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Zheng Renyu wakes up one late morning with the smell of cooked food wafting through the room, a scent almost unfamiliar at this point in the programme. Food in Planet C was often cold dishes, with the exception of rice. Heavens knew that the kids had complained about it, unused to the difference in cuisine. This smell, conversely, almost tastes like home, though affected by a pungency that only comes with watered-down gochugaru.
Renyu pulls himself up and gets dressed. A quick scan of the room shows that neither Xuan Hao nor Chen Jinxin, his roommates, are the culprits of the mouthwatering aroma. Trance-like, he follows his nose straight out of the corridors, bypassing the closed doors of late risers. Before he knows it, he is standing in a living room that he half-expected to arrive at.
“Renyu- ge ,” a chorus of voices greet him: Hanyu, Ruize, Anxin, Bowen, other blurred faces. Renyu blinks to get the last traces of sleep out of his system.
“Where’s—?”
“There you are,” says Guo Zhen, hands around a metal dish, fingers pressed against a pair of wooden chopsticks. He wears an old shirt with several red stains, and his carmine earrings shine in the morning light, lightening the dark brown colour of his eyes. He sets the dish down on the table to the oohs and ahs of the others. “Have you seen Zhang Shunyu?”
“Am I not the fish you’re looking for?” says Renyu, a perfect picture of innocence.
Guo Zhen squints and points the chopsticks at him. “Keep it up and you’re ending up steamed and seasoned, mermaid.”
That induces laughter from the peanut gallery, entertainment Renyu is happy to provide. He makes a show of looking through the rows of identical doors, but at heart, he knows which room belongs to Planet C’s resident fifteen-year-old. They all do. “Probably still asleep in there,” he says, pointing backwards.
Guo Zhen does not need to check twice before he marches to the door and yanks it open. “Shunyu, food’s ready!”
“Coming,” says a groggy voice.
“Hurry up, it’s getting cold.”
Before long, a mop of red hair emerges from the doorway, prevented from tripping on the floor tiles by the steady arms of Li Zihao.
“I heard there was food,” says Zihao.
“You’re more than welcome to join us,” says Renyu.
Guo Zhen bristles. “Hey, I was the one who cooked this!” On seeing Shunyu, though, his voice softens. “Come in quickly, both of you.”
There are enough hungry customers for a round table in a restaurant, and a comparatively meagre amount for breakfast. Renyu must admit that Guo Zhen has done the best he could. The rice cake and stew before him had been made from last night’s ferreted-away leftovers, simmered to tenderness with someone’s yet-unconfiscated rice cooker. In the eyes of hungry boys with nothing to eat but chilled food, it is nothing short of perfection. Renyu, too, finds no reason but to dig in. His Chinese doctor had cautioned him against eating anything cool, and unlike Kaiwen, it is not like he can survive on the camp’s rice portions alone. He is not fond of Korean spice, but a kick of chili is better than none at all.
For a short while, nothing but the clinking of chopsticks are heard. Chatter slowly filters in, most of them an ode to the first real food Planet C has seen in days. “You’re my god, Zhen-ge ,” someone says. “I almost don’t feel homesick anymore,” says another.
“It’s damn good food,” says Ruize, scarfing down his portion.
“I know, right?” Guo Zhen preens at the praise. He is seated in a place of honour next to Shunyu, who has not stopped eating yet. “Here, have more.” He refills Shunyu’s bowl, then moves onto his next charge. “Bowen, you’re too thin. Give me your box.” He tops Anxin's bowl to the brim, then Kaiwen's. His chopsticks lie on his plate, untouched.
Renyu scrapes some of his portion onto Guo Zhen’s plate. He sips on hot stew, letting the sounds of homemaking wash over him. If he closes his eyes, he might be able to imagine seven voices bickering and bantering their way through dinner. He can still taste the braised chestnut and chicken that Guo Zhen once cooked for them, long ago.