǎo Tùzǐ? Was finally using precision.

Sicheng hadn't even turned fully back to his screen when it happened. One second, he was still holding the Fire Kirin eraser in his hand, thumb brushing over the tiny mane like he was contemplating the physics of her aim, the next—

Thunk.

A new eraser—a miniature, wide-eyed Kalista with exaggerated ghostly hair and a tiny spear—pinged off his forehead with surgical accuracy, bouncing once, then falling into his lap with quiet finality.

The entire room went still.

Yue let out a strangled sound, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the wheeze.

Lao Mao choked on his water.

Lao K actually ducked, as if expecting a second wave.

Pang swiveled in his chair, blinking at Yao with open admiration. "She's evolving."

Sicheng's jaw ticked once. His fingers reached up slowly to touch the spot between his brows where the Kalista had struck like a critical hit. He stared at the tiny eraser now resting on his thigh, then glanced back at her.

Yao had already returned to her seat. Calm. Silent. Hands folded neatly over her data tablet. She didn't look at him. Didn't smile. Didn't even blink. But her foot tapped once—lightly—beneath the desk, and Sicheng saw it.

And so did Rui, who walked into the room just in time to see the tail end of it all and muttered under his breath, "Please tell me this is not the start of another form of in-base warfare."

Sicheng, still staring across the room at her, lifted the Kalista eraser slowly, narrowed his eyes, and murmured under his breath, "…Noted." But the smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth betrayed him completely.

It started once more with a soft fwip —barely a sound, barely a warning.

Lao Mao, deep in focus, fingers flying over his keys as he tried to recover the top lane tempo because he had been playing around instead of focusing like he should have been, didn't see it coming.

Thwack.

The tiny eraser, Shuten-dōji shaped, all horns and smirking mischief, nailed him squarely in the side of the neck. He let out a full yelp, jerking in his chair with such sudden panic that his mouse flew off the edge of the desk and clattered to the floor.

"The hell?!"

But he didn't have time to react.

Because barely a breath later—

Thunk.

Pang, who had turned in his seat just enough to laugh at Lao Mao's misfortune, took a clean hit to the cheek with what appeared to be a very determined-looking tiny Aoandon eraser, complete with tiny floating lantern detail.

He blinked.

Twice.

Then looked slowly toward Yao's desk like she had just thrown a divine judgment his way.

Across the room, Yue had buried his face in his notebook, shoulders trembling violently, doing his best to keep his laughter silent but clearly failing.

Sicheng hadn't even moved. He was still sitting in his chair, the Kalista eraser now resting neatly beside his mousepad, his eyes fixed on the screen like he hadn't just been pegged in the forehead two minutes ago. But his smirk was very much still there.

And Kwon?

Kwon didn't say a word. He just stood with his arms crossed, leaning casually against the back wall with an air of absolute and shameless approval on his face. The faintest smirk curved his mouth, and he nodded once as if to say, finally, someone's enforcing discipline properly.

And on Yao's desk?

The drawer slid shut again. Her face calm, unreadable. But her fingers were already moving over her report with practiced ease. The war had begun. And no one—not even the coach—was going to stop her.

Yao's pen paused mid-stroke, her hazel eyes flicking up from the report just in time to catch Lao K subtly tilting his chin toward Ming. It wasn't obvious. But she caught it. The unspoken language of teammates, silent cues, barely-there smirks, quiet betrayals.

And than, there he was.

Yu Ming.

Midlaner. Mellow. Usually reliable. But at that exact moment? Leaning back in his chair, elbow propped on the armrest, mouse in one hand, face resting on the other with a look of pure, unapologetic boredom.

Yao blinked once. Her fingers reached for the drawer. She didn't need to look. She already knew which one she wanted. The Shikigami he was most associated with—his signature, the character everyone always mentioned when praising his plays.

She plucked it out carefully.

Enma.

Sharp edges, dramatic cape, perfectly carved miniature eraser detail and all.

Then, without warning—without any ceremony or hesitation—her wrist flicked in a clean, practiced arc.

Thwip.

The eraser soared like it had been summoned by a targeting ult.

Ping.

Direct hit. Center forehead. The soft thunk echoed slightly, and Ming's entire head snapped up, eyes blinking fast in dazed confusion as the tiny Enma bounced off and landed perfectly on the edge of his keyboard.

