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Dirty, stupid, ugly, cursed.
San Lang had been graciously bestowed these words by sneering strangers, from infancy through childhood. And there was no bias; he seemed to be fair game as everyone's punching bag.
The most unpleasant barbs were spat from the mouths of old homeless men who’d failed to establish themselves as proper working adults. Bland, insipid words slipped from the red-lined lips of ladies who hid in their palanquins. Government officials visibly recoiled from him as they passed, and depending on their audience, inflicted him with verbal abuse or simpering pity designed to garner social capital.
Such were the formative years of San Lang.
There was only one notable person, memory-blurred face haloed by a setting sun, who granted him a singular kindness. A day-old bun was pushed into his small hands, the most delicious morsel San Lang had had, ever since his mother had left him alone in this hell on earth. That person, a boy just a bit older than he was, kept him company for a small eternity as he wailed and sniffled over the bun. He switched manically between thanking the boy and cursing the humans who’d abandoned him.
Gege, I hate them! I hate them all!
And though he couldn’t remember the exact words, the boy had gifted him another object—a beautiful butterfly pin from his own hair—in exchange for a promise. To use the money from the silver to pull himself out of misfortune, and to channel his hatred into something better, more hopeful.
And so, San Lang grew up to be ‘Hua Cheng’—feared by food critics, respected by head chefs everywhere, and a savior to the hungry. Especially to the residents of ‘Ghost City,’ the district where the outcast and the forgotten went.
It’s for this lofty reputation that he’s approached by some suspiciously … high-class people, one man and one woman.
“Excuse us, but are you Hua Cheng?” they ask.
San Lang continues mincing viciously, only looking up once he’s wiped clean his favorite knife, E’ming. He tilts it one way then another, watching fractals of sunlight temporarily blind his guests’ eyes. They fidget and shift as the silence stretches.
“Ah, apologies, we can come back lat—”
“I prefer San Lang, actually. But if you’re here in a professional sense, I suppose Hua Cheng will do.”
The woman graciously nods and steps forward. San Lang sizes her up, taking in her youthful beauty, upright posture, and elegant clothing. But as his eyes meet hers, he smiles. There is a gentle steeliness in her gaze which impresses him, soothing his initial annoyance at being disturbed.
“I need to finish food prep. So, if you don’t mind …”
“Of course, sir. We’ll get right to the point. My husband and I are interested in hiring you, as a personal chef for our son, while we travel abroad for business for an extended time. About six months.”
“Hmm. Well, I have several questions now.” He leans against the counter and holds up three fingers. He puts one down and asks, “One: why does your son need a ‘personal chef’?”
The man steps forward this time, stroking across his beard a bit nervously. “Our son, see, he’s a very capable young adult. But his cooking is quite disastrous, see. And he often forgets to feed himself if he doesn’t dine with company.”
San Lang resists the urge to roll his eyes. Wow, sounds like you raised yourself quite a snotty, incompetent little prince.
“I see. Okay, two: why do you think I’m available to be someone’s personal chef?”
“Ah! Obviously, we’d compensate you for loss of time in your business, as we know Hua Cheng must be very busy.”
She then quotes an egregiously high number, and San Lang can’t reign in his shock.
She must be encouraged by his reaction because she continues, “Quite honestly, you come highly recommended by our kitchen staff, whom we hired from this neighborhood. They promised us we wouldn’t find a more trustworthy, talented chef than you! We’d be fools to ignore such a resounding endorsement.”
San Lang raises his eyebrows. “You hired people from this area? The infamous ‘Ghost City?’” He makes sure his voice is dripping in disbelief. This fine couple looks like they’d be allergic to the filth and poverty of his city, so hiring someone from here …
He’s surprised when the couple doubles down and nods. They drop some names that bring a begrudging smile to San Lang’s face—names that he recalls fondly. He’s glad to hear they’ve been gainfully employed, and against his better judgment his opinion of these rich strangers increases. Maybe it’d be worth hearing them out …?
He lowers his final finger. “Then here’s my third question: when do you need your ‘personal chef’ to start?”
The woman tamps down a hopeful smile. “We understand you’ll require some time to think it over and settle your business, but we’ll be leaving in about a month and would like to observe a trial period of one week before we go.”
San Lang sighs internally at the hassle, but offers a courteous nod. “I’ll consider it.”
“Thank you!” the man cries, and extends a business card with both hands. “Please call us at this number to arrange final payment and terms. We look forward to speaking with you again.”
San Lang finally puts his knife down and meets the man halfway to take the card. Xie Family Properties, it says.
Well. Six months surrounded by luxury, preparing meals maybe two or three times each day. Sounds like a good deal. If anything, this could be an interesting story to share afterwards.
Almost three weeks later, San Lang steps outside of the limousine which the Xie couple had rented for him. He can see some of the guards do double-takes at his outfit.
First impressions are everything to the high-class gentlepeople. So, he’s dressed to impress, in vibrant reds and abyssal blacks. That morning, he’d adorned himself in a few butterfly-themed ornaments and bells, which he’d have to remove for safety when cooking. But one iconic accessory would remain, always—his silver butterfly pin, gifted all those years back. He could never bring himself to sell it, and now it’d become a part of him.
The guards at the gate greet him, “Please come this way, sir!”
He follows at a stroll, casting his eyes here and there to examine the grounds he’d call ‘home’ for the next half-year. He’s still keeping his expectations low for the Xie Family’s only heir, Xie Lian, but he resolves himself to enjoy the views.
