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Genya trudges into Theater Number Six, broom and dustbin in hand and three garbage bags shoved into his pockets. It’s late, past midnight, and all of the movie goers are gone. He has no idea what’s been shown in this room all day, too busy slinging drinks and popcorn, and he only started, like, a week ago. He has no idea what’s currently in theaters. He doesn’t pay attention to that shit.
He just works here.
He starts in the front row, where he knows no one was sitting because who in their right mind would sit in the very front of a theater, and begins to wend his way through the rows, picking up trash and sweeping up piles and piles of candy and popcorn.
He gets through half a trash bag and row number three before he hears a noise and realizes that he isn’t alone in the theater.
Looking up, he surveys the large, dimly lit room for the source of the sound. There, dead center of the entire theater, sits a teen that Genya thinks is probably his age, still staring at the blank screen and crying quietly. His black hair is tousled, a few locks falling out of where the rest of it is swept back and lying across his forehead.
Genya, now that he sees the source, promptly goes back to work and proceeds to ignore the other occupant of the room. It’s none of his business; he’s there to do a job and earn a paycheck and, as his brother insists, ‘keep himself out of trouble.’
But as he approaches the middle of the screening room, he realizes that the crying teen hasn’t left. He’s still there, tears streaming down his face, napkin that Genya knows is rough as hell crumpled up in his hand.
He knows what he’s supposed to as he approaches the crying interloper, broom in hand, fully prepared to tell him that the movie is long over and that the theater is closed and that he needs to leave. Like, right now, actually.
A meter away, and the cryer looks up to him, and Genya stops in his tracks. Tightens his grip on his broom, knuckles down on his resolve because it’s late and he wants to go home, opens his mouth to speak, and—
“I’m so sorry,” the other teen sniffles, eyes so wide and dark they look like galaxies with the twinkling lights of the viewing room reflected in them, pawing at his nose with the napkin. “I just—I just didn’t expect to feel so much, y’know?”
Genya stops in his tracks, struck immobile by the earnest way he speaks.
What he means to say is, ‘You need to leave.’ What he says instead is, “It was a movie.”
“Well, yes, but—isn’t that why we watch movies? To feel a range of emotion? To be moved?”
There’s a lapse for a moment, as Genya tries to bite his tongue, tries to follow the manners his mother instilled in him, tries to do anything but be rude. Instead, the words, “I’m pretty sure they’re called movies because it’s short for motion picture?” come tumbling out of his mouth.
The other teen blinks at him slowly, owl like, and the galaxies in his eyes wink out and then back into existence. “I—well, yes? But watching them also moves people, and I think that’s beautiful.” His eyes flit back to the screen, black and yawning, for a moment, before settling on Genya again, a wide smile gracing his face even as the tears continue to fall.
Genya would like to keep cleaning. He would like to clock out, to go home, to relish his day off from school tomorrow and just lie in bed all day without a care in the world. Instead, this doe-eyed movie-goer is interrupting the most integral part of his plan: going home.
“I think movies are beautiful,” the other teen continues, fiddling with the napkin in his hands. The tears are drying up the more he speaks, though the waterline of his eyes are filling. “The effort that goes into them, just for someone to sit in front of a screen for a few fleeting moments of their life, only for them to leave before the credits roll? Before anyone sees their name?”
“So you’re crying because no one stayed to watch the credits?” Genya is in disbelief. The most beautiful person he’s ever seen, and he’s probably an idiot. Of course no one was going to stay to watch the credits, no matter how much of a banger song they put over it.
“No, no!” The tears begin to spill out of his eyes again, rolling down his face in big, fat drops. As though just thinking about what he was crying about is retriggering the event. “It’s because Godzilla didn’t understand what was happening to him! He didn’t know why he was mutating and growing. He just knew he was,” and here, he hiccups then breathes deep, as though he’s trying to get himself under control even though Genya can see, very clearly, that this conversation is just working him up again, “just knew he was getting big and he couldn’t understand why! The whole world around him had changed, and so was he, and he just—”
The poor teen—and, god, he’s only Genya’s age, isn’t he—starts to sob again, as though the very thought of Godzilla, alone in the world and growing for reasons it doesn't understand, is a tragedy.
At a loss, Genya flops down into the seat beside him. He just wants to clean the theater and go home; he didn’t intend to be an ear for some teen crying about Godzilla in the middle of an empty theater. But if he doesn’t get him out, then he can’t clean the theater and, more importantly, his manager won’t be able to lock up.
“You’re crying because you . . . watched the new Godzilla movie and feel bad for Godzilla?” Genya blinks slowly in the dim light of the theater, trying to process all of this. He’s suffered through every Godzilal movie thanks to Sanemi, who forced him to watch all of them time and time again as children just so Sanemi could catch a sight of Mothra. “The kaiju that’s a metaphor for nuclear radiation?”
“Can people not just look deeper than that?” the crying teen demands, turning his seat to face Genya more fully.
“Deeper than a metaphor?”
“Well—no, not exactly? But read things differently, I guess. To see Godzilla as a metaphor for nuclear radiation, but also just see Godzilla.”
Genya scrapes his teeth across his lip, says, “I mean, our brains aren’t really wired for that? We see scary monsters and either assume the worst or try to rationalize it. We don’t empathize.”
“We should.” In his hands, the napkin crunches and crinkles. “I just—” He breaks off and laughs, watery, wet, but it’s a nice noise.
A noise Genya, to the surprise of himself, would like to hear again.
“I’m sorry. I’m here crying over Godzilla and you just want to get your job done, don’t you?” He stands, shoving the snotty napkin in his pocket, and beams at Genya as though he wasn’t just sobbing over a kaiju. “I’ll get out of your way.”
Genya rushes to stand, too, and finds without surprise that he’s much, much taller than the other teen. “I—I mean, yeah, but if you need—”
The teen smiles, and it seems almost like he’s trying to brush Genya off. “I have a letterboxd for my feelings. But it was nice to talk to you!”
Floundering, not wanting any of this to end despite not wanting it to begin in the first place, Genya blurts, “You watch a lot of movies?”
“I’m here every week. I even bought the pass.”
“Do you want me to sneak you in next week? Movie of your choice.” He feels as though the desperation he feels may be leaking into his voice, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. What possessed him to make the offer. To prolong the conversation? To try and spark another, later down the road?
It’s the eyes, he realizes. It must have been the eyes, sucking him in, the twinkling lights each a galaxy on their own and the space between nothing but black holes, pulling him in long before he could notice.
The smile that Genya has grown fond of in a matter of minutes softens at the edges. “I would rather pay for my ticket?”
His heart plummets.
“It’s just—isn’t sneaking me in against the rules? I don’t want you to get fired.”
Genya can only snort. “I ain't getting fired. My brother’s the manager. He’d have to replace me.”
The smile turns up in brightness, somehow, and solidifies on the other teen’s face. “I’m Kamado Tanjiro.” A slight pause, and then: “If you’re going to try and sneak me in, you might as well know who you’re sneaking in.”
All Genya can do is smile.