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Movie nights with Rodya often means a ritual in indulgence.
More for her than for others. She picks out a movie along with her plethora of snacks. If you happen to like it, then that's a bonus, not a given. Her TV. Her rules. Those who can't abide by it will have to seek their own source of entertainment.
It's not so bad, though. Despite the seemingly strict rules, Rodya knows the Sinners and what they like and don't like. Don Quixote spent the whole week raving about the Princess Bride (the sequel does not exist). Ishmael leaves her room as a new fan of Atlantis and chocolate pretzels.
Gregor finds himself looking forward to his turn. It's been a while since he's been able to watch a movie with someone else. One that isn't some war propaganda crap. One where he doesn't have to worry about crowds or harming others.
"Oooh, Greg, you're gonna love this one!" she exclaims, waving around a VHS tape that he thinks he hasn't seen in decades. Gregor squints at the cover, the title smeared yellow with age: A Wonderful Menagerie of Life. Sounds fairly harmless enough.
"Already spoiling it, huh?" Gregor chuckles. He's hefting two buckets of popcorn, slathered with a heart-attack amount of butter. Stuffed in his pockets are chocolate bars studded with nuts. It's not a portion he'll able to finish off without Rodya's generous help.
She shakes her head. "Nope! I actually haven't seen this one yet. But something 'bout it was serenadin' to me. Besides, not like I've been wrong before~"
Gregor thinks about pointing out the lie in that lie, before deciding against it. It's a battle he can't hope to win.
She pats the seat next to her, and he slowly settles in, unsure of how much distance he should give. Too far, and it might seem rude. Too close, and he'd make her uncomfortable.
He decides with placing a bucket of popcorn between them. It's practical, and unlikely to raise any suspicions.
The movie starts shortly, interspersed by mouthfuls of popcorn and chocolate. Gregor curses under his breath as the fat and sugar rams inside his head. Rodya was right; sweet and salty is a heavenly combo.
Next to him, he hears a giggle, and a grin tugs at his lips, just as sweet and easy.
The room hums with a gentle warmth. Colors from the screen dance across the fancy walls. It's an interesting movie. Gregor doesn't think he's seen anything like it. At least, not in the bits of his childhood that still resembled an ordinary life. A group of strangers trapped in some kind of menagerie, and are forced to work - and suffer - each other to survive. There's a lot of fighting and a lot of mistrust. But through various ordeals, they begin to grow closer. Like comrades.
It's a lot like the bus, down to the prison-like manner. Gregor can't help but feel himself smile. He's actually enjoying this.
His eyes flicker to Rodya, and he finds her doing the same thing back. Looking at him to see if he's noticed. Smiling at him when she's caught him in the act.
It makes his heart jump, both in a good way and bad way. They're having a good time, and he shouldn't want anything more than that.
He focuses on what's screen, waiting for his heart to go back to normal. Hmm, that's not how knife wounds should work. And who pulls out their IVs like that...?
But the peace doesn't last. Afterward, is the calm before the storm. It’s a simple scene, really; just two people talking . But something about it has his heart feeling tense and funny again. A familiar tingle shoots up his arm, like being with zapped with electricity. A wanting, or a reminder. The pain of transformations he’s not allowing yet.
Gregor snorts. Allowing is a generous word; more like his arm isn't fighting him for control just yet. It's deigned to give him the usual tremors, tolerable enough that he can pretend it’s his body begging for nicotine again.
He chews on the combination of chocolate and popcorn. It does the trick well enough, the mouthfeel providing just the right amount of distraction.
Slowly, the scene unfurls. Sam and Phoebe are holding hands. They're leaning in, smiling.
Kissing each other for the first time.
Before Gregor realizes it, his good hand is clutching at his pants, thumbing wistfully at the fabric, mirroring what's on screen: a hand framing one's face, a tender touch, a quiet plea. An intimacy that speaks of a need being answered.
A flush rises to his face, and he shoves his traitorous hand deep in his pocket. It's nothing, he tells himself, if only to have something to tamp down his bleeding heart. It's just anxiety. Old age. His usual thoughts going haywire.
But his eyes can’t help but dart to where Rodya is sitting. Did she see his hand? Did she catch him in the act?
No. Her gaze is locked entirely on the TV. She looks...
Huh. He doesn't know why, but she looks troubled and annoyed, like she doesn't like what she sees on screen.
The movie ends in a bittersweet fashion: Phoebe dies, but everyone lives and carries her memory. They put a picture of her on their desk, they retell stories of her over dinner. They keep a sweater that she never got to wear, a diary she never got to write in.
How nice, Gregor thinks, to be remembered like that. Despite the mostly tragic ending, he finds himself enjoying the movie.
He stands up and stretches his limbs, creaks and groans following and more when he yawns. He feels too much like his age--never young, only old and older.
