Brian's eyes fluttered open, heart racing from the sudden clatter. The dim light of early morning filtered through threadbare curtains, casting long shadows across the cramped apartment. He propped himself up on one elbow, groggy gaze settling on the toppled box, its contents spilled across the worn carpet.
The sight of the faded grey NES stirred something deep within him. Brian rubbed the sleep from his eyes, feeling every one of his few years as he pushed himself off the futon.
His bare feet thudded against the carpet as he shuffled towards the mess. Carefully, reverently, he gathered the console and its tangle of cords. The familiar weight in his hands transported him back to countless afternoons spent huddled in front of a flickering TV screen.
Brian's throat tightened as he tenderly placed everything back in the box. He lifted it, muscles protesting slightly, and carried it to the kitchen. The linoleum was cool beneath his feet.
Rummaging through the junk drawer, his fingers finally closed around a roll of tape. He tore off a strip with his teeth, the sharp sound piercing the quiet morning. As he sealed the box, his eyes lingered on the faded sharpie scrawl: "Royal and Brian's."
His hand hovered over the writing, not quite touching. He swallowed hard, pushing down some memory that threatened to boil over.
He placed the box on a high shelf, out of sight but never truly out of mind. Brian stood there for a moment, lost in thought.
The sizzle of eggs filled Brian's small kitchen, a comforting soundtrack to his morning routine. With practiced efficiency, he wielded a clear plastic fork, coaxing the golden liquid into fluffy scrambled perfection. The toaster's sudden pop barely registered as he placed the toast into the dish.
A quick "hup" escaped his lips as he flipped the concoction, revealing a slice of ham nestled beneath. The aroma of melting cheese filled the air, mingling with the savory scent of eggs and butter. Brian pressed down on the sandwich, feeling the satisfying give as the ingredients melded together.
His movements were fluid, he reached for the cabinet. The crinkle of tin foil and the rustle of a paper bag came from the sizzling pan. With deft fingers, he buttered the bread, wrapped the sandwich, and tucked it away.
As Brian shrugged off his apron, the weight of the day ahead settled on his shoulders. He reached for his faded blue leather jacket, a comfort item that had seen better days. It hung slightly loose on his frame.
He glanced at his watch – 9:13. The familiar pang of anxiety fluttered in his chest, a constant companion these days. Brian scooped up his keys, the jingle a final ringer to his morning preparations.
With a deep breath, he stepped out of his apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.
/-/
9:37. Brian's eyes lingered on the watch face, his leg extending the kickstand with practiced ease. He rubbed his hands together, the bite of the December air seeping through his fingerless gloves.
"Hey!" A familiar voice cut through his reverie.
Mina approached, her cream turtleneck a stark contrast to her black trousers. She lifted pastel pink headphones, resting them on her shoulders. "Joh-eun achim-ieyo!" she greeted, her smile warm despite the chill.
Brian tilted his head, a small smile hidden beneath his helmet.
"Take off the helmet when I'm talking to you, punk," Mina teased, delivering a playful punch to his shoulder.
He groaned, rubbing the spot through the thick blue leather. "Joh-eun achim-ieyo," he returned, finally lifting the black helmet.
"That's better. Thought you were going to do the Darth Vader thing." Mina's hand cupped her mouth, her voice deepening in a poor imitation. "Blah blah blah."
A small chuckle escaped Brian's lips, the sound unfamiliar to his own ears. He handed over the sandwich and water bottle, watching as Mina slung the bag over her arm.
"Get a haircut, I'll pay, okay?" She extended a small wad of bills.
A shiver crawled up Brian's spine, unrelated to the cold. His eyes darted upward, drawn to a balcony where a woman with a pixie cut knelt, watching curiously. Their gazes met for a fleeting moment before she disappeared behind the railing.
"Brian?" Mina's worried voice pulled him back.
"Yeah, no, I'm fine. Sorry." He wrapped his hand around hers, gently closing her palm around the money. "Keep it, alright? I'll figure something out."
Mina's smile was tinged with concern. Brian mustered a playful grin, "Tell Wyatt I said hi." He stuck out his tongue slightly, satisfied to see Mina's cheeks flush.
"Go! Go home!" she ordered, a mix of embarrassment and affection in her voice.
As Brian slipped his helmet back on and drove away, his mind replayed the brief glimpse of the woman on the balcony.
/-/
The back alley of Little Hollywood Theater funneled a bitter wind, biting at Brian's exposed skin as he changed. He shivered, the chill seeping into his bones as he donned the red and white striped uniform. The words "Little Hollywood" emblazoned across the back in bold letters felt like a bit tacky for his liking.
Brian's fingers trembled slightly as he fastened the white baseball cap, trying to tame the unruly locks beneath. The familiar scent of popcorn and musty velvet seats wafted from the theater's back door.
"You're on camera." The gravelly voice of Mrs. Salvatori cut through his reverie.
Brian turned, spotting the diminutive figure of his boss wiping fog from her gold-rimmed spectacles. "Mrs. Salvatori, you're in today?" he asked, surprise coloring his tone.
