Work Text:
Hua Cheng stood in the center of his art studio, frowning at the lighting for the fifth time that morning. No matter how many times he adjusted the angles or swapped out bulbs, the glow seemed wrong—too harsh, too dim, never just right. He let out a frustrated sigh and threw the switch off entirely.
"Yin Yu can deal with it," he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. It wasn’t like him to pass off work; efficiency was practically his middle name. If something needed doing, Hua Cheng was the first to jump in, the one everyone trusted to get it right the first time. But not today. Today, his mind wasn’t in the studio or even in Guishi City.
It was hundreds of miles away with a certain librarian.
The email had been brief, like all their messages lately: "I miss you. Wish I could be there for your exhibit next week. Proud of you, though."
Xie Lian. Even reading the words again made Hua Cheng’s chest tighten. He leaned against the nearest wall, closing his eyes, as if he could conjure up the sound of Xie Lian’s voice to fill the silent studio.
In his mind, he could see him perfectly: soft brown hair always slightly out of place, the gentle curve of his lips when he smiled, and the way he blushed at every compliment, no matter how small. Their video calls had been his lifeline over the past year—Xie Lian’s quiet laughter, his animated stories about thrifting finds or volunteering mishaps. Hua Cheng could listen for hours, captivated by the tiniest details of his day.
But even those moments had started to feel hollow. The glowing screen separating them wasn’t enough anymore. Hua Cheng wanted more than the flickering image of Xie Lian’s face; he wanted the warmth of his hand, the way his head fit perfectly on his shoulder, the quiet comfort of just being in the same room.
He sighed, opening his eyes to stare at the blank canvas leaning against the far wall. A restless ache gnawed at him, the kind that made sleep impossible and left him scrolling through their old photos at two in the morning. Pictures of them laughing at a park, their fingers intertwined at a café, or simply sitting side by side on Xie Lian’s worn-out couch.
That’s when the idea had come to him.
If he couldn’t go and hold Xie Lian right now, it didn’t mean he could’t send him a hug.
Across the country in the bustling heart of Xianle City, Xie Lian sat cross-legged on the worn couch of his tiny studio apartment. Beige yarn was tangled hopelessly around him, draped over his lap and twisted around his arms like some kind of chaotic web. His hair, usually neat in a soft ponytail, was piled into a haphazard bun that bobbed with every frustrated sigh. Beige threads clung to his white clothes, evidence of his determined battle with the skein in his hands.
Sitting beside him, his best friend Mu Qing looked like he was on the verge of combusting. His sharp eyes tracked Xie Lian’s every movement with the intensity of someone restraining themselves from grabbing the crochet hook and taking over entirely.
“Xie Lian,” Mu Qing said, his tone just this side of exasperated, “this is the eighth time you’ve dropped a stitch. And we’re still on the fourth row. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want me to just finish it for you?”
“No!” Xie Lian shot back, his voice tinged with stubborn resolve. He tightened his grip on the crochet hook, squinting at the uneven loops as if sheer willpower alone could make them align. “This is for San Lang. It has to be mine . Not perfect—because, well, I’m not a miracle worker—but at least not...a disaster.”
Mu Qing raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He knew better than to stand between Xie Lian and his heartfelt, if occasionally misguided, acts of devotion. “Alright,” he muttered, leaning back against the couch. “But don’t cry to me when you have to unravel it for the tenth time.”
Xie Lian’s lips twitched, but he stayed focused. Ever since he’d heard Hua Cheng’s voice note last week, his mind had been consumed by this project. Hua Cheng had sounded uncharacteristically tired, admitting how lonely and overwhelmed he felt preparing for his art exhibit. Xie Lian had listened to the note over and over, his chest tightening at the thought of Hua Cheng facing all that pressure alone.
A simple gift wouldn’t cut it this time. Xie Lian wanted to do something meaningful, something Hua Cheng could touch and feel the love woven into every inch of it.
The idea had struck him after a passing joke Hua Cheng had made during one of their video calls: “It’s so cold here, I might as well turn into an icicle waiting for you.” Xie Lian had laughed at the time, but the image of Hua Cheng, cold and lonely in Guishi City, had stayed with him. That night, inspiration struck—a beanie. Warm, soft, and made with his own two hands.
Of course, that was before he realized just how hard crocheting could be.
“Why is this so complicated?” Xie Lian muttered, glaring at the tangled yarn.
“Because you’re doing it wrong,” Mu Qing said flatly.
Xie Lian ignored the jab, his determination only growing. Each loop, no matter how uneven, felt like a promise: I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you.
