Chapter Text
The sound of paper rips, and Xie Lian nearly jumps while turning toward the door instinctively.
“Oh my god,” comes a sweet-sounding, high voice. “I didn’t even know this place was here. Did you know this was here? I had no idea.”
The sound of paper ripping comes again, and Xie Lian mentally cringes as the “doorbell” goes off as a second person enters. He’d thought it’d be a cute idea, to have the sound of paper ripping as the doorbell; isn’t it cute, for a paper store? Really, all it does is serve to make him nervous, since he’s never sure if it’s really a new customer or if a child has gotten loose and is ruining his goods.
It’s happened enough times that the fear is real.
“Hello,” Xie Lian says from behind the desk. “Please let me know if you have any questions.”
The customer is holding a giant frappe with so much whipped cream it’s spilling out of the plastic dome on top, tilted at such an angle Xie Lian nearly feels the need to follow the customer around with a napkin trailing underneath.
The customer gives him a quick smile with flashing green eyes and a wave of their hand—heavens, their entire arm is covered in clunky, clinking bangles—before carrying on speaking with the tall goth behind them. Xie Lian shrugs off their ignoring him and goes back to sorting his mail. He’s got the usual amount of bills, and he feels his stomach begin to churn when he realizes just how little is left in his account to pay them.
Turns out the paper-making business isn’t as lucrative as one might have thought, he chuckles wanly to himself.
Looking at the amount he needs to pay by the end of the month and the red ink that makes up his actuals, Xie Lian didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
“So like, this whole shop is just paper?” the customer asks, and it takes a moment for Xie Lian to realize he’s being spoken to.
“Um,” he blinks up at the young person, standing closer to his height than he’d thought. “Yes, all handmade.”
“Handmade? That’s insane,” they turn to their friend and wave their hand to get the other’s attention. “Did you hear that? It’s all handmade!” The customer turns back to Xie Lian without waiting for a reply from their less-than-loquacious friend and holds a hand, fingers down and knuckles out, toward Xie Lian, almost like they’re expecting a kiss along its back. “Are you the owner? It’s so nice to meet you.”
Xie Lian takes the hand and shakes it lightly, smiling gently. It’s been awhile since he’s had such a genuine customer, and he is even more pleased when they grab a few pink and green sheets with one hand and set them on the table to purchase.
“I cannot believe these are handmade,” they say, slurping on their drink. The weather is just warm enough that the drink sounds like the perfect treat, but Xie Lian remembers the amount he owes and dismisses the thought of getting one right away—not even with a discount will he be able to afford the $7 drink. “Who makes them?”
“I do,” Xie Lian says, and nearly jumps when the customer gasps ten times as loud as the paper-ripping doorbell.
“Shut up! Ming Yi did you hear that? He makes them himself!”
Xie Lian smiles a little wider, almost blushes, but proceeds to wrap up the purchase. Within the amount of time it takes for him to ring up the purchase, collect the money, and offer a receipt, he learns his customer’s name is Shi Qingxuan, has ey/eir pronouns, is a college student at Banyue University, and has been thinking of trying to start up eir own soap business.
“Is it like, so hard to start a business?” ey ask, eyes shining and wide as dinner plates. As if Xie Lian is even remotely qualified to answer that question.
Xie Lian’s smile stretches so wide it’s a bit uncomfortable, and he decides to go with, “As it is with any job, it comes with its own challenges.”
Diplomatic but vague. It works a charm.
“You are so right,” ey say, nodding and reaching out to shake Xie Lian’s hand again. “My brother is like, a big-time lawyer and city council guy. He like, never gets any sleep.” Ey shakes eir head and eir hoop earrings jostle from side to side. “Like I would literally never.”
Xie Lian bites back the comment where he might say he’s had his own sleepless nights, thinking about just how much longer he will be able to keep his business open.
His contented customer grabs eir friend’s hand and waves a goodbye at Xie Lian, who waves in return, standing behind his counter with a sense of pride, endearment, and dread. He forgets, sometimes, how the people who do end up in his shop nearly always walk away with something, always have a compliment to give for his paper. He touches the small post-its he painstakingly made with his own organic glue—it took him months to get the formula right—and sighs.
He had been such a talent at his art school—what a unique ability he had to create such beautiful paper. The texture was almost canvas-like, but thin as a butterfly’s wing. All of the students with major art projects coming up would hound him for orders—it got to the point where if he didn’t start charging, he’d have been actively losing money.
Now, it seems, no matter how much marketing he does, there is simply no one interested in his paper anymore. Inflation is through the roof, and while he would like to think that paper will always be something important and necessary, it is neither in the eyes of the art students who would rather spend their money on caffeine from the coffee shop or sugar from the cake boutique than relinquish their pennies on quality paper.
