Chapter Text
Wang Yibo had mastered the art of being seen without ever being known. To millions, he was the definition of cool: a top-tier streamer, undefeated in ranked matches, with a deadpan sense of humor and a camera-ready face that made fans melt. His username alone trended weekly. Every stream, his chat moved at lightning speed, flooded with hearts, inside jokes, and declarations of love from usernames like YiboWifey and Yibae4Life.
“The king has arrived.”
“God-tier reflexes AND jawline? Not fair.”
“This man better never get a girlfriend or I’m done.”
He never responded to the flirty comments, just smirked or raised a brow, enough to keep the mystique alive. Wang Yibo didn’t share much. He was all game, no talk. Other streamers broadcast from chaotic bedrooms or kitchen tables cluttered with energy drinks and laundry. Not him. His setup was sleek and minimal: cool-toned lighting, a clean desk, a single monitor, no personal touches. No photos, no glimpses beyond that one room. And if someone asked too many questions—about his birthday plans, or whether he lived with anyone—he’d deflect in that dry, final tone: “Focus on the game. Not me.”
It wasn’t rude, just absolute. That boundary was part of his appeal. He was a blank canvas for fans to project onto: the dream boyfriend, the secret loner, the misunderstood genius. No one knew the truth, but everyone had a theory. Wang Yibo liked it that way. Because behind the polished mystery, real life was quiet.
After each stream ended and the camera blinked off, he’d stretch and step into a different world, a lived-in apartment, warm with soft lighting and half-read books on the counter. The faint scent of whatever Xiao Zhan had cooked that day lingered in the air.
His Zhan Ge, who wasn’t a streamer. Wasn’t famous. Wasn’t trying to be. Just someone who had been there long before the first follower, long before the fame.
They’d met when things were normal. No fans, no pressure. Just two guys who clicked instantly. It started with laughter and late-night food runs, then slowly became something that needed no labels. No drama, no overthinking. Just them.
Moving in together three years ago hadn’t felt like a big decision. They already spent all their time together. Might as well share rent, toothbrush space, a life.
Now, every day when Yibo took off the headset and shed the persona, Xiao Zhan was there, lounging on the couch, folding laundry, or halfway through a movie. He grounded everything. Yibo could have thousands of fans screaming his name, but one quiet look from Xiao Zhan when he walked in meant more. Of course, no one knew about him.
Not because Yibo was ashamed—God, no—but because he knew the internet. The second people thought they had a piece of him, they’d demand more. Fans could be loving, but they could also be vicious. The moment they discovered he wasn’t single, someone like Xiao Zhan would be ripped apart. They’d say he wasn’t good enough, that Yibo could do better. Or they’d spin wild theories, fake cheating scandals, edited "proof," twisting something real into something ugly. So Yibo didn’t share. Not a hoodie in frame, not a voice in the background.
He and Xiao Zhan had rules, no entering the stream room when Yibo was live, no public photos, no following each other on socials. They kept it private, tight, safe. That was the deal. And it worked. At least, it had, until tonight.
###
The apartment smelled like stir-fried garlic and soy sauce, which meant Xiao Zhan had cooked again.
Yibo wandered into the kitchen barefoot, hair damp from a quick shower, fingers skimming across the counter where a pan was still cooling. “You left the stove on,” he said without looking up.
Xiao Zhan appeared from the hallway, shirt half-tucked, holding a laundry basket. “Did I? Oops. You’re welcome for dinner, by the way.”
Yibo reached for a piece of tofu left on the plate and popped it into his mouth. “Not bad.”
“You mean delicious.”
“I mean edible.” Xiao Zhan smirked and bumped his hip against Yibo’s. It was casual and familiar, like everything between them. They moved around each other without thinking, like second nature.
Xiao Zhan disappeared again into the bedroom, tossing his shirt over his shoulder, “You're still streaming at nine?”
Yibo paused. Right. He’d moved it up. “Uh … No. I bumped it earlier. Going to live in, like, ten.”
He glanced at the clock. “Sorry, forgot to tell you.”
Xiao Zhan’s voice echoed from the other room. “Ten minutes? You’re going to be late if you're not starting preparing from now.”
“I’m already late.” Yibo grabbed a can of iced coffee from the fridge and cracked it open. “I’ll keep it short tonight.”
