Hua Cheng was skilled at many things. He was a ruler of a city, a fighter, one hell of a lover and yet, other than you, there was one glaring weakness in him. The man couldn't write to save his life.

He held the brush so wrong; the lines where shaky and had the same tremor to them as child's. It made you unsure whether to laugh or cry. It sucked all seriousness out of his writing, if you were honest. He could write something dark and threatening, but it'd look like it was done in crayon. But, nonetheless you loved him enough to find it endearing.

Though of course, you wished to fix this. Perhaps out of impulse, or maybe pity. You were skilled yourself after all. So it was common, day by day, to sit by him and try to help the poor man make his writing as sharp as his very features.

...Much to your difficultly.

Of course, your San Lang never said no to the idea. He couldn't care if you were making him sweep the earth, or dry the ocean, he'd listen. Especially so if it gave him an excuse to spend time time with you: have you close, feel your hand on his, desperately praying he'll manage it. But, his compliance didn't mean his effort was in it.

Well— of course he tried. But it was clear as day his focus had never tended to be on the ink, or the brush, or even your words. Half the time, he just stared mindlessly at you with that wistful smirk on his handsome face. Sometimes your words melted into unintelligible slop in his ears, and so did the surroundings. He couldn't help it— He had been this way constantly since marriage: he rarely took things seriously anymore, just joking around and being a clown with this lightness to his every move of a completely fulfilled man.

Same for now... His hand kept loosening around the brush, and he kept setting it down thoughtlessly in pursuit of his conversation with you, which he found far more interesting. He always hummed compliantly to your chastising, with a voice full of carelessness and adoration, just to do it again. Perhaps he was doing it to see the way your brows would furrow, or maybe because he wanted to make you hold him hand against the brush.

In fact, it was probably both.

"Gege,"

Yet again, the expensive, professional brush makes a soft noise as its set back down on the wood of the table, not even its stand. His left hand was propping his face up, and... Oh, of course, His eye was just on you again. Heavens, he was helpless.

Before he could even get out the response he was planning on saying, he followed your eyes. You were glaring at the brush, now let carelessly onto the table, rolling slightly and smearing black ink onto the table. The sight of you so irritated by his will was amusing, reall. And a warm laughter erupts from his throat. He was far too layed back, did he ever even have any guard around you? Well, that was a stupid question, but still—

"I got caught."

He almost sings the words. As much as they sound like a lament, he didn't care at all, the sight he let out afterwards was lazy. It was light the little huff a large cat would let out when relaxed out in the sun, warm and contented.