Work Text:
Liu Yuxin looks like how Xue’er remembered her. For that, she pretends she doesn’t, and looks forward as the music begins.
/
In something she’d treat as regret; Yuxin looks back to her first meeting with Mountaintop’s Kong Xue’er.
Xue’er had been crying. Jiaqi had propped open the door to their practice room, to welcome in the constant stream of endless SNH48 trainees begging her for advice. And it was through an interrupted practice — Dai Meng asking for pointers on the details, something Jiaqi had the an eye for — that she’d caught a glimpse of red streak rushing past, and on a gut instinct — something that should’ve been long dead, from a long time ago — followed after it.
Not every redhead is Kong Xue’er, Yuxin knew this, and could never remember it. Not every redhead is Kong Xue’er, Yuxin told herself as she turned the corner, except when it is.
Xue’er was sobbing before she’d found the corner, and had crouched into it like a wounded animal. Yuxin had taken care not to move close, slowly taking a place just out of frame for Xue’er, for the cameras that had followed them. At the sound of her voice — though Yuxin doesn’t remember a single thing she said — she knows, Xue’er had looked up at her. And even crying as uncontrollably as she had been, had enough composure not to let any recognition show through her face. But even then, the sound of her sobs had splintered, going harder now than they had been before. Still, Yuxin stayed. Kept her distance because Xue’er didn’t like it when other people saw her cry. But stayed, because she had always needed someone else to prop her up.
Yuxin thought of how many times she’d seen her like this before, and — always the last thought, always the first thought — how pretty she looked. Even bawling like a child; even with a red face pressed up against the wall, hidden away against the white, half-covered by her hand. Kong Xue’er was always so beautiful.
Like snow atop a mountain, Yuxin couldn’t stop herself from thinking. How regal it looked from far away; how quickly it melted once you touched it.
/
“We’re almost sharing this center position, aren’t we?”
Yuxin looks up, already prepared for the worst. Still, An Qi doesn’t look angry, but proud almost. Like she’s glad Yuxin was chosen to be her closest competitor. Like she knows the almost means much more than how she said it.
“You’re still far better than I,” Yuxin says. “It’s meant for you.”
A few hours ago, Yuxin only knew about An Qi from secondhand accounts — girls giggling to each other in practice rooms when the cameras were off, Qi Sui with her wide eyes and a hand covering her mouth whispering on the walk to the dorms, a list that’d been passed around in secret and in good nature, detailing all the complaints they’d had. A stage controller! A life controller! We can be nothing but loyal subjects! Someone had commented, circling An Qi’s name twice through. When Qi Sui had spoken, she’d been breathless with an admiration she caught from someone. The girls Yuxin overheard, were clustered together voices spiking in pitch, the more they spoke — the more their excitement grew.
Whatever inspired that, Yuxin had watched as An Qi wrote her name by Ambush, she’d soon find out.
A few hours later, she has her answer. An Qi doesn’t rebuff the compliment. It’s not with faux-surprise, or any attempt at modesty that An Qi receives praise. It’s expectance. Her smile changes, the fierceness relaxes into fun.
Yuxin knows now, that this is her kingdom; any gifts are not meant to vye in her favour nor appease her, but to pay her dues.
How does it feel, she wonders, to be so sure of one’s worth? From the corner of her eye, she sees Kong Xue’er in the mirror, watching them, scattered a few feet away. There’s no privacy here, Yuxin knows, still — catching the same question flutter on Xue’er’s face makes her feel naked. As if she’s been seen in a way she doesn’t want to be.
It’s a funny thought in hindsight. Given the breadth of everything Xue’er had seen of her; and she in turn, had seen of Xue’er. But now, years past that point, it’s all the more worse to stand in front of her for it.
An Qi sees this too — too sharp to miss anything, and says — “You’ll find your place Liu Yuxin.” She smiles wide at Yuxin, a mixture of catty and playful and promising. “It’ll be beside me, of course.”
Then she turns to her right, and calls out — “Kong Xue’er! Come! Let’s fix our intro.”