Xie Lian shakes his head, trying to remove himself from his whinging. Life is bigger than him and his store, and if he can’t keep up with the times, well, he will just have to find another way. It isn’t as if he hasn’t known hardship before, after all. Besides, he’s enjoying his time as a shop owner while it lasts. At least it’s peaceful here.
He picks up the final letter from his stack of mail, and he is instantly taken aback.
The quality of the paper seemed to be nothing to look at at first glance, but the texture is outstanding. Xie Lian brings the envelope closer to himself, eyeing the slight sheen and noting the laminate as he holds it up to the sunlight.
What seemed like a standard envelope actually has a good amount of heft to it, and a good feel. He runs his fingertips over the edge and the sound of the zing! it makes is beautiful. Xie Lian smiles at the kindred spirit and looks at the front and back.
No return address, in its place is a small red butterfly.
Strange.
Xie Lian, unable to hold back his curiosity, opens the envelope with his letter opener. When he pulls out the short letter from within, he is pleased to note even the paper within is as good quality—if not better—than the envelope itself.
Goodness, he thinks to himself, what a shame about the handwriting. It’s so atrocious he can barely read it. He squints at the sloppy script and is finally able to make something out of it.
“Dear One,” it begins, and Xie Lian’s eyebrows shoot up with the cheeky familiarity. A thin piece of paper is attached to the back of the letter and Xie Lian holds it between his thumb and index fingers without yet looking at it. “Small businesses are something to be cherished, and so I plan to cherish yours. If you’ll allow it, I would like to pay for your business expenses in full, in exchange—”
Xie Lian’s mouth dries up and his fingers fumble with the letter.
Who? What on earth? What is this, some kind of prank? But the paper is so lovely, how can he mistrust someone who would use such high quality paper? It would be like eyeing a spoonful of the greatest chef’s signature dish.
Suddenly, he remembers the thin paper between his thumb and index. With trepidation, he turns it over and immediately has to sit down.
A check for two million dollars. A check for two million dollars.
A check for two million dollars??
Xie Lian hurries to pick up the letter again, determined to read it at least until the end.
“Dear One—
“Small businesses are something to be cherished, and so I plan to cherish yours. If you’ll allow it, I would like to pay for your business expenses in full, in exchange for you giving paper-making lessons to my associate. I have every wish to be able to have paper of your caliber and quality, and will give you this two million dollars initial payment as a token and promise of my good will. If you are willing to endeavor in this partnership, accept my associate when he comes to visit you tonight at 7 p.m. If not, send him away and you will hear from me no more.
“Either way, you are free to keep the check. It is of no consequence to me, and your talents are worth much more.
“Sincerely,
Yours”
Xie Lian isn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry, scream or jump for joy. Can this check even be real?
As a paper maker, he determines in about 30 seconds that it is a real watermarked check, with some terrible, nearly incoherent handwriting, but is certainly a check for two million dollars. His, whether he accepts the deal or not.
He simply doesn’t know what to think.
“Sounds like a scam,” Mu Qing says, a long finger running around the edge of his compostable coffee lid. “Who would just give you two million dollars? I wouldn’t even cash it, it’ll probably bounce anyway. Maybe he’s just looking to get your bank information somehow. You’re naive enough to be a sitting duck for these kinds of poachers.”
Xie Lian tries not to smart at the sharp comment, knowing his friend is far too correct anyway.
“Besides,” Mu Qing says, shrugging his shoulders and looking away. “You already received that letter from City Council after applying for that rent extension and business grant. Wait until then at least, to see if you get it.”
Xie Lian is dreading that meeting next month. He only received the diplomatically vague letter last week, with all five councilmembers signatures posted ominously at the top. With Xie Lian’s small name typed beneath, it felt even more like a David and Goliath situation he was walking himself into. That business grant was one of the more competitive ones in the city—with his current rate of business, he hardly stands a chance.
He just has one chance to have the council side with him; otherwise, two million or no, Xie Lian stands no chance of remaining in this business district.
Feng Xin slams a fist on the counter, making the three small spoons surrounding the carrot cake he’s bought them jump nearly an inch in the air. Xie Lian grabs a napkin and begins to wipe the slightly splattered cream against the counter while his other friend comes to his defense.
“They’d be stupid not to give you the grant, this place is worth it!” Feng Xin says, leaning over the counter to stare at a nonchalant Mu Qing. Mu Qing simply sips his flat white while Feng Xin does his valiant best to support Xie Lian’s dying business.
“So what if it’s the digital age and no one uses paper anymore?” he says, and Xie Lian’s smile turns into a grimace at the truth of his statement. “Sure, it’s not like people really use paper to do anything except craft, and even then people are more likely to buy paper from Amazon and Michaels, but Dianxia’s paper is second to none. No one makes finer paper, of course his quality would be recognized and appreciated.”
Xie Lian almost blushes but waves his hand while Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Feng Xin,” he says, embarrassed by his old nickname. It fit when he was at the top of the class so many years ago, but it’d be more accurate to call him Peasant or Pauper these days. “Don’t call me that, I keep asking you.”
