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In the humble shrine that Xie Lian called home, mornings often began with the soft clatter of scrap metal.
He had long since grown accustomed to the rhythm, the shuffle of his straw sandals, the creak of his cart, the chime of old bottles and discarded copper. Most gods would never dream of handling refuse, but Xie Lian hummed while sorting through it, content in the simple act of mending what others threw away.
This time, however, there was a purpose.
For weeks, Xie Lian had been quietly saving every copper coin he earned. He wrapped each one carefully in paper and placed it in a small bamboo box hidden beneath his altar. Even some donations from kind villagers, a few spare coins, an apple, a bag full of rice, he set aside.
All because he had an idea.
Hua Cheng never asked for anything. He gave freely, lavishly even, but accepted little in return. It was unfair, Xie Lian thought, always being the one to receive. So when he came across a finely crafted silver hairpin, shaped like a blooming red spider lily with little butterflies engraved on its body, simple yet elegant, the color of San Lang’s wraith butterflies, he knew instantly.
It was perfect.
Not for any festival, or birthday, or grand occasion. Just because he wanted to see his Hua Cheng smile.
---
Two days later, when the sun dipped behind the mountains and San Lang appeared at the shrine with his usual easy smile, Xie Lian thought he might test the waters to see how much Hua Cheng liked such things.
They sat together, drinking tea brewed from the last of Xie Lian’s leaves.
“San Lang,” Xie Lian said lightly, as if making conversation, “if you had to choose between… say, a fine silk robe, a good sword, or perhaps a silver hairpin with some carving, which would you prefer?”
Hua Cheng chuckled. “Gege, are you testing this one?”
“Just curious,” Xie Lian said innocently.
Hua Cheng leaned back. “Hm. None of those, I suppose. They’re all just irreskovent toys to me, small things. What would I do with trinkets? When you’ve owned half the treasures in the Ghost Realm, it all blurs together. Worthless, really.”
He laughed again, trying to sound impressive, but froze when he saw the faint flicker in Xie Lian’s smile.
“Ah, Gege? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Xie Lian said quickly, shaking his head. “I was only making conversation.”
But when Hua Cheng reached for his hand, Xie Lian gently withdrew it. “It’s late. You must be busy with the ghost festival coming up. I won’t keep you.”
And that was all.
When Hua Cheng vanished into silver sparkles, Xie Lian sat alone in the quiet, staring at the small wrapped parcel hidden under his sleeve.
He turned it over once, twice, then sighed.
“…toys,” he murmured to himself, smiling ruefully. “Of course.”
That night, he hid the packet deep within the shrine, beneath a loose floorboard near the altar, and tried not to think about it again.
---
Two days later, while sweeping the floor, Hua Cheng knelt to pick up a coin that had rolled under the altar. Something small and paper-wrapped hiding behind the rice bag, caught his eye.
Curious, he reached in and pulled it free.
“Gege,” he called. “What’s this packet?”
From across the shrine, Xie Lian froze. His head snapped up so quickly his hair tie loosened.
“San Lang- no! Don’t-!”
But Hua Cheng had already unwrapped it.
The silver hairpin gleamed softly in his palm, shaped like a red spider lily, delicate petals curling in motion with little delicate butterflies engraved on its body. It was unmistakably chosen with care.
Hua Cheng stared at it, then at Xie Lian, who stood helplessly in the doorway, looking more sheepish than he had in centuries.
“Gege…” Hua Cheng’s voice came out quiet, unreadable. “This is-?”
“I was...ah- planning to return it,” Xie Lian said quickly. “It wasn’t suitable after all. You said such things were unimportant, so- so I thought- perhaps something else might-”
He trailed off, flustered, his hands twisting the hem of his sleeve.
It took only a heartbeat for Hua Cheng to understand.
The conversation. The awkward silence. The way Xie Lian had looked away that night.
“Gege,” Hua Cheng said softly, “you bought this for me.”
Xie Lian opened his mouth, then closed it. “I only wanted to give you something. But it seems I chose poorly.”
Hua Cheng’s chest ached. Slowly, reverently, he placed the hairpin back in Xie Lian’s hands.
“Gege,” he said, voice low with guilt, “This one spoke carelessly... He only wanted to sound… impressive to you. This didn’t mean what he said.”
He smiled faintly, but his eye was bright with remorse. “If I had known, I’d have said every silver in the world was precious — because you touched it.”
Xie Lian blinked. “San Lang-”
“I’m so used to showing off for you,” Hua Cheng murmured, pressing Xie Lian’s hand between his palms, “but the things you give me are the ones I treasure most.”
Xie Lian’s lips parted in surprise, then softened. “So… San lang doesn't think it’s a toy?”
“Toy?” Hua Cheng laughed, shaking his head. “Gege, it’s a treasure. It’s priceless. It’s from you.”
Xie Lian’s cheeks flushed faintly. “San Lang, don’t say things like that so easily.”
“But it’s true.” Hua Cheng’s grin returned, gentler now, humble in a way it rarely was. “May I wear it?”
Xie Lian hesitated, then nodded.
Hua Cheng gathered his hair, deftly sliding the silver hairpin through the dark strands until it glimmered against the crimson streaks of his robe. When he turned, the light caught it perfectly, like a flame framed in moonlight.
“How do I look?”
“Beautiful,” Xie Lian said softly.
Hua Cheng smiled. “Then it’s the best gift I’ve ever received.”