Not that the distinction really mattered, since Cole ended up getting spaghetti. It was surprisingly close to the real thing; the noodles were right, and whatever fruit they used in the sauce wasn’t quite tomato but hit the same notes. A little sweeter, maybe, but it worked. Tanaka had done his homework.
The others seemed happy with their picks too, based on how fast the plates cleared. Within half an hour they’d already moved on to dessert. Or rather, contemplation of it.
The dessert menu made a strong case for itself – the fudge cake looked dangerously good, and there was something that resembled a Krispy Kreme donut that Cole had to actively resist. But the cinema was just around the corner, which meant popcorn and whatever else they had at the concession stand.
Alas, there was only so much room to work with. Cole had decided that he’d rather save the calories for movie snacks. The others seemed to reach the same conclusion; nobody ordered anything.
After that, they returned to the main promenade and headed toward the theaters. Between the marquee lights cycling through amber and gold and the fa?ade’s art deco flourishes, the entrance nailed that old Hollywood energy. Honestly, if someone slapped a Paramount logo above the doors, Cole wouldn’t have blinked.
The marquee listed the current showings in elegant script. Most of the titles seemed normal, for a place like this – The Baron’s Gambit, Flowers of Verantia, standard fare. But one jumped out immediately.
Robert and Julie.
Cole almost laughed. Tanaka hadn’t even bothered making it sound different; the guy had just swapped Romeo for Robert, Juliet for Julie, and called it a day. It was pretty damn bold, banking on the fact that nobody in Celdorne had ever heard of Shakespeare. Which, to be fair, was actually true. For all the locals knew, this was Tanaka’s magnum opus. Original tragedy, doomed romance, the whole nine yards.
Still, the title was kind of on the nose. “Robert and Julie,” Cole said aloud. “How original.”
Mack glanced at the marquee, then at Elina, then back at Cole. Something clicked behind his eyes.
“Hey, uhh…” Mack began, getting everyone’s attention. “I actually just remembered. Me and the guys, we’re thinking about checking out the… the golf course! Yeah, the golf course.”
Miles turned. “Golf? Since when? I wanted to–”
Mack’s elbow caught him mid-sentence.
“–golf,” Miles finished, rubbing his side. “Right. Golf. I’m basically Tiger fuckin’ Woods. Love that shit. Can’t get enough.”
Elina didn’t buy it for a second. “Is that so…”
Ethan didn’t need the elbow. He just gave a short nod and started walking. “Yup. Should be fun. Catch you later.”
They retreated down the promenade, Mack pretty much herding the other two. The whole performance had all the subtlety of a brick through a window, but Cole wasn’t about to complain. If Mack was conscious enough to play wingman – to scheme, to think beyond just making it through another day – then he was getting better. That alone was worth more than any fancy screening.
Cole turned to Elina, who’d clearly parsed the whole thing about two seconds in. “Well. Just us, then. Shall we get our popcorn?”
They walked into the lobby, which matched the exterior’s extravagance. The theater checked every upscale box – everything between red carpet and chandeliers, plus staff who looked trained to anticipate needs. What it didn’t have were the long-ass lines, and that omission honestly improved the place more than any of the other upgrades ever could.
Back home, concession lines were half the reason people snuck in outside food. He’d burn fifteen minutes waiting behind some guy deliberating between Skittles and Sour Patch Kids while his girlfriend changed her drink order twice, and by the time he got his popcorn the movie would have already started.
The other half was the markup. Eight bucks for a small popcorn, six for a box of candy he could get at CVS for a dollar fifty. The whole model ran on captive-audience economics: the customer was already in the building, already committed, so the theaters could charge whatever they wanted and the customer would either pay it or go without. Shit was borderline criminal, honestly.
Here, though? The concessions were complimentary. Part of the resort package, apparently. And not just ‘free popcorn in a paper bag’ complimentary; this stuff was actually curated. The menu listed maybe six items, each one with a small description like this was a tasting menu instead of a snack bar. ‘Artisan kettle torpel.’ ‘Small-batch chocolate truffles.’
Wait – torpel? Cole glanced at the popcorn display. Sure enough, the label said poptorp. Whatever; it was basically popcorn. And ‘artisan,’ whatever that meant. And above all, free.
He ordered one to share and asked for a drink recommendation. The attendant suggested coca without missing a beat. Now, he knew enough history to remember what early versions of that name had meant, back when coca drinks had included more than just sugar and carbonation. Not to mention Tanaka’s habit of honoring traditions a shade too faithfully. Rather than discover it the hard way, he took the safer path and asked for sweet tea.
The drinks were poured at the table from an ice-chilled vessel, the liquid coming out clear and dark before fogging the glass almost immediately. Cole watched without much awe. For what theaters usually charged, this sort of thing should have been the baseline.
Even the poptorp received the same treatment, set out in a shallow ceramic dish that still held a bit of warmth, resting on a small wooden tray. Cole had been to theaters that charged more and tried less.
He lifted his glass and took a cautious sip before passing the other to Elina. The flavor was clean, lightly sweet, nothing aggressive about it. Whatever leaves they used, they knew what they were doing.
“Sweet tea,” he said, handing it over. “No clue what kinda tea it’s supposed to be, but it’s pretty good.”
She took it, studying the color with open interest before tasting it herself. “I have had this before,” she said after a moment. “Though not in some years. It is made from sweetberries. My mother favored it.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Her voice shifted slightly on the last sentence, sounding almost nostalgic, or longing, even. Cole didn’t dwell on it.
They headed into the screening room. It felt closer to one of those high-end IMAX setups than a regular theater – less about packing bodies in, more about giving them space.
But the seats were better than the Dolby recliners back home. By a lot. And those cost what, fifteen extra? Twenty? Here it was just how the seats were. Shit, Cole needed to stop comparing everything to home because home was starting to look like a scam.
He picked two seats near the center, settling in with Elina.
The lights dimmed, and the scattered chatter around them died down as people settled back into their seats.
Cole tried the poptorp and waited for a letdown that never arrived. The stuff was warm, properly salted, and tasted like real butter – an immediate improvement over the glowing oil that usually turned snacks into a cleanup problem. The crunch was pretty damn good as well, being neither stale nor overdone. Theaters managed to get this wrong with impressive consistency, given how little else they were responsible for.
Elina tried some a moment later. Judging by the lift of her eyebrows, she’d come to the same conclusion that Cole had.
“Good?” he asked.
“Quite.” She took another handful, which was probably the strongest endorsement she was going to give.
They sat in the dim light while the pre-show dragged on. The screen panned slowly across Celdornian landscapes – rolling hills, old castles, water at sunset – set to soft orchestral music. It was filler, sure, but tasteful filler. Better than the fifteen minutes of car commercials and Marvel trailers he would have been sitting through back home.
It occurred to him, a little late, that this was the first stretch of time they’d been alone together. The fact that he hadn’t noticed right away probably meant something.
It wasn’t an official date, which suited him fine. He hadn’t planned for it, and that still made him uneasy, but Mack had already done the hard part. All Cole had to do now was not fