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The first time Mu Qing faces his old team, he’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel about it. It’s on his mind during the whole trip there (of course it’s an away game), and through all of morning skate. His teammates give him space. The trade was recent, and they all know too well the complicated emotions that come with facing your previous team (your previous teammates) for the first time. And when he steps up to answer a few questions before the game, the inevitable one comes up first: How are you feeling about being back? He smiles and just says he’s looking forward to playing in this arena again, and that he’s glad to see the fans. And when the next question is about whether he’s worried about facing his old teammates, and a certain linemate who’s been by his side for his whole career so far, there’s more sharpness slipping into his grin when he assures the reporter it’s not the case.
If anything, he’s excited.
It’s a story of what seems to be his entire life up until now—Feng Xin was on the first team Mu Qing joined and, by some luck or curse, on every team after that. And, with Feng Xin playing left wing and Mu Qing playing right wing, their coaches usually didn’t think too hard about having them playing on the same line. It just made sense. And, for all their off-ice arguing and getting into each other’s faces, there was no denying their on-ice chemistry, to a point where they were treated as a package deal for all of their team changes.
That is to say, before the trade three weeks ago, Mu Qing hadn’t played without Feng Xin to his left in over a decade, save for the occasional injury.
He’s happy about it, he decides, lacing his skates in the locker room, amidst the noise of the team (his team) getting ready. He never got along with the guy anyway, he’s glad he doesn’t have to deal with his annoying behaviour anymore. The lack of headaches when he gets home after practice is new and welcome.
“Ready to play at home again?” his captain asks.
Mu Qing grins. “Let’s win this,” he simply says, and grabs the hand he’s being offered.
There’s a rush that courses through him when he steps on the ice and gets in position under cheers of the homecrowd welcoming him back, and then a mean twist to his gut when Feng Xin arrives before him, with that stupid face of his that Mu Qing knows every detail of. There’s an A on his jersey, and the mean twist in Mu Qing’s gut twists further. Good to know it only took him leaving for Feng Xin to make alternate captain. He readjusts his hold on his stick. No matter. They’ll win this game and all the next ones, and Feng Xin and the red letter on his jersey can go rot in hell for all he cares.
There’s a storm in his chest, that surges at puck drop and carries him along the ice, and he feels faster than ever.
They win. Mu Qing is sure he can feel a nasty bruise blooming on his side where he got checked against the boards, a dull ache blooming with every step he takes through the hallway. It was easy to forget how much of a physical player Feng Xin was, when it wasn’t him on the receiving end. Really, what a brute.
“You should know this place enough to not get lost,” a familiar voice rings behind him. Mu Qing rolls his eyes.
“I’m not,” he retorts, turning around to face Feng Xin. His hair is shorter now, he hadn’t noticed during the game. Huh. He does his best not to stare at the new undercut and the part of his neck it unveils. “Why do you care, anyway?”
“None of your business. What are you doing here, if you’re not lost?”
Mu Qing raises an eyebrow. “None of your business. Now if that’s all…” He turns back around, the too-quick movement bringing a sharp sting and a wince he’s not quite fast enough at controlling.
“Probably should get that looked at,” Feng Xin says from behind him. “Just to be sure.”
Mu Qing doesn’t bother looking back to give a response, just rolls his eyes and keeps walking away. He’s got to catch up to his team.
The second time Mu Qing faces his old team, he’s the one playing at home. There’s something even a little more jarring about seeing all of his old teammates on the ice of the new rink he gets to call home. Part of him wonders if he’ll ever get used to trades—he’s always known how big of a part they played in the league, it happened to him before and he watched teammates leave more times than he can probably count, but somehow it never felt as abrupt as this time did. Though, they’re not a quarter of the way into the season yet. He’ll get used to it. Feng Xin’s hair is longer than the last time he saw him, the shaved undercut still odd when Mu Qing’s always known him with hair longer than even his. He’ll get used to that, too.
They lose, this time. It feels like a game they should have won, but it can’t be helped. It’s Feng Xin who’s wandering around empty hallways he has no real business being in, this time, when Mu Qing runs into him.
“Lost?” he asks, satisfaction nestling in his chest at the unimpressed face Feng Xin gives him.
“Forgot how much your visiting locker room sucks,” he complains instead of answering. “Bet you’re living the life, though.”
Mu Qing shrugs. The visiting locker room is pretty bad, he remembers that much, but it’s far from being the worst in the league. Actually, Feng Xin’s team is probably worse in that regard. “Not too different from yours. Wanna visit? I think the guys are all done.”
Feng Xin looks surprised at the offer. Frankly, Mu Qing is too—he’s not sure where it came from, but there’s not much else to do now but to roll with it.
“Okay, yeah. Sure.”
And so they find themselves walking through empty hallways together, a scene that feels both familiar and infinitely foreign at the same time.
“You rely on drop passes too much,” Mu Qing says, when he can’t stand the silence anymore.
Maybe it’s weird to bring up, especially since this game ended with Feng Xin winning and Mu Qing losing, but no-one knows Feng Xin’s habits (good or bad) better than him. And he’s always had a tendency to send the puck back to Mu Qing skating behind him, but the other forwards don’t seem to have picked up that role just yet. It was always Mu Qing’s spot, after all. He’s not sure why he even mentions it but, as much as anyone gets to claim a part of the game of hockey, that was theirs. Maybe he regrets having let go of it.
“I know.” Feng Xin’s got his hands in his pockets. “It’s not usually that much of a problem.” He pauses. Then, before Mu Qing has a chance to wonder what he means, he continues, “It’s still weird to see you in blue.”