Her sharp eyes narrowed, zeroing in on his unkempt hair. "And you're in need of a haircut."
A groan escaped Brian's lips as he smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt. "Did Mina call you?"
Mrs. Salvatori leaned on her wooden cane, one eyebrow arched in amusement. "I'm afraid not, but given she might, I think it is time for a trim."
Brian's hand unconsciously moved to the rebellious lock peeking out from under his cap. "I'll get one this weekend," he promised, the words ringing hollow even to his own ears.
"Bah," Mrs. Salvatori dismissed his weak assurance with a wave. "Come over here."
The warmth of the theater enveloped Brian as he stepped inside, a stark contrast to the biting cold of the alley. His relief was short-lived as Mrs. Salvatori gestured towards the backroom, where a thin folding chair sat ominously under a harsh ceiling light.
"Mrs. Salvatori, thi-" Brian began, only to be cut off by another dismissive "Bah" from his boss.
"Benito was the same, putting off cutting his hair until it covered his eyes and left him looking like a shaggy dog," she reminisced, her tone a mixture of fondness and exasperation.
Brian couldn't help but roll his eyes, a gesture that earned him a swift rap on the lower back with Mrs. Salvatori's cane. "Don't roll your eyes at me. Sit!" she commanded.
As he reluctantly took his seat, crossing his arms in silent protest, Brian's mind wandered to Mina. She used to trim his hair, playful banter making the chore feel like an intimate ritual. The memory sent a pang through his chest.
"So, how was work?" Mrs. Salvatori's question pulled him back to the present.
"Well, my boss didn't try to cut my hair, so it was a good day," Brian quipped, immediately regretting his sarcasm as another smack landed on his shoulder.
He sighed, relenting. "It was fine, ma'am. A few customers wanted coffee, and the machine was broken, so I had to install the new one. Almost burned myself."
Mrs. Salvatori clicked her tongue. "You should be more careful. How would this theater survive without my favorite employee?"
"I'm your only employee," Brian pointed out, his voice softening despite himself.
The sight of the porcelain bowl descending towards his head sent a jolt of panic through him. "Ma'am, please no!" he protested, his voice rising.
As Mrs. Salvatori removed the bowl, Brian felt a wave of relief. "No bowl?"
"I hate bowl cuts. They always look dumb," he admitted.
"Bah, bowl cuts used to be all the rage. They're probably why you're here today," Mrs. Salvatori retorted.
Brian cringed inwardly, not wanting to dwell on the implications of that statement. It stirred up thoughts of his parents.
"Just please, no. I'll take anything else," he pleaded softly.
Mrs. Salvatori hummed thoughtfully, the gentle snipping of scissors filling the air.
Brian's fingers traced the cool surface of the film reel can, his newly trimmed reflection staring back at him. A faint smile tugged at his lips, surprise and appreciation mingling in his expression. "It's... actually nice. How much do I owe you?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Salvatori.
She waved her hand dismissively, eyes closing as if savoring a distant memory. "Don't worry," she said softly. "It was just nice to be able to do that again." Her gaze seemed to drift beyond the confines of the small backroom, lost in some bittersweet reverie.
"I can pay or I can pull an extra shift," Brian insisted, a familiar mixture of guilt and gratitude welling up inside him.
Mrs. Salvatori's mouth curled into a knowing smile. "Actually, I was at the video store earlier. And I thought, what about some Ray Harryhausen films? Stop motion. The classics."
Brian's eyes lit up, a spark of genuine excitement breaking through his usual reserved demeanor. "Do you want me to go out and get the tapes? I can man the theater. What days are you thinking of showing the movies?" The questions tumbled out in rapid succession.
Mrs. Salvatori raised a hand to quiet him, amusement dancing in her eyes. "I'm going to get the tapes. You will man the front and the projector."
"What time will we be showing the films? I can get here early!" Brian's enthusiasm was palpable, reminding Mrs. Salvatori of a much younger man who used to bound into the theater, eyes wide with wonder at the magic of cinema.
"Midnight showings," she replied, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I get the feeling that's when everything will be just right."
"Won't that be a bit late?" Brian asked, his practical side briefly resurfacing.
Mrs. Salvatori fixed him with a knowing stare. "I know you're quite the night owl. Do you have somewhere to be?" She paused, letting the question hang in the air. "I thought not."
Leaning on her cane, she looked up, a wistful smile playing on her lips. "Think of the beautiful customers," she added, glancing towards Brian as his mind drifted to thoughts of classic films.
"You know," Mrs. Salvatori's voice cut through his reverie, "sometimes the most unexpected things happen at midnight. Magic, reunions, meetings... who knows?" She gave him a meaningful look that Brian couldn't quite decipher.
/-/
Brian's fingers fumbled slightly as he placed the overflowing bucket on the scratched countertop. The cold glass of the Coke bottle sent a shiver through his hand as he retrieved it from the humming mini-fridge.