As the hours dragged on, Xie Lian’s stitches became a little steadier, his focus sharper. Mu Qing, watching from the sidelines, sighed but didn’t leave. He understood Xie Lian well enough to know that when he put his heart into something, he wouldn’t stop until it was finished.
And if the end product turned out a little lopsided? Well, Mu Qing was certain Hua Cheng would treasure it all the same, because that's just how he is.
Two weeks later, Hua Cheng stood in front of his mailbox, his breath catching as he saw the small, carefully wrapped package nestled inside. The handwriting on the label was instantly recognizable—neat, elegant, and unmistakably Xie Lian’s. He carried it back to his studio with a mix of excitement and nervousness, his heart beating faster with every step.
Inside, he found a beige beanie, slightly lopsided but radiating a kind of charm that made him grin the moment he saw it. Tucked alongside was a handwritten note, the ink slightly smudged in places, as if Xie Lian had rewritten it a few times before settling on the final version:
“It’s my first project, so don’t judge too harshly. I thought you could use it to keep your head warm while you’re running around making the rest of us look untalented. Love you. Miss you. — Xie Lian”
Hua Cheng stared at the beanie for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the uneven stitches. It was imperfect, and yet, to him, it was perfect. He pressed the beanie to his chest, closing his eye as a smile tugged at his lips. The warmth of the gesture spread through him, and when he opened his eye, there was a sheen of tears threatening to spill.
Without hesitation, Hua Cheng slipped it on, adjusting it carefully as he glanced at his phone screen to check the fit. The reflection showed a slightly snug, endearingly quirky beanie that sat proudly atop his head. It wasn’t just a hat; it was Xie Lian’s love, woven stitch by stitch.
At the very same moment, across the country, Xie Lian was seated cross-legged on his couch, his hands trembling slightly as he opened a package from Hua Cheng. The faint, woodsy scent of Hua Cheng’s cologne wafted out even before he unfolded the tissue paper. Inside was a stunning red silk undershirt, smooth and impossibly soft to the touch. As he lifted it, he noticed a note tucked neatly beneath:
“I wore this a few times, so it’s infused with me, just for you. Whenever you miss me, wrap yourself in it, and I’ll be there. Love you always. — Hua Cheng”
Xie Lian pressed the silk against his face, inhaling deeply. The scent was so unmistakably Hua Cheng—warm, steady, and comforting. It felt as though Hua Cheng were right there with him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, whispering something reassuring in his ear. Tears slipped silently down Xie Lian’s cheeks as he clutched the shirt tightly, kissing the fabric as if it might bring him closer to Hua Cheng.
The distance between them felt smaller somehow, their love bridging the miles through these thoughtful, intimate gifts. For Hua Cheng, the lopsided beanie was a reminder that Xie Lian’s care was worth every stitch. For Xie Lian, the red silk undershirt was a cocoon of warmth that made him feel cherished beyond measure.
In their own separate worlds, both of them smiled through their tears, feeling closer than ever despite the miles that kept them apart.
Later that evening, their phones lit up simultaneously, and within seconds, they were face-to-face on a video call. Hua Cheng’s grin was wide and unfiltered as he adjusted his camera, proudly showing off the beige beanie perched on his head.
"I love it, Gege," he said before Xie Lian could even utter a word. His voice was filled with genuine warmth. "I don’t care if it’s lopsided—it’s mine, and it’s perfect."
Xie Lian’s cheeks flushed pink, his smile shy as he held up the red silk undershirt. "And this... It’s amazing. It smells like my San Lang, and I’m never taking it off."
Hua Cheng chuckled, his eye crinkling at the corners. "That’s the idea," he teased, his tone soft. "I wanted it to feel like a hug when I couldn’t be there."
They laughed together, the sound light and sweet, as if the miles between them had disappeared for a moment. For the rest of the evening, they talked about everything and nothing—Xie Lian recounting his struggles with the beanie’s final rows, Hua Cheng sharing the chaotic last-minute preparations for his exhibit. Their voices were calm, their laughter easy, their love evident in the way they lingered on each other's every word.
That night, as the call ended and they retreated to their respective beds, Hua Cheng lay with the beanie still snug on his head, and Xie Lian snuggled into the red undershirt. It was as if they were holding a piece of each other, even across the distance.
When the day finally came for them to reunite, the train station was bustling with activity, but Hua Cheng spotted Xie Lian the moment he stepped onto the platform. Xie Lian’s face broke into a radiant smile as he hurried forward, the red silk undershirt peeking out beneath his coat. Hua Cheng waved, his grin as wide as ever, the beige beanie still proudly perched on his head.
As they came together in a tight embrace, the bustling noise of the station faded into nothing. It didn’t matter how far they had been or how long they had waited—this moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, was all that mattered.