/
Ten hours into practice, most of their team has spread apart — staking their claims onto different sections of the floorboard to meld into. Yuxin picks a spot by the mirror, not a corner but near one — and looks out to the group. Fu Yaning is collected into a neat pile, looking morose as she repeats her lines to herself under her breath. Li Yichen isn’t much better, resembling a corpse flat on the floor, hands lifted into the air practicing their movements. An Qi’s curled into a ball, bundled in both the sweater Yuxin had slid over when she’d rolled over and eyed her, and her own. It’s Xue’er she looks over to now, quirks an eyebrow and says — “Kong Xue’er! Aren’t you the leader?”
Yuxin watches her hands as she figures out what to do with that. They trace over the floor for a second, drag as she shifts her weight, then press firmly down as she uses the force to lift herself up.
“Of course,” she smiles wide, looking to the camera, patting her hands off. “As leader I’ll—” she falters only for a second. Yuxin mouths the words for her. Not that she looks. “—I’ll offer encouragement to everybody! We need to get back to work!” She directs this at the camera, as if it was scripted—and raises a fist in resolve.
She goes around the practice room, a staff member in black handing her a handcam, and begins to film herself a segment. It’s to Li Yichen she goes first, finding it the easiest to correct her movements, fingers over fingers, teaching through touch. Then to Fu Yaning, her voice bright as she offers compliments. Halfway through An Qi’s screeching, the camera seems to die, and Yuxin lets out a breath, readying herself to stand as practice is set to start again. But An Qi only pushes Xue’er forward, towards Yuxin — that wicked, wicked glee running through her face. Present ever since she found out they were once groupmates.
Xue’er keeps her smile pasted on as she comes to sit by Yuxin. A satisfactory amount of space left between them.
Yuxin smiles at her. Xue’er nods. She brightens, and says — “You’ve been ranking really well, so you have lots of fans. They’re well-deserved too.”
This time, Yuxin nods. “Thanks. You too.”
Her smile tightens, like it’s taking more effort to keep it on. “Right. But—you’ve been rising steadily! Soon you’re bound to reach the top, right?”
“I—maybe,” Yuxin says, avoiding her face. She glances back up, she can’t help herself. “You never know with these things.”
“It’s pretty clear you’re winning,” Xue’er says, voice edging onto something. “And you—you keep winning.”
“It’s not set in stone.” Yuxin sometimes felt like she was talking to a wall. That was before. After, when she’d think about it sometimes — she’d figured that was just her being unfair. Right now, Yuxin feels like she’s talking to a wall. “I’ve barely won anything yet.”
“But you’re a victor, you know that? 300 votes?” Xue’er’s voice runs ragged as she recounts the number; her pitch skewering higher as she speaks. It’s almost accusatory. Yuxin thinks to steady her almost, reach out a hand to — and then she thinks better of it. “That’s incredible, you know?”
“You’re placing high as well,” is what Yuxin decides on after a pause, Xue’er is not looking at her, but a point beyond her. “There’s no use in us competing.”
“But don’t even have to be center to win—you beat Jiaqi without even trying.” This is supposed to be inspiring, Yuxin reminds herself. Xue’er had come over to cheer her on; act as a leader in some capacity. “Twice, even. Jiaqi.”
Xue’er’s particular brand of poison, Yuxin remembers, was comparison. To her, this would be a compliment. Yuxin isn’t looking at her anymore either, but to a point in her hair. The waves fall perfectly down her back as they always have. A day ago, Yu Yan’s hair, nearly the same colour, had fallen over her face. As Yuxin had brushed it away, she’d thought of Xue’er. At that time, it’d been a memory of what her hair had been like. At this moment, it’s a guess of what it would be like.
She takes a breath out. You can’t rely on the past to predict the future. To Xue’er, she says — “Just because I’ve won before, doesn’t mean I’ll win again. Just because you’ve lost before, doesn’t mean you’ll lose again. We are not playing a game of skill, Sherry,” — this is a reminder — “It’s a game of luck.”
They aren’t looking at each other still. But through the mirror, Yuxin sees Xue’er straighten her expression. It affixes itself from anger, to something perfectly neutral. Her mouth is a line that could become a smile at any second; whenever she needs it to. But between one flip to the next, Yuxin recognizes pure misery when she sees it.