Rodya still hasn't moved a single inch from her seat. Her bucket of popcorn sits cold and half-empty.
“What a load of bullshit," she finally mutters.
Gregor blinks, taken aback by the vitriol in her words. "What, you mean the ending? Sure, it was pretty sad, but it wasn't as if it was a complete downer or anything."
She shakes her head, frustration in her eyes and pull of her mouth. Clearly, he missed the mark completely. "Not that, though the ending's pretty bullshit too. Why does everyone still care about Phoebe so much?"
Gregor doesn't get it. "Whaddya mean?" he asks, feeling like he's a couple moves behind a game of checkers.
Rodya sighs, and it sounds like she's annoyed or tired. "I mean, she spent the whole time doin' whatever she wants, pushin' everyone away, and wastin' all that time she could've used to get to know 'em. Even when Sam did all that crap for her, she still ended up shovin' it back in her face. I don't get what they see in her. She didn't even apologize, just ran away 'til the end."
He squints at the credits, trying to spot what's missing among the names. Surely, he didn't doze off and miss a crucial part of the movie.
"Yeah, sure, she was kind of an asshole, but... so what? There's plenty of people like her in the City."
"Exactly! What's so special about her that makes her worth loving?"
His chest goes all tight and funny again. Without wanting to, he thinks: blue nails. The same eyes. A love he could never stop chasing.
“Maybe she doesn’t need to be special to be loved,” Gregor mutters.
It's not something he means to say out loud, but he can't take back the words now that he's already let them. Rodya's looking at him like he said the wrong or right thing. He can't tell. There's something shaken loose from her eyes. A picture no longer hung so perfectly.
He unconsciously sucks the air through his teeth, wishing he'd been selfish enough to sneak in a cig or three.
“I mean, I’m not an expert,” he tries to continue. The expert would be Heathcliff, but unfortunately, all she has right now is Gregor. "But isn't that what's love supposed to be all about? People who want you for who you are, and not... despite what you are, or what they think they can fix."
Distantly, he's aware he's rambling on some level. Rodya's uncharacteristic silence has him squirming in his seat. He’s probably talking out his ass here, giving some romantic bullshit that he's far too old to believe. It’s not like he’s had much experience with love. All he’s ever learned was how painful it was, and how to live with its absence, whether he wants it or not.
"Would you still love them?" Rodya suddenly asks. "If someone did something so horrible that they can't be forgiven?"
Gregor's head jerks at her words. He still can't read what's in Rodya's blue, blue eyes.
But her words are familiar. And in that way, Gregor thinks he can understand.
“I think I would,” he slowly says. "Because everyone deserves to be loved, don't they?"
It's so unbelievably cheesy that he cringes the moment he says it. But it doesn’t feel hollow. Nothing like when he told others to just live on. There’s a piece of him in there, an incredibly stupid part he could never give up. One that still longs for that love, even when he knows he's unlovable and disgusting.
Rodya stares and stares, long enough that he feels his face heating up and an excuse flying to his tongue. Then, she says:
"Gee, Greg, I didn't take ya for such a romantic!" A smile on her face again, as if nothing has happened.
Once again, Gregor is taken off-guard. "W-what? That's all you gotta say to that?" he sputters.
She snickers, waving her hand. "Pffht, how could I not? Spoutin' all these dorky lines like you're in a romance movie. Were ya waitin' all this time to say it? Don't tell me ya even rehearsed it and everything!"
A not-small part of him smarts at that - he was really being serious there. "Rodya," he starts, arm twitching, annoyed. But she waves him off again.
"Anyway, I gotta bounce soon. Ishy likes to take a looong time showering, and I'm not 'bout to beg on my poor, pretty knees again."
Their respective bathrooms are equipped with six showers. Nothing, short of one becoming broken - which Frau Faust's pride won't allow - is stopping her from taking one herself.
But Gregor lets it hang in the air. It's not a battle he thinks he wants to win anyway.
"Fine, fine. But I'm taking this with me." He holds up his bucket of popcorn he still hasn't made a dent in. "Lemme know when you're up for another one, alright? Despite what you said..." He resists the urge to scratch the sudden itch on his nape. "I enjoyed watching the movie with you. Been a long time since I got to have anything like that."
It's not really a comfort. He's too much of a coward to reach out with his hand. To ask her what's wrong, especially when all he's ever learned is that a hand like that might only end up hurting.
Still, Rodya smiles at him, and he notices ice creeping in as she does. When did her room get so cold? When did the walls get so tattered? "Sure, babe, though I dunno what ya see in that movie... Sheesh, what was I thinkin', picking a stinker like that?"
He leaves Rodya to whatever she does alone in her room. He can make a guess, but he doesn't want to intrude on her business. She's a private person, and he knows what it's like to want to keep things hidden.
Still, it's only when he returns that Gregor realizes something.
Rodya's room has turned cold, but only his seat has remained warm.