"A popcorn and a Coke," he repeated, his voice wavering between rehearsed professionalism and nervous energy. The small silver bottle opener glinted in the dim light as he deftly popped the cap with a satisfying hiss.
Zoe's fingers brushed against Brian's as she accepted the offerings. "Thank you," she murmured, her tone polite but guarded. The coolness of the drink contrasted sharply with the warmth emanating from the popcorn.
She glanced around the cavernous theater, its faded art deco charm aged but vintage. "So, when exactly does the movie start?"
Brian shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching slightly. "When everyone else gets here," he replied, his eyes darting to the empty entryway.
Zoe's gaze swept across empty carpeted floor of the lobby, The only sign being the two of them and the rhythmic pop-pop-pop of the popcorn machine echoed through the chamber.
After a moment of awkward silence, Brian cleared his throat.
"Alright, that's everyone," He announced, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
Zoe's shoulders tensed. "Look, I don't know what this is. If it's some kind of practical joke, then I'm going to leave."
Brian's eyes widened, a flicker of hurt crossing his features. "It's not a joke or anything," he said softly. "My boss wanted to do a midnight showing of some older movies. I just don't really think most people can go to a midnight showing on a Tuesday, one week before Christmas. Especially with the older stuff."
He glanced away, his gaze falling on the worn movie posters lining the walls. Turning back to Zoe, he asked, "So, 'The Golden Voyage of Sinbad'? Is that your favorite?"
Zoe shook her head, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling over her. "I'm mainly here for work. My boss told me to do some research on films with stop-motion. I figured this would be a good place to start."
Brian's face lit up. "Are you a screenwriter?"
Zoe waved her hand in a so-so gesture, her voice tinged with resignation. "More a quality checker. I look over other people's work and see if it's worth presenting so it can enter production."
The teen's smile drooped. "Oh."
"What, not what you wanted to hear?" Zoe asked, crossing her arms.
"No, no. Just... I really like movies. I thought it would be cool to meet someone who makes them."
Zoe lifted a hand to her forehead, pushing her bright brown hair back. "I mainly make children's TV shows."
Brian's face remained unchanged, but his eyes softened. "So why do you sound embarrassed?"
Zoe's eyes narrowed. "People don't exactly think it's real production work."
"If it makes money and isn't illegal, it might as well be the best job on the planet," Brian replied, leveling her with a fixed stare.
"I mean, haven't seen a kids show in... about 10 years?" Brian mused, his voice echoing in the empty room.
Zoe snorted, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her tone. "I think you're a bit outside the target audience."
"Says the woman going to a midnight showing of a kids' movie about pirates," Brian countered, his words tinged with playful sarcasm.
A flush of red peppered Zoe's cheeks. She inhaled sharply. "Let's just get to the movie already. I want to get out of here."
Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills. Brian blinked first, breaking the tension. "Nope."
"What do you mean, no?" Zoe's voice rose slightly, echoing off the art deco walls.
Brian's posture straightened, his passion evident in every word. "These movies are classics! Even if they aren't that popular and a bit old, they're still great. I'm not going to show them if you're just going to pick them apart because it's for work."
"Then refund my ticket." Zoe slammed the post-it note on the counter, her glare fierce despite having to look up at him.
Her eyes fixed on Brian's face. The vintage theater's dim lighting cast shadows across his features, accentuating the conflict etched there. She could almost feel the weight of his gaze as it flicked between her and the note in her hand.
Brian exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the distant popping of the popcorn machine. "Listen," he began, his voice low and tinged with resignation. "You look like you take your job seriously, right?"
The question hung in the air between them.
"If you want to really analyze it," he continued, his tone measured but firm, "you can't go into the movie thinking it's just some lame old film. It's like a book – age doesn't dictate value."
As he spoke, Zoe's gaze swept over Brian, taking in his rumpled uniform and the dark circles under his eyes. She remained unconvinced, arms crossed tightly over her chest, the ticket a barrier between them.
Brian's shoulders sagged, a flicker of something – desperation? – crossing his face. "I'll refund the ticket if you want," he offered, extending his hand.
Zoe's eyes darted from his outstretched palm to his face, then back again. Her fingers tapped a restless rhythm against her arm as she crossed them as she weighed her options. The ticking of the old clock on the wall seemed to grow louder with each passing second.
"If I watch this," she said finally, each word deliberate, "and if don't like it, the next one's free."
Brian's eyebrows shot up, surprise etched across his features. He looked away, head tilted in thought, before turning back to her. "Alright," he agreed, a hint of challenge in his voice. "And I guess if you need any help with info about the movie, I could give it. I mean, work is work, right?"
Zoe's eyes narrowed, studying him. Slowly, she let out a breath, feeling the tension leave her shoulders. "Alright," she echoed, her tone softer than before.
The edge of Brian's lip curled upwards – not quite a smile, but close. He turned, gesturing towards one of the hallways where a sign glowed softly above a doorway. "That one over there, number 3. That's your theater."
As Zoe brushed past him, the scent of buttered popcorn and aged velvet seats wafted through the air. Brian stepped away, moving towards a dark door.