Mu Qing glances down at his team shirt before he realises it. He’s not that used to the blue either, after a few years spent in jerseys the same shade of red as Feng Xin’s shirt. He misses it a little, if he’s honest with himself. He won’t say it, though.
Feng Xin nods approvingly when he gets to the locker room, looking around. “Not bad. Ours is better though.”
Mu Qing snorts and promptly kicks him back out. He’s right. And if he notices Feng Xin’s eyes catching towards the corner where Mu Qing has his name on a seat, well. He doesn’t mention it.
The third, fourth, fifth time Mu Qing faces his old team, there’s no time to think about previous feelings and attachments, division rivalry superseding it all as the season continues and both teams are playing to make the playoffs. There is, however, always a little time for him to run into Feng Xin in a hallway and hang out for just a while and, what started off as a genuine coincidence shifts into a kind of routine that Mu Qing finds himself looking forward to. He can’t remember the last time he and Feng Xin went to many occasions without trying to claw each other’s face off. It’s kind of nice.
There’s a kind of odd emptiness growing between Mu Qing’s ribs.
The sixth time Mu Qing faces his old team, it’s in the first round of the playoffs. Feng Xin’s team pulled ahead of them in the standings, and so Mu Qing finds himself in the visiting locker room again.
Playoffs are a different beast. The games are more intense, fast-paced and physical, and Mu Qing doesn't have the time to think about how it's the first time he's there without Feng Xin by his side—but he does. He thinks about it when he's sitting on the bench during shifts, focusing on the flow of the game, and the back of Feng Xin's neck when he gets checked into the boards right in front of him. Mu Qing's tired already in the middle of the second period, but when it's his turn on the ice again, he jumps over the boards and doesn't hesitate.
They win that game, by just a hair, 3-2 with the game winner scored just seconds before the clock runs out.
Mu Qing thinks he's never been so exhausted in his life. It’s all too brutal. He wants to sleep.
For the first time since the season started, he doesn't meet Feng Xin in the hallway—he doesn't look for him, he knows Feng Xin won't be waiting for him anyway. Playoffs are a different game. Neither of them can afford distractions now.
They win the next game too, 2-1 lead secured at the start of the second period that they manage to hold onto until the end of the third, and Mu Qing breathes a little easier. They're going back home after this, after somehow making it through the away games. They didn’t escape unscathed though, because one of their second-line forward got hurt. Not only do they have to fix the hole in their offense it creates, but Mu Qing had seen the guy trying not to cry in the locker room when he realised the run ended here for him.
Again, Mu Qing doesn't linger in the hallway.
He misses Feng Xin, impossibly.
They lose the next one. It's an ugly loss, 5-2, and it's worse that it happened on home ice, but there’s nothing they can do about it. They don't have the luxury to linger on hurt feelings, only have to adapt and adjust to curveballs thrown their way and figure out how to survive—that's what the playoffs are about. Survival. It's the only thing that matters.
They lose the next one, and the one after that. Now Feng Xin's team only needs one more win to advance to the next round, and the atmosphere in the locker room is suffocating. He used to enjoy it more, the pressure and tension of expectations and an entire team's desire to outdo themselves, but now there's no Feng Xin to keep his mind off things by saying nonsense, and Mu Qing's enough of a professional that he can still play his best, but he misses him.
He thinks his best used to be better when Feng Xin was still by his side.
They squeak out a win, forcing another game in the series, and maybe the hope is worse than anything else because it's right here, just in front of them and if they can get just one more win they can move onto the next round, and it's a step closer to winning the Ci up, and—
They lose.
They lose and the score doesn’t matter—there’s no almost in an elimination game. They lose and they have to still present themselves to the media, like Mu Qing hasn’t seen half his teammates fighting back tears in the locker room just moments earlier, the silence brutal and deafening.
His mind is blank. He’s reeling to catch up to reality and adjust to the change from everything being too fast, too much, to nothing at all.
There’s no time to linger in the hallways, the whole team getting back to the hotel without wasting time, but he runs into Feng Xin just at the door and there’s a fleeting expression on his face, one that Mu Qing can’t name or make sense of. It’s just as well. Feng Xin’s going to go and celebrate with his teammates—and Mu Qing can’t be bitter that he doesn’t get to be there. It still stings, just a little.
Except that he knows Feng Xin isn’t one to celebrate until late, always one of the firsts to call it a night, and Mu Qing’s gotten tired of staring at the white of his hotel room so it’s only a couple hours before he finds himself in the subway, an all-too familiar journey he takes half in a daze.
Feng Xin opens the door and, if he’s surprised to see him, he hides it very well. Except Feng Xin’s always been a shit liar to Mu Qing, so he really must have expected him. Mu Qing’s not sure how he feels about that. And besides, well. He’s tired.
He walks into Feng Xin’s apartment, closes the door, and then he’s kissing him—hand against Feng Xin’s jaw, fingertips resting on the shaved part of his undercut, the pulse in his throat beating against the hand Feng Xin has pressed against it.
“If you don’t win the Cup,” he whispers after moving back, “I’ll never forgive you.”
Feng Xin grins, that insufferable one he has when he gets what he wants, and Mu Qing wants to kiss it off his face. “That could be arranged.”
“I’m serious,” Mu Qing frowns. “If you kicked us out just to get eliminated in the next round, I’ll hate you.”
“Thought you’ve hated me for 10 years already,” Feng Xin says, and Mu Qing rolls his eyes but he doesn’t have time to say anything before Feng Xin’s kissing him again.
They can make this work. It might be more difficult when the season starts again, but they’ve got the whole offseason to figure it out. And they will— as soon as Feng Xin’s done, after they’ve won the Cup. Mu Qing will make him regret it if they don’t.
“Stop thinking,” Feng Xin mumbles and, for once, Mu Qing listens.