Another flash of memory; another Xue’er, hair in the same brandy wine, deeper in a darker practice room. Body pressed snug to her own, strands of red spilling from her shoulder where her words stab into Yuxin — why am I so goddamned unlucky. Because Yuxin used to feel like every one of Xue’er’s emotions were her own. Because Yuxin, empathetic now, empathetic then — had attuned herself most to Xue’er. Because, back then, Xue’er was the one she was meant to do that for.
Yuxin will not say if she sees that in the Xue’er in front of her now. She will not emphasize with a memory when the real one wears a mask declaring different. Xue’er is no longer that person, and Yuxin cannot treat her as though she is.
/
“Yu Yan, Yu Yan!” An Qi calls, from one end of the hall to the other. Her hand is tightly gripped around Yuxin’s, dragging her forward through the door, almost like they’re racing to chase after her. At the far end, a figure with dark red hair turns — Yu Yan.
“What?” She calls back, waiting for them to reach her, even as the hand behind her plays with the handle of the door. As they draw closer, Yu Yan’s mouth changes from a straight line, to an undecided shape. The corners of her lips shifting as she looks from An Qi to Yuxin, and back.
“Teach us to dance for Ambush,” An Qi says in that faux-cute, playful-yet-demanding voice. It’s not an act, Yuxin knows, but it still conceals a much harder layer underneath it.
Yu Yan, Yuxin notes, can tell An Qi commands more than she asks.
She glances at the door — where the muffled sounds of Jin Zihan singing are undercut by the others practicing their footwork. Yu Yan looks at them, her signature frown resting on her lips. “Okay.”
They find half of a practice room unoccupied; the other half has remnants of another group’s paused session. Branded sweaters, written-over lyric sheets, wrappers for snacks An Qi looks to and whines — “Ah! Those are my favourites!”
“Hey,” Yu Yan says to her before she can suggest a trip to the vending machine. “My time isn’t free.”
An Qi glances at her, shrugs, and takes her position. It’s that feeling again — another action that has more worth than An Qi gives it. Yuxin is quick to follow.
They run through it twice, Yu Yan singing along with them both rounds. When they finish, they are an outstretched hand apart. In the mirror, An Qi holds out her fingers. Yuxin chooses to watch Yu Yan’s frown — how it’s not so much an expression, as it is the absence of one.
“You guys are fine,” she says, brings in the corner of her lip. “But you knew that.”
An Qi’s hand stays suspended in the air, completely still. Yu Yan begins to fidget with hers.
Yuxin shrugs. “You can always be better.”
They trade stares for a moment, considering. Yuxin admires Yu Yan. She’s a strong vocalist and a strong performer; and she’s patient. Something Yuxin finds more respectable than any other quality; especially in the field where they are. To bite your tongue and bide your time; regardless of past or future, and wait in the present — this is something Yu Yan seems used to.
Yuxin wonders briefly, what Yu Yan sees in her. Then, from the corner of her eye — An Qi catches attention, a flick of her hair, a change of hands. She realizes, heat slowly crawling through her, they weren’t alone. They are never alone.
“Next time ask, Zeng Keni,” Yu Yan says, throwing her hair over one shoulder, breaking off eye contact with both of them.
“But,” An Qi stretches out the word. “Don’t you want to get to know your competitors?”
“No.”
“Liu Yuxin and Kong Xue’er were exes,” she says, not a look towards Yuxin or a hint of mercy thrown her way.
“Yeah, Lady—Ladybird? Bee Girls?” Yu Yan tries. She continues to head out. “Yu Shuxin said something about it.”
“No,” An Qi says. Yuxin stands frozen beside her. “Exes.”
At this Yu Yan turns. Looks at Yuxin once again, and this time does a proper look-over. Head to feet to toes, and finally back to her face. “Huh.”
“I’m not wrong, am I?” An Qi asks, reaching out to take her hand. In the reflection, fingers come out from under her sleeves, to wrap around Yuxin’s wrist. She doesn’t feel it being shaken as much as she watches it. “This is just between friends.”
Yuxin closes her eyes. “That was a long time ago.”
“Kong Xue’er,” Yu Yan says. “How was that?”
“She’s not bad,” Yuxin says. And she wasn’t. But that doesn’t matter now. “And, it doesn’t matter now.”