The room was dead silent for one glorious, stunned second.

Then Yue lost it, wheezing laughter spilling out of him as he slapped a hand over his mouth and pointed.

Pang cackled from behind his monitor.

Lao Mao fell sideways in his seat, practically howling.

Lao K eyed the ceiling to keep from losing his own shit.

And Sicheng?

Sicheng didn't even look away from his screen. He just smirked, slow, proud, and so impossibly smug it was clear he had known it was coming before she even moved.

Yao, meanwhile, simply returned to her report like nothing had happened, the drawer at her side closing with the softest, most final little click .

Discipline: maintained.

Midlaner: neutralized.

Yue had barely settled into Ming's seat, his headset slipping on with practiced ease as he cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for a full-blown tournament, not just a training block sub-in. The moment he clicked into the match lobby and his voice filled comms with his usual flair— "Salt Maiden, I expect good data notes about how incredible I'm about to be" —Yao didn't even glance up. She just hummed, soft and unimpressed, as she scrolled through a spreadsheet.

Training resumed, Kwon's voice sharp and precise over comms, the rest of the team falling back into rhythm. For a while, Yue was focused. Smooth rotations. Sharp calls. He was clearly trying to prove something—not just to himself, but to the room.

And then—

It happened.

He forgot.

Somewhere between a botlane skirmish and a jungle invade, he forgot the drawer. Forgot the drawer existed. Forgot the erasers. Forgot that he was now in line of fire.

Because Yue being Yue?

He started talking.

"Oi, Yao," he said between cooldowns, grinning even as he microed his character across the map. "Tell Cheng his last ult looked like a scuffed gold-rank highlight reel."

Sicheng didn't respond.

Yao didn't either. Not verbally. But her hand moved. Smoothly. Silently. Drawer open. Fingers flick. Selection made.

Hone Onna. A clean favorite from her collection, streamlined, shaped with deadly intent.

Thwip.

Yue yelped as it bounced off his shoulder before he twisted around, half-laughing. "Hey—!"

Thwip.

Ping.

Forehead this time. He slapped a hand to his head with exaggerated drama, swiveling in his seat. "You absolute menace! You're not even blinking!"

Yao still didn't look at him.

Still didn't say a word.

Thwip.

A third eraser struck him square on the collarbone and skidded into his lap.

Yue let out a full squawk, flailing slightly as he scooted his chair further away like she might launch a fourth without warning. "That's three hits! This is abuse!"

Lao Mao snorted. Pang wheezed. Lao K didn't even hide his grin.

And Kwon? From where he stood at the side of the room, arms crossed, calm and unbothered, merely arched a brow and muttered, "Told you they're more effective than pillows."

Yue, clutching the erasers like he'd been betrayed by his own team, turned back toward his screen with a wounded expression.

Yao, as always, remained composed—eyes on her data sheet, pen tapping calmly against the edge of her notebook as if nothing had happened.

But the drawer?

The drawer was still cracked open.

And Yue now knew better than to ever forget it again.

Upstairs, nestled in the quiet of her apartment, Yao sat cross-legged on the living room floor, her oversized hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she patiently ran a wide-toothed brush through the thick, cloud-like fur of her full-grown Siberian brat. Da Bing, regal as ever and twice as dramatic, sprawled across the floor like he owned the space—one massive white paw draped over her knee, the other flicking in passive protest every time she hit a snag in his glorious, unreasonably fluffy coat.

He was purring.

Loudly.

But he was also grumbling.

Grumbling the way only Da Bing could, like he was doing her a favor by sitting still, by not lunging for the brush, by tolerating her audacity in grooming him .

Yao, for her part, was focused, her motions gentle but firm as she maneuvered the brush through another tuft of winter-thick undercoat. "You look like a walking pillow that picked a fight with a snowstorm," she muttered under her breath, barely audible as she paused to flick loose fur into the growing pile beside her.

A knock interrupted the quiet.

Without glancing up, her voice soft but clear, she called, "Come in."

The door creaked open.

She didn't have to look.

She knew who it was.

Sicheng stepped inside, casually as ever, his usual slow, controlled movements somehow even softer in her space. The door clicked shut behind him, and he paused just inside the entryway, amber eyes sweeping the quiet apartment before they landed, inevitably, on the sight in front of him.

Yao.