Amused, he smirks to himself as he passes the second ballroom lined with expensive décor. It’s too bad he’s past his thieving days!
At the third ballroom, he lets himself be overcome by whimsy. Clearing his throat to first catch the attention of his escorts, he then veers off-course onto the dance floor. A tune floats up from his memories of a mother’s love, so he begins humming. He claps a three-count to start, then sets his feet into motion. Slide, step, step. Turn, step, step. Repeat.
San Lang interrupts his own humming with a short laugh, set alight with mirth by the scandalized and confused murmurs trickling from the doorway. But he carries on and on, closing his eyes as he nears the finish of his one-sided waltz.
A breath.
A whiff of blossoms.
A light touch on his open palm.
From one beat to the next, one dancer becomes a pair of two.
San Lang doesn’t falter in his dance, but his eyes startle open. And he beholds the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
Honey warm brown eyes, curved into crescents. Flawless skin, tinged a healthy rose-pink where the light kisses it. Petal-pink lips to match, pulled into a beaming smile. Hair just a tint lighter than obsidian, gathered in a half-do by a simple bamboo clip. Elegant silks and fabrics which San Lang lacked the words to describe.
His humming trails off after eight more measures. Ah, but it felt like eight hundred years, how profoundly he felt a connection to this stranger.
“Thank you for the dance and song,” the beautiful man says. Oh, even his voice is lovely!
San Lang bows his head and bequeaths a kiss upon one perfectly shaped hand. He raises his gaze and grins. “The pleasure was all mine, mister—?”
A breathless laugh precedes the thunder bolt. “No ‘mister’ please. My name’s Xie Lian.”
Wow. He does not match San Lang’s idea of a spoiled, conceited, can’t-cook-for-himself son of a rich couple!! He coughs to hide his shock, but not fast enough.
“Oh!” Xie Lian chuckles. “I’m sorry! I guess I’m not what you expected, hm? I told my parents to at least share a photo of who I am, in case you find me particularly, uh. Particularly ugly, or something?”
San Lang barks out, “What!”
Now, Xie Lian looks flustered by the outburst, tugging his hand away. The air feels cold where the warmth once was. But back to the topic at hand—
“No, sorry, but to imply you’re anything but beautiful is an insult to all of us. We have eyes, you know, and it’s rude to pretend otherwise. I assure you, my shock is not because of what you look like. I just expected someone less … talented.”
“O-oh, ah, then—”
“I need to report to your parents that their son has invested his skills into dancing rather than cooking. A worthy trade.”
“You flatter me too much, for a man who can literally do both.”
“Mm, so you already knew who I was?”
Xie Lian’s eyes slide sideways. “We were only expecting one guest today, after all. I was waiting in the sunroom next door, but I heard you. Then, when I walked in, there you were.” He sighs. “You looked so lonely dancing alone. Before I realized it, I was dancing, too. I hope Hua Cheng forgives me for being so rude.”
“Quite the opposite, I assure you.”
Xie Lian laughs softly.
“And please, call me San Lang.”
San Lang offers his hand, palm up, and faces the doors, where the guards are shifting impatiently. “Shall we move along before I get in real trouble? I actually do need to speak with your parents about the arrangements.”
He misses Xie Lian’s sharp inhale, as his butterfly pin catches the light.
“Of course! But—sorry, just a moment, but. Your pin. Ah, I-I think I recognize it.”
“… what, this?” He reaches up, nearly smacking Xie Lian in the face when the man suddenly surges up on his tippy-toes to inspect the hair piece. “I can just—” He pulls the pin out, letting his hair fall loose in waves.
He hands it over to Xie Lian and watches, vaguely confused, as an intriguing sequence of emotions plays out across his face—curiosity, seriousness, surprise, elation, dulled by hesitance.
“Has this always been yours?” Xie Lian finally asks in a falsely light tone.
San Lang is tempted to say yes but decides to answer truthfully. “No. I exchanged this with a kind gege, a long time ago. I don’t remember the details, but the gege who originally owned this saved me from a day of starving. And a lifetime of misery. I like wearing this when I cook for others.”
“A kind gege …” Xie Lian murmurs. “Well, this kind gege wants to thank San Lang for surviving until now, to show me how well you’ve grown up. It was such a long time ago, but I feel a bit ashamed that I only gave you a half-eaten, stale bun. And now you’re here to treat me to top-quality cuisine that even kings and queens would drool over.”
San Lang’s lips part, then close, without saying a word. Carefully, he examines Xie Lian, standing there with that precious pin cradled in his hands. He scours his mind for memories of that day, and superimposes the blurry image of the boy back then over the vision before him.
Yes, even if he couldn’t believe it, it is him. The boy, no, the man who had been his special someone, and is on his way to becoming his special someone again.
“Gege, I would have you use me as your personal chef for the next ten years, and it wouldn’t come close to repaying the compassion you showed me at my lowest.”
“Oh, no, that’s really too much—”
“I’ll prove to you that it’s really, really not. To serve you will be my greatest honor.”
Xie Lian proceeds to argue weakly, but nothing he says can dispel the budding passion in San Lang’s heart, compelling him to manifest his devotion (and love) into delicious foods.
Six months was too short a time. Perhaps he should ask the Xie couple to extend his contract indefinitely?
Or perhaps he can propose a different contract with their son, one that wouldn’t end “until death do us part.”