Work Text:
It is far from her worst plan ever, she reminds herself.
"This," Mushu says, "is your worst plan ever."
Mulan rolls her eyes at him and hands him back his scissors. "Just do it," she says.
"I don't know why I have to be involved," Mushu says.
"For the glory of knowing you helped me win a soccer championship?"
Mushu waves around his scissors, eyeing her in the mirror. "By cutting your hair?"
"Make me look like a boy and you'll prove that you deserve your own chair at the salon," Mulan says. She can see the spark in Mushu's eye light up, knows she's won - he'd do anything to get his own chair and station at the salon, instead of being stuck playing receptionist.
"Fine," Mushu says. "Don't come crying to me about your hair and how gross it is to live with boys."
"Fine," Mulan agrees.
They both take a deep breath when Mushu's scissors cut through her ponytail.
-
Her room is at the end of the hall on the third floor with the rest of the seniors.
The problem lies in getting down the hall.
In front of her, blocking the hallway entrance a boy is pouring oil over a roadblock of cardboard boxes. Behind him, several shirtless guys that Mulan tries not to look directly at, cheer him on.
"Behold, third floor hallway dweller," one boy shouts, all puffed chest. "You must slip and slide to claim your place among us."
"Uh," Mulan says, and then clears her throat. Deeper voice, she reminds herself. "That's - that's okay."
She walks to the side, the only few inches of hallway not covered in cardboard and oil, and attempts to walk down toward her room without slipping.
The boys in the hall have other plans. One of them pulls on her shoulder and she goes down, sliding with the momentum of her fall down to the very end of the hallway, her entire decision making process for coming to this boys only school flashing before her eyes.
She's definitely going to hit the end of the hallway soon, unable to get a good grip on the cardboard to brake somehow. She squeezes her eyes shut and braces for impact, but hits something a few feet short of what should be the wall.
A body, large, falls over her. (Well defined, too, she can't help but notice, gripping at his arms and chest to get out from underneath their tangle of legs.)
They crash into the wall together, but the guy leaps right up.
"Clean this up," he says, an authoritative absolute.
"You were way funner before you became RA, Shang," one of the boys at the end of the hall calls.
"More fun," Mulan corrects, quietly, trying to use the wall as leverage to stand back up from the oil slick on the floor and her clothes.
Shang spins around and narrows his eyes at her, extending a hand for her to grasp and pull herself up. Strong. When she's on her feet he turns and strides into the room at the end of the hall and slams the door behind him.
So, that's her roommate. Mulan takes a deep breath and unlocks the door with her room key.
-
Shang ignores her as she unpacks, which Mulan doesn't mind. It gives her time to store her tampons in the top drawer of her bedside table.
"When are soccer tryouts?" she asks, casually, voice breaking in the middle.
This piques Shang's interest and he eyes her up and down. "You play, Ping?"
Right. That's her name as a boy. Ping. She's glad he brought it up first, because she was bound to introduce herself as Mulan after the hallway debacle.
"Uh, yes. Forward."
"We have a very competitive tryout workshop," Shang says. "We must win this year."
"Good," Mulan agrees. "I came here to win."
Shang raises an eyebrow. "You have to make the team first."
-
It turns out that Shang is not only RA and Mulan's over-serious roommate, but captain of the soccer team as well. He stands next to their coach, shirtless with his arms crossed.
Mulan misses the introduction, studying the lines and curves that make up his body while he nods along with what the coach is saying.
Someone throws a practice jersey at her and, distracted, it hits her in the face and falls to the floor.
The coach snorts as she grabs it, and the line of team hopefuls laughs.
Great start, she thinks.
-
The first day of workshops lasts seven hours and she's far behind in every activity. Boys play hard, harder than she remembers growing up as a girl and scrimmaging in the empty lot at the end of her street with the kids in the neighborhood.
She crawls gingerly into bed, sore and aching everywhere.
Shang watches her, distinctly unimpressed.
-
"You will not make it onto the team," Shang says, after the third day.
"I must make it," Mulan says. "That is the only reason I came here."
Shang huffs. "To play soccer? There is more to worry about in your senior year."
"You are captain of the team."
"So we will win, scouts will watch, and there will be scholarships. That is why we need the best team, Ping."
"I will help the team win, I promise," Mulan says. "That's all I want to do."
Shang looks far from convinced.
-
Mulan makes the reserve team and the jersey in her hand smells like bitter disappointment and disgusting man smell.
Not that Mulan is doing much better in the smell department.
-
Mushu yells at her over the phone when Mulan suggests coming home and it kicks Mulan's butt into gear. She practices in the morning before classes, getting out to bed early and memorizing an entire catalog of Shang's hilarious sleep faces. He's too serious awake, but asleep he makes up for it.
She practices out on the field at night, too, tries to move her body more aggressively, more like a man than ever before.
Sometimes she feels like she's being watched, but she can never see anyone lingering at the edge of the field.
-
Mulan doesn't go to sleep sore any more; the ache of practicing is almost pleasant, satisfactory. She's frustrated though, improving too slow and not impressing anyone during practice. Tonight she just wants to sleep, but Shang's desk lamp is bright and his frustration at what he's working on is evident in each clockwork sigh every thirty seconds.
"What is it?" Mulan asks, voice closer to her own in sleepy annoyance.
"Nothing," Shang says.
"Fine," Mulan says, pulling her pillow over her face. She mumbles into the material. "You're too proud."
Shang is silent, finally, but a few seconds later Mulan's bed dips and her pillow is lifted. "Dramatic," Shang says.
Mulan squints at him.
"Do you... understand Calculus?" Shang asks. "I'll admit, I am struggling. I have to pass a math credit to graduate."
"The great Shang, bad at something?" Mulan teases.
Shang's face closes off and he rises from the bed, but Mulan grabs for his wrist and ends up with his hand instead.
"I'll help," she says, sincere. She hopes her face isn't flushed.
Shang stares at their hands for a silent moment before sliding his hand away. "Thank you," he says stiffly. "I could help you practice in return. I've watched-- I've seen you on the field."
-
Their deal works out well. Shang is hopelessly bad at Calculus, but Mulan improves her game every time they hit the field. Three weeks until the first game of the season and Mulan finally has a chance at playing.
"You aren't awful," Shang conceeds, a night close to the game. He's sprawled in the grass next to her after a grueling set of laps, less composed than Mulan has ever seen him. "I will talk to the coach about having you start at the game, but I can't promise anything."
Mulan rolls over and hugs Shang in her excitement.
Shang clears his throat and she springs back.
"Hah, um." She punches his shoulder instead and tries not to wince.
Shang just stares at her.