Xiao Zhan reappeared, this time with his hair slightly tousled from changing shirts, sleeves rolled up as he carried a stack of towels toward the hallway closet. He nodded toward the computer room. “Need me to keep it down?”
Yibo shook his head. “You’re fine. I’ll have noise-canceling on. Just don’t barge in, okay?”
“I’ve got laundry to fold.”
Yibo grinned around his coffee can and turned, heading toward his stream room. The glow of LED lights lit up the hallway as he stepped inside and closed the door halfway. He didn’t bother locking it, they never locked doors in this place. There wasn’t a reason to.
He sat, booted up his system, and started prepping his overlays. The rhythm of pre-stream setup was muscle memory by now: check audio, camera angle, lighting, chat moderation. His fingers moved on autopilot while his brain was still lingering in the kitchen, replaying Xiao Zhan’s offhand smile and the quiet comfort of home-cooked food. It hit him sometimes, how easy this was. No drama. No pressure to perform. Just love that didn’t need to prove itself.
People online called him mysterious, distant, unreadable. But here, with Xiao Zhan, he was fully known. Every version of him, the good moods and the closed-off ones. No hiding. No effort.
He opened the streaming software, queued up his game, and glanced at the chat preview starting to populate.
“Is he late again?”
“Bro better not ditch us for League tonight.”
“If he doesn’t stream in 3 minutes I’m calling the cops.”
Yibo smirked. Same chaos as always. He slipped on his headset, mic adjusted, and hovered over the “Go Live” button. All set.
Back in the hallway, Xiao Zhan had dumped the clean laundry onto the couch, music playing softly from his phone. He folded methodically, humming something off-key, hoodie sleeves pushed up past his elbows.
When he was done, he grabbed the laundry basket again and padded toward the stream room. Yibo had said not to barge in. But Xiao Zhan thought that he still had time before Yibo went live. He just passed by to grab the empty water bottle Yibo always forgot.
The door was cracked open. Zhan stepped inside without thinking.
Yibo was locked in. Headphones on, shoulders tense, eyes sharp. His fingers flew across the keys, muscle memory doing most of the work as he chased down an enemy in-game.
His chat, as always, was unhinged:
“He’s cooking today!!”
“That flick shot?? I screamed.”
“Marry me, Yibo. I’ll learn how to play the game, I swear.”
“Not me drooling over this fine man.”
He didn’t even glance at the messages. Not yet. He was mid-round, fully immersed, the lights of his screen dancing across his face as the background blurred just enough to keep all focus on him. That was how fans liked it: mysterious, clean, nothing personal.
Then the door opened. A quiet creak and the soft shuffle of socks on hardwood.
Yibo didn’t notice. The game pinged with alerts, and his voice cut through the mic, calm and clipped. “Right side. Rotate.”
The chat, however, noticed everything. Because in the background, a figure stepped into frame.
Xiao Zhan.
Hair slightly messy, face unguarded. He was wearing one of Yibo’s old hoodies, oversized, sleeves swallowed his hands, and a pair of loose joggers that rode low on his hips. He looked like he’d just woken up from a nap or maybe stepped out of a movie about boyfriends who bake on weekends.
He was not supposed to be there. And chat lost its mind.
“WHO WAS THAT??”
“HELLO?????”
“That man is HOT. WHO is he??”
“Is he… wearing Yibo’s hoodie??”
“Wait—wait—WAIT—is that his boyfriend??”
“Yibo has a man? YIBO HAS A MAN???”
“Replay! REPLAY! Someone clip this!!”
“No way. That guy just walked in like he lives there.”
“He DOES live there. Look at how casual he is.”
Zhan crossed the room without realizing what he’d stepped into. He spotted the empty water bottle on the desk and leaned in to grab it, right into the frame.
Then he glanced at the screen.
At the stream software.
At the chat.
And froze.
“…Are you streaming?” he asked, voice low, startled.
Yibo blinked, still mid-movement in the game. “Huh?”
Xiao Zhan pointed, face flushing. “You’re live.”
Yibo turned, finally taking off his headphones. The second his eyes locked onto Xiao Zhan’s, you could see the color drain from his face. A breath of stunned silence passed between them, the air suddenly electric with realization.
“Shit.”
He spun in his chair and slammed a key on his keyboard. The stream cut. Instant blackout.