Work Text:
Shen Shen and Han Ying don’t get each other presents for Christmas. This is an established fact. Neither of them picked up the habit of celebrating in the years they’ve been in the US - to them Christmas was always more about obnoxious, attendance-expected office parties than any kind of meaningful holiday, left behind when they both abandoned the corporate world, or the corporate world abandoned them. And maybe it’s a bit of stubbornness, too, about their own culture and traditions - they both can be headstrong, after all.
So they don’t get each other Christmas gifts.
They might, however, get each other week-at-the-cabin gifts.
The late December trip up to Shen Shen’s Maine cabin has become a tradition, three years strong and hopefully not going to stop any time soon. The first year, Han Ying received the L.L. Bean slippers he still always wears at the cabin - even sometimes in the summer, fighting off the chill of foggy mornings. The second year, Han Ying raised it - ’I bought something for you - I can save it until New Year, or bring it to the cabin’ - and Shen Shen had had something for him, too. A print of a dog that looked just like Goldie and a book by a photographer documenting the rural villages in Han Ying’s home region, respectively.
This year, the third year, Shen Shen’s gift is wrapped up in red tissue paper in Han Ying’s duffle bag, a pleasantly squishy, crinkly thing.
They always do gifts the first night, and when they’re done with dinner, Han Ying goes to get the package. Stands squeezing it, for just a moment, and looking at the duvet Shen Shen finally bought for the cabin this year, rather than packing up his one from home.
Not many things about Shen Shen make Han Ying nervous anymore but, this, somehow, is one of them. He’s put a lot of work into it, for something so simple. He can feel his too-high heart rate when he hands it over, and Shen Shen smiles, and squishes it the same way Han Ying was just doing, and then unwraps it - so careful, like he’s planning to save the paper, even though he’ll just burn it in the woodstove later.
The gift tumbles out in his hands, unfurls a little, and Shen Shen blinks at it. Han Ying feels a bit sick. Shen Shen’s hands are careful as he unrolls it, the several feet of deep blue, wooly knit fabric. Garter stitch, to be precise. Extremely simple. Satisfyingly dense. Only a little misshapen.
“I hope you like it, it’s just something -”
“Did you make this?” Shen Shen asks, interrupting the start of Han Ying’s nervous babble with something slow, something low - a real question in his voice, wondering.
“Yes?”
Shen Shen gives him such a funny smile, then. Half-crooked, almost confused. “I didn’t know you could knit.”
“Oh - yeah - I - I picked it back up this year? I learned in OT, and my therapist thought I should give it another go - it can help with stuff. Anxiety. Focus. Plus dexterity, that’s why I learned in the first place.”
“Did it?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“When did you even work on it?”
“Commutes. Waiting at the doctors’. When you were out of town.”
Shen Shen nods. He’s looking down at the scarf now, fingers squeezing at the fabric again.
“Do you like it?”
“Oh!” Shen Shen looks mildly horrified, brow furrowing. “Yes. I love it, Ying’er, I can’t believe you made something for me. And the color’s so good.”
“It’s a wool and alpaca blend, the people at the yarn shop helped me pick it out.” They also helped him remember how to cast on, and walked him through binding it off. He owes them his life.
Shen Shen’s really smiling now, and he leans in on the sofa. Touches Han Ying’s hair, pulls him in for a kiss. “You’re so sweet,” he murmurs, and Han Ying laughs.
“It’s just a scarf.”
“It’s a scarf you made me.” Shen Shen pulls back, wraps it around his neck. “Good?”
“Yeah,” Han Ying says, and he feels warm now. Like he might be blushing, even. “Good.”
“Your turn,” Shen Shen says, and hands him a box - not wrapped, but tied with ribbon. It’s small, long. Very much a jewelry box. Han Ying glances up at him, and Shen Shen’s smile is tight now. They’re both so nervous. It’s silly. It’s sweet.
The ribbon comes away easily, and then Han Ying is opening the box, and looking down at a necklace. It’s a lovely thing, a solid but not-too-thick chain, and on the end of it - “Is this…” He picks it up, squints at the pendant. A little thing, irregularly shaped, somewhere between the size of a nickel and a quarter. Ceramic, bordered in silver. A slightly opalescent blue glaze. “Jun ware? No - shiwan.” Imitation Jun glaze, nineteenth century, not something worth $50,000 or more as an intact vase, which is a relief.
“Mmhm.” Shen Shen has that warm look now, the one he gets when Han Ying talks art. “The artist said it’s broken shiwan - she bought it broken, from a dealer.”
“Clever usage,” Han Ying replies. “I love it. Help me put it on?” He could probably manage it on his own, but he’s stiff from the car, and clasps are fiddly. And this way, Shen Shen leans close, looking more relaxed, less nervous, and after he clasps the necklace behind Han Ying’s neck, Han Ying gets to kiss him.
“I’m glad you like it,” Shen Shen says, when he pulls away, watching Han Ying run his fingers across it - cool silver, smooth glaze, sitting over the collar of his sweatshirt.
“Of course I do.”
“I didn’t know how you’d feel about jewelry - you have those old chains but you don’t wear them - and I thought about a ring, but -”
He stops himself, with that look he gets. Like he’d been running his mouth and said something he didn’t mean to.
“But what?” Han Ying asks, and it feels like his heart rate is speeding up again.
“Nothing.”
“Nope. Talk to me. Why not a ring?” It’s half teasing, but half pushing. A ring doesn’t have to be a big deal, it can just be jewelry, but Shen Shen is acting like it’s something. Like it matters.
“Because I thought we should talk about that, first!” Shen Shen shoots back, fast, frustrated.
“Oh - oh! Shen-ge, what?” He’d thought it might be that - a ring that matters - but now that it seems like it’s true, he feels very flustered. “Really?”
Shen Shen nods. “I - uh - I’d like to. If you want to. We don’t have to - to do anything - but, uh.” He makes a frustrated noise, brow more furrowed than ever. “In my head I had something much more articulate and romantic to say about this.”
“That’s okay, I like you inarticulate.” Han Ying pushes closer on the sofa, and reaches out. Takes Shen Shen’s hand. “We’re partners. We don’t need anything. But if you want -”
“That’s what I was trying to say. We don’t need to. But if you want to. Even if you just want to wear a ring - maybe to pick out a ring for me -”
“I’d really like that.”
“Really?” Now he’s doing that other look. That doe-eyed thing, like he still can’t believe Han Ying feels the way Han Ying has made very, very clear he does, over and over.
“Of course.”
Shen Shen’s still wearing the scarf. Han Ying sinks his fingers into it when he pulls him close, kisses him, firmly - making a point.
When they pull back, Shen Shen’s smiling a little.
Han Ying smiles back. “Kexing-ge’s going to be so pissed we did this instead of having a big proposal with him there to witness it.”
That, finally, makes Shen Shen really grin, and laugh. “Didn’t they get married like three weeks after they met?”
“Yep. And he keeps threatening to have a fancy vow renewal ceremony now, but Zishu refuses. Which is why he takes it out on every couple around him via party planning. You should have seen A-Xiang and Weining’s wedding. So much pent up wedding energy.”
“Do you actually want to have a wedding?”
Han Ying shrugs. “We can talk about it. But a ring sounds nice.”
“Okay. Good. Yeah. Good.”
Han Ying laughs, and pulls him in for another kiss. The scarf he knit is warm and soft under his hand, and the pendant hangs solid but light below his collarbone, and he is so, so in love with this babbling, sweet, impulsive, genuine, loving man.