#18 - buk buk bukah
Title: buk buk bukah (chicken noises)
Author: nisakomi
Fandom/Characters/Pairing: nct, winwin-centric
Rating/Warnings: g
Challenge # & Prompt: #018 - rain
Word Count: 700
Notes: hover over text for translations! (or scroll to bottom on mobile)
“Winwin, what do you want to eat?” asked Taeyong.
◇
On weekends at Zhong Xi, dance students finished class shortly after noon, and the school gates released their captives onto unpaved alleyways in search for street eat staples - the same dou zhi and lü da gun Sicheng detested the first time the delicacies passed his lips but now savoured with relish. A jostling group of boys and girls rushed eagerly towards the hutong of Dong Cheng Qu.
One of his friends had found a jiao hua ji shop, one where the food was cooked out in the open, although the fire had been moved indoors in response to the weather reports calling for rain. Its red and white signage triggered a memory; when Sicheng first arrived in the city, lacking familiars or the feeling of home, the scent of lotus leaves on hot coals had drawn him inside these doors. The delicious meat tasted the same as and nothing like that cooked by his grandmother’s hand.
He stood outside the steps and gestured his classmates forward. Zhou, who also declined to enter, waved and explained he made plans earlier to meet someone at Bei Da and no sooner had he abandoned Sicheng to amble around Dong Si alone than the heavens opened up, unleashing their torrents of water. His options numbered few. Perhaps the popular instant-boiled mutton restaurant unsuited for lonesome dining. Maybe running back to the dorms. Or loitering in a gallery until either the rain let up or he was forced to purchase an overpriced souvenir umbrella from the gift shop.
Roosting in the franchised café across the street from the national art museum left Sicheng with a chocolatey drink and a clear view of the emptying streets. The wind picked up, orienting the rain sideways to hit diagonally at the glass of the storefront, pitter patter, pitter patter. He closed his eyes and took a sip of his drink and breathed deeply.
Humidity suffocated Beijing before a heavy storm. To be fair, something always suffocated Beijing: the coal plants, the heavy traffic, the political elite and their wealthy cousins. People in the city learned to breathe and dance at partial lung capacity, navigating the streets with their mouths covered, the edge of a mask flapping against flattened nose bridges. After the droplets began to fall, those noses, freed from their protective entrapments, wrinkled while their owners walked past busy side streets filled with septic odours from the back pressure of overflowing sewage pipes. For a few days after the nimbus clouds released their downpour onto busy roads from just above the spirals of high-rises, the murky grey haze cleared a little and, looking up from the crowded side-walks, exposed clear blue skies.
Back in Zhejiang, when he was smaller and his grandmother’s body stronger, the skies, regularly a vivid azure, shone clear and bright until storm clouds brewed and hung menacingly overhead with their greys and blues and hues of violet circling closer like birds of prey. On rainy days Sicheng liked jumping into puddles, aiming for the tiniest splash possible in rain boots when he remembered, fabric runners when he forgot. His dance teacher once said landing lightly was what he did best.
Sooner or later, his grandmother would haul him indoors on her back, firmly admonishing him for getting his clothes damp and muddy. He sat, elbows on the large lacquered dining room table, and swung his legs over the edge of the large lacquered chair. Resting his chin on his palms, a rhythmic pitter patter, pitter patter drummed the roof of their house, lulling him to watch drowsily as his grandmother, who even in her old age, worked without a wasted movement. Tendrils of steam curled up over the stove and the rich aroma of rice wine filled the house. For months that homemade jiao hua ji rendered Beijing’s flavours bitter on his tongue.
◇
“Winwin?”
The rain beat gently on the hood of the car, pitter patter, pitter patter.
Sicheng inhaled slowly, the smell of clay shifting to frying oil, jiao hua ji turning into lian peng ji gao turning into peulaideu chikin. He smiled before answering.
“Chicken.”
◇zhong xi - central academy of drama
◇dou zhi - fermented mung bean juice
◇lü da gun - donkey rolls
◇hutong - narrow street
◇dong cheng qu - dongcheng district
◇jiao hua ji - beggar's chicken
◇bei da - peking university
◇dong si - eastern four, neightbourhood in dongcheng district
◇lian peng ji gao - lotus chicken cake
◇peulaideu chikin - fried chicken
Author: nisakomi
Fandom/Characters/Pairing: nct, winwin-centric
Rating/Warnings: g
Challenge # & Prompt: #018 - rain
Word Count: 700
Notes: hover over text for translations! (or scroll to bottom on mobile)
“Winwin, what do you want to eat?” asked Taeyong.