Sitting barefoot on the floor in soft house clothes, sleeves rumpled, silver hair tied loosely back in a messy braid, surrounded by fur tufts—and locked in a silent grooming standoff with a creature that looked like a very fluffy wolf in a permanent state of judging the world.

Sicheng said nothing at first. He just leaned a shoulder against the nearest wall, arms folding loosely over his chest, his gaze half-lidded as he took it in. The soft glow of her desk lamp lit one side of her face, catching on the strands of hair that had slipped from her braid and the delicate crease of focus between her brows.

Da Bing let out a low, rumbling sigh.

"You're brushing him again." Sicheng said finally, voice quiet, low, carrying that same amused warmth that always slipped through when it was just them.

Yao nodded, still not looking up. "He's blowing his coat. It's everywhere. On the couch. On my pillows. I found a strand in my cereal."

Sicheng snorted softly under his breath.

Yao added, almost to herself, "I think he's doing it on purpose."

Da Bing twitched a whisker.

Sicheng stepped closer, circling the scene until he was crouched beside her, his hand braced against the floor as he tilted his head to eye the ridiculously pampered beast currently being brushed like a princess. He reached out, lightly stroking Da Bing's head between the ears.

The cat allowed it.

Barely.

Sicheng glanced at her. "You sure he's not the one who owns this apartment?"

Yao gave the faintest shrug. "It's his world. I just vacuum it."

And for a few quiet seconds, the room fell into peaceful rhythm again—the steady brush strokes, the soft drag of fur across her sleeves, the low hum of Da Bing's purr vibrating between them.

Sicheng didn't say anything else. He didn't have to. He was already exactly where he wanted to be.

Sicheng stayed crouched beside her, one hand idly scratching beneath Da Bing's chin as the beast lounged like some overindulged emperor draped in fur. The cat had rolled halfway to his side now, stretching out in lazy, sprawling contentment with his tail flicking faintly every few seconds like he was just tolerating their presence in his domain.

Yao was still brushing, still focused, occasionally lifting the comb to shake loose a clump of fur before going back in with the kind of patience that only came from years of grooming this fluffy menace. Her brow was slightly furrowed, her lips parted in a soft line of concentration, and her fingers moved in a practiced rhythm.

And Sicheng, amused more by the dynamic than he cared to admit, tipped his head toward her, his voice low, laced with mock consideration. "You know…" he began, slow and thoughtful, "I've been thinking."

Yao glanced up, immediately wary. "…About?"

He kept his face neutral. Too neutral. "Da Bing's getting older," he said, dragging the words out like he was delivering bad news. "Maybe it's time he had a little company."

Yao froze.

The brush stilled in her hand.

Da Bing's purring stopped.

Like… entirely.

Sicheng went on, utterly deadpan. "A younger cat. Smaller. Maybe a tuxedo. Friendly. Energetic. The kind that gets into everything." He shifted slightly closer to Da Bing and added, with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "You know, someone he can mentor ."

Da Bing, who had up until now been a paragon of fluffy patience, let out a slow, guttural growl that could only be described as deeply offended.

Yao stared at Sicheng, eyes wide. "You are not getting another cat."

"I didn't say I would. I said I was thinking about it."

"You can stop thinking."

Da Bing let out a huff—an actual, throaty, disgruntled huff—and twisted slightly to roll his back toward Sicheng, flicking his tail directly across the man's knee in full protest.

Sicheng blinked down at the tail now swatting his leg and arched a brow. "Did he just sass me?"

"He understood you and now he's insulted." Yao said flatly, scooping up another clump of shed fur and side-eyeing him.

Da Bing punctuated the moment by shifting again, this time to bury his face dramatically into Yao's lap as though he could pretend Sicheng didn't exist.

"Guess that's a no on the kitten, then." Sicheng huffed a laugh under his breath and leaned back on one arm, watching the sulking cat with faint amusement. 

Yao didn't answer. But the way her hand curled protectively over Da Bing's back said it all. There would be no successor. Not while the current emperor still ruled.

Sicheng leaned back against the couch, one arm draped across the backrest, his gaze drifting lazily between the massive lump of fluff sulking in her lap and the way her fingers were still brushing carefully through Da Bing's coat. He didn't say anything for a while, letting the quiet settle between them, the kind that wasn't awkward but familiar, weighted with comfort and closeness. But then, casually—far too casually—his voice broke through the silence, low and even.

