do you not have enough money for a stamp?

Di Feisheng glanced down at the hairpin in his hands, which was nowhere near anyone's eyes, then shrugged. The brat probably thought teasing would take the sting out of being helped. "Alright," he said, then frowned, remembering what had happened with the misplaced incense. Better to reassemble it if he wished to see both parts again. Carefully, forcing his hands to obey him once more, Di Feisheng lined up the hairpin and slid it into the xiao guan, unable to stop the faint, relieved smirk tugging at his lips. Finally, something he'd defeated. "Here," he said, holding them out by the dragon's head on the hairpin to avoid changing his grip and dropping them, just barely keeping his arm from shaking from exertion.

It took far too long to notice that Duobing hadn't made a move to take them. Instead, Duobing was just staring at him, his cheeks slightly pink. "You're doing this deliberately," the brat hissed at last, crossing his arms over his chest and looking almost hurt.

Di Feisheng glared, the effort involved in keeping his arm steady making his head throb too angrily to puzzle out what was offending the brat now. "Doing what? Handing it to you? Don't offer if you don't want to help," he snapped, unable to keep the frustrated growl from his voice.

The brat's hurt look vanished, replaced by too many different emotions for Di Feisheng to track while his head felt like it was being impaled, before landing on one that looked vaguely sheepish. "No, I just meant"—Duobing gave the too-bright smile that meant he was about to lie his ass off, badly—"I thought you were holding the xiao guan by the hairpin like that to irritate me! The craftsmanship is unequaled. It deserves better than to just be dangled about! Here," he said, holding out a hand for it, "I'll take them, alright?"

Di Feisheng raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. The truth didn't matter. At least Duobing had figured out on his own this time that he hadn't been deliberately insulted. Might as well pretend he believed his ridiculous explanation. "It's sturdy," he said, putting it in Duobing's waiting hands. "It can handle it. I wouldn't wear it otherwise."

Duobing looked down at the xiao guan in his hands with a faint, almost sad smile. "Something can be sturdy and still deserve care, a-Fei," he said, his voice oddly soft and weirdly gentle. "They're not mutually exclusive." Then he looked up at Di Feisheng, brows raised, an expectant, hopeful look in his eyes.

What the fuck was the brat on about now? Was he really going to lecture him on proper care of accessories?

Oh. No, Duobing meant . . . that he, Di Feisheng, was . . .

Di Feisheng scoffed (or tried to; the sound was too soft, and almost fond, even to his own ears) and looked away, his gaze falling on the wrist guards he'd stacked to his right.