“No,” Yu Yan nods. An agreement, but on shakey terms. “She just seems a little — well, you’d know better than I.”
Yuxin looks at herself. Wonders if she does know better. Or whether that knowledge faded away six dye jobs ago; like an old hair colour being washed out and traded in for something brighter, better suited for the moment. She tries not to keep anything that she doesn’t need. But that’s only for things in front of her. She hadn’t known, all those months ago, that they’d meet again. That she’d have to explain it to someone who hadn’t known them at the time; who hadn’t seen what failure had turned them away from.
Again, An Qi speaks up. Like she had been watching. “Kong Xue’er is a good dancer. She doesn’t stand out very much, so she’s more suited to being a support role than the main attraction. But that’s useful in a group, sometimes.”
“She’ll prove herself,” Yuxin cuts in. Realizes the trap as soon as An Qi’s smile widens into a grin. Goddamn.
Here too, Yu Yan smiles. That rectangular shape stretching her mouth; the unsteadiness of it — like she doesn’t quite know what she’s doing. Only, that’s what it looks like; not what it is.
There’s a difference; they all know there’s a difference.
/
They kiss.
It’s not unexpected. Just ill-advised, and reckless and a-heat-of-the-moment thing and —
Yuxin will not dignify herself for this.
She knows Xue’er’s mouth was soft, her lipstick was cream, her hands were soft and her nails were short — only making light indents where they pressed in. Nothing lasting, nothing permanent. She knows expectation is stronger than memory, and the way her hands had run through Xue’er’s hair was exactly how she thought it would’ve felt. Like silk and the untwisting of a braid. And she knows, that feeling right is one hell of a drug; and it is not something she can rely on.
They pulled apart. Xue’er had asked, in the same breath Yuxin was going to — “Why did we break-up?”
The room was dark, they were knee-to-knee, hidden to every sense but touch. It was impossible to tell what Xue’er had looked like in the moment; impossible to tell what she’d wanted to hear.
From some far off source, the faintest bit of light still managed to catch on Xue’er’s hair, glinting off the waves. Luck, she thought — to be hidden in shadow and still conduct light. Then, she remembered.
“There’s no point in asking that,” she said in a way that was much gentler than the recollection suggests. She’d wanted to say — she wanted to reword a thought of hers; something that was personal, and soft, and asked something of Xue’er that had no place to be asked.
Sometimes she wondered, if they’d be on a couch in ten years — in some future that was so far off, it faded into the horizon. Whether her hand would be on Xue’er’s waist, and Xue’er’s hair would be falling over her shoulders, across her body. Where they’d be watching a rerun of the same show they’re filming, and thinking back to this time. The awkward uncertainty they used to live in; the full dream they now lived in.
It had no place to be asked in that moment. Not in a practice room for something you could not practice for. For Yuxin, there is no such thing as the future; everything is the present moment you live in. You can hunger for something so long, and have it linger in the horizon for years — but it means nothing. They both lived this.
All they have is the path ahead of them. Yuxin pulls away.
/
“Liu Yuxin, what did you say then? It’s not about skill, only luck?” An Qi asks. It’s rhetorical of course, but Yuxin nods anyway. An Qi turns to face the rest of their group. “It’s luck that brought us together. But it’ll be skill that makes us winners.” An Qi smiles, glancing at each of them — the ever present victory glittering in her eyes. Even though they’re gathered as a team, lined in a misshapen semi-circle — everyone understands it’s only meant for the three.
Yu Yan’s strict expression shifts into a small smile — unkind in how it’s presented, and distinctively her. Her thin body shifts, sharpening into hard edges. The same confidence that’s always alight in An Qi, runs through her — distorted to fit her figure. It’s not victory that holds her up, but resolve. This is a competition after all.
Yuxin, for her part, thinks of everyone else in the line. How it must feel to hear that, to know it’s not spoken in an unkind way, but as a simple and plain truth. She offers An Qi a slight nod — one that’s graciously taken, the same way as Yu Yan’s smile had been, a token of obedience, not agreement. She then looks back to her sheet. It is a competition after all.
/
Liu Yuxin looks like a perfect idol. She’s always looked like that. Some part of Xue’er has always resented her for it. For that, she pretends she doesn’t, and smiles as the music begins.