"So… about what you called me the other night."

Yao's hand paused mid-stroke.

Just slightly.

But enough that he noticed.

She didn't look up. "...What?"

He tilted his head, smirk just barely there. "When I was heading downstairs. You said it. Quiet. Soft." He tapped his temple. "But I remember."

Yao blinked once, her eyes still fixed on the brush, her grip tightening just a little.

"You called me Cheng-ge ."

The flush bloomed instantly. Pink shot across her cheeks, curling up the back of her neck like fire through dry grass, and she very suddenly found Da Bing's tail extremely interesting. "I—I didn't mean to," she mumbled, voice barely above a whisper, fingers tightening in the fur. "It just… slipped."

Sicheng made a soft hum low in his throat, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting against his knees now, amber eyes focused fully on her. "Slipped?" he repeated, like he didn't believe it for a second.

"I was… tired. And… it was late. I wasn't thinking." Yao nodded quickly, still not looking at him. 

There was a pause.

And then—

"I liked it."

That made her freeze.

Entirely.

The brush halted mid-motion, her shoulders tensing, her mouth parting slightly in surprise.

He leaned just a little closer, voice lower now, quieter—but warmer too. "You don't have to take it back."

Yao finally risked a glance up, hazel eyes wide, unsure, flustered in every way possible. "Really?"

Sicheng's lips quirked, his tone smooth, coaxing. "Call me that again."

She immediately looked down, her hands fumbling with the brush, her whole face blooming red. "I—Cheng-ge," she whispered.

And he smiled. Slow. Pleased. Entirely hers. "Good girl," he murmured, leaning back again like nothing had just happened.

Da Bing, still buried in her lap, let out a low huff, as if this conversation was beneath him.

But Yao?

Yao sat there quietly, her heart trying very hard not to leap out of her chest as she returned to brushing her bratty, disapproving cat.

And Cheng-ge?

He was already planning to make her say it again.

The satisfying hiss of the can opening echoed faintly as Yao set the tuna into Da Bing's dish, the massive furball already circling her legs like a spoiled royal waiting on tribute. She bent slightly to nudge the bowl toward him, brushing her hand once over his thick head as he dove in with greedy, lazy satisfaction.

"Brat." she murmured affectionately, rinsing her fingers in the sink. She turned to leave the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel, already reaching for the doorframe—only to stop short.

Sicheng was there.

Close.

Too close.

Before she could blink, before her breath even had time to catch, she felt the cool press of the countertop at her back and the solid, unmistakable heat of his body at the front. His arms braced on either side of her, caging her in with slow, deliberate ease, his palms flat against the counter as if he were anchoring himself there to stop from moving further.

But his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Amber and sharp, but dark now. Heavy. Focused. No teasing, no banter—just want . The kind that settled like a storm behind his gaze, restrained but feral, locked on her like she was the only thing he could see.

Her breath stuttered in her throat, caught somewhere between surprise and something deeper, something that sent warmth blooming through her stomach like wildfire. "Sicheng…?"

His name came out soft. Shaky. But he didn't answer with words. He leaned in—slow, measured, his gaze never leaving hers—and kissed her.

It wasn't rushed.

It wasn't rough.

It was deep .

Sensual.

The kind of kiss that said he had waited, fought, burned for this moment.

His mouth claimed hers with a steadiness that sent her spinning—his lips molding to hers, tongue brushing gently against her lower lip in a question she didn't know how to answer but answered anyway, parting for him, letting him in like she'd always meant to. His body didn't touch hers completely, but she could feel the heat of him, the way he leaned just enough to let her feel how close he was to losing that carefully held restraint.

And Yao—

Yao whimpered.

Soft.

Barely audible.

But it broke something in him.

His hands twitched against the counter, his body pushing forward instinctively, pressing her back with just a little more weight, not forceful but present, grounding her in place. The kiss deepened, turned slower, more reverent than hungry, but no less intense. His fingers curled at the edges of the counter like they were the only thing keeping him from pulling her flush against him.

And Yao?

She wasn't breathing evenly. Her knees were trembling. Her hands, previously frozen at her sides, rose slowly, one gripping the fabric of his shirt, the other finding his shoulder, trying to steady herself against the hurricane he had become.

Because this—

This wasn't just a kiss.

This was a promise.

And Sicheng?

Sicheng had never wanted anything more.