◇
On weekends at Zhong Xi, dance students finished class shortly after noon, and the school gates released their captives onto unpaved alleyways in search for street eat staples - the same dou zhi and lü da gun Sicheng detested the first time the delicacies passed his lips but now savoured with relish. A jostling group of boys and girls rushed eagerly towards the hutong of Dong Cheng Qu.
One of his friends had found a jiao hua ji shop, one where the food was cooked out in the open, although the fire had been moved indoors in response to the weather reports calling for rain. Its red and white signage triggered a memory; when Sicheng first arrived in the city, lacking familiars or the feeling of home, the scent of lotus leaves on hot coals had drawn him inside these doors. The delicious meat tasted the same as and nothing like that cooked by his grandmother’s hand.
He stood outside the steps and gestured his classmates forward. Zhou, who also declined to enter, waved and explained he made plans earlier to meet someone at Bei Da and no sooner had he abandoned Sicheng to amble around Dong Si alone than the heavens opened up, unleashing their torrents of water. His options numbered few. Perhaps the popular instant-boiled mutton restaurant unsuited for lonesome dining. Maybe running back to the dorms. Or loitering in a gallery until either the rain let up or he was forced to purchase an overpriced souvenir umbrella from the gift shop.
Roosting in the franchised café across the street from the national art museum left Sicheng with a chocolatey drink and a clear view of the emptying streets. The wind picked up, orienting the rain sideways to hit diagonally at the glass of the storefront, pitter patter, pitter patter. He closed his eyes and took a sip of his drink and breathed deeply.
Humidity suffocated Beijing before a heavy storm. To be fair, something always suffocated Beijing: the coal plants, the heavy traffic, the political elite and their wealthy cousins. People in the city learned to breathe and dance at partial lung capacity, navigating the streets with their mouths covered, the edge of a mask flapping against flattened nose bridges. After the droplets began to fall, those noses, freed from their protective entrapments, wrinkled while their owners walked past busy side streets filled with septic odours from the back pressure of overflowing sewage pipes. For a few days after the nimbus clouds released their downpour onto busy roads from just above the spirals of high-rises, the murky grey haze cleared a little and, looking up from the crowded side-walks, exposed clear blue skies.
Back in Zhejiang, when he was smaller and his grandmother’s body stronger, the skies, regularly a vivid azure, shone clear and bright until storm clouds brewed and hung menacingly overhead with their greys and blues and hues of violet circling closer like birds of prey. On rainy days Sicheng liked jumping into puddles, aiming for the tiniest splash possible in rain boots when he remembered, fabric runners when he forgot. His dance teacher once said landing lightly was what he did best.
Sooner or later, his grandmother would haul him indoors on her back, firmly admonishing him for getting his clothes damp and muddy. He sat, elbows on the large lacquered dining room table, and swung his legs over the edge of the large lacquered chair. Resting his chin on his palms, a rhythmic pitter patter, pitter patter drummed the roof of their house, lulling him to watch drowsily as his grandmother, who even in her old age, worked without a wasted movement. Tendrils of steam curled up over the stove and the rich aroma of rice wine filled the house. For months that homemade jiao hua ji rendered Beijing’s flavours bitter on his tongue.
◇
“Winwin?”
The rain beat gently on the hood of the car, pitter patter, pitter patter.
Sicheng inhaled slowly, the smell of clay shifting to frying oil, jiao hua ji turning into lian peng ji gao turning into peulaideu chikin. He smiled before answering.
“Chicken.”
◇zhong xi - central academy of drama
◇dou zhi - fermented mung bean juice
◇lü da gun - donkey rolls
◇hutong - narrow street
◇dong cheng qu - dongcheng district
◇jiao hua ji - beggar's chicken
◇bei da - peking university
◇dong si - eastern four, neightbourhood in dongcheng district
◇lian peng ji gao - lotus chicken cake
◇peulaideu chikin - fried chicken