Mu Qing snorts. “What, like he’s going to listen to you? Don’t you know, Dianxia, Feng Xin here put your paper in his ears and he’s never been able to get it out.”
“Maybe I did!” Feng Xin shouts, taking a massive bite of the delectable cake he’s brought in, the one that was just given an award in their town’s magazine for “Best Cake on the Coast.” “At least I don’t have to listen to your crusty opinions.”
Mu Qing very much looks offended by this and begins to argue. Xie Lian meanwhile, looks down at the letter again, drawing his fingers over the typed font, noting the slight smudge of the “Y” in the last word: “Yours.”
His shop is neutral ground, so three of them always meet here, but it never stops Mu Qing and Feng Xin from devolving into arguments and even out right brawls if the topic gets really heated. Still, it’s easier to clean up a bit of paper than to clean hurled coffee or slung pie.
Xie Lian knows the conversation will only give way to fists at this point, so he cleans up the cake, the coffee, and begins ushering the two of them home. “Go on now,” he urges them. “Cool off. See you in the morning.”
Mu Qing flips his hair over his shoulder and rolls his eyes. “There’s no reason for you to come so early, you know,” he says. “It’s not like you have customers at 7 a.m.”
Xie Lian knows this, knows that Mu Qing is only wanting to tell Xie Lian in his own way that he should take more time to himself, but his heart shrivels a little despite himself.
“You’re right,” he says before Feng Xin can argue for him and make him feel even worse. “See you tomorrow.”
He makes sure each of them make it to their car and drive off without hitting each other—it’s happened more than once—and while there’s a little chase between the two to see who can make it out of the parking lot first, there’s no other incident. Xie Lian takes a deep breath and turns around to look at his shop.
The clock ticks faithfully on behind him while the last rays of a late winter sun filter in through the high windows. He’s taken care to have special-made, bespoke shelves that protect his paper from the fading effect of the sun, and the gentle curving wood gives the space an especially warm glow as the gold bounces off the surface and prances across the floor and walls. Colors of yellow, red, silver, green, blue, pink, and more—it’s a subtle rainbow he’s crafted all by himself, one he never fails to smile at when he enters the shop each morning.
Now he doesn’t know what to think. The smile on his face—is it just him, who feels this way about his paper? Could he really have an admirer who sees what he sees?
“It’s lovely,” comes a deep voice behind him along with the sound of paper ripping, and Xie Lian whips around so quickly he nearly falls. Nearly falls, because there’s someone there to catch him.
A young man nearly half a head taller, black hair to his waist and two deep brown eyes looks down on him while his arms wrap around Xie Lian to stop his fall. The arms are thick and press Xie Lian closer, all while Xie Lian can feel a blush as red as the man’s coat rise from his chest to his cheeks.
One hand is on Xie Lian’s shoulder and another at the crux of his waist. Xie Lian’s voice wobbles as he struggles to come up with a response.
“I believe you’ve been expecting me,” says the man, and Xie Lian can’t think, only blinks.
“I have?”
The man smiles, and Xie Lian feels his own lips turn and smile with him. “I’m your—”
“Oh!” Xie Lian laughs then. “You must be the associate.” He gently, almost timidly, presses his palms to the man’s shoulders and pushes himself back. The man lets him go, albeit slowly, which Xie Lian is certain is because he’s afraid of a fall.
He holds out a hand, which the new stranger takes. “I’m Xie Lian, it’s lovely to meet you.”
The man smiles in such a way that Xie Lian leans forward, waiting for his next words. “San Lang, lovely to meet you, Dianxia.”
Xie Lian starts. He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, I don’t know how you know that name, but surely—just Xie Lian is fine. Xie Lian.”
The man tilts his head and his grin turns humorous. “How does ‘gege’ work for you?”
In all honesty it sounds perfectly devilish coming from those curling lips, those simmering eyes, but Xie Lian can’t continue this conversation without beginning to sweat, so he simply nods his head and takes a few steps back.
“Please, tell you kind superior how much his donation means to me—I, I don’t know that I can entirely accept it—”
San Lang’s visage doesn’t change, but Xie Lian can feel the mood in the room chill, though not in a way that frightens him. More, it seems as though the sun has simply left them cold and bereft, as if a mourning is about to take place.
“—But, but I am happy to teach you. I cannot in good faith ever turn away someone who wants to learn the craft, and I am sure you will be an excellent student. Are you sure you’d like to learn? Is this something you want to do?”
San Lang’s smile returns and the sun comes with it. “I’ll learn anything gege teaches me. Please, let me be your student.”
Xie Lian nods and waves him forward. “Come with me,” he says. “Let’s begin.”
As they walk toward the back of Xie Lian’s studio, the sun does begin to set. The purples and reds glow just outside the glass door, while the two pass from day into night.
And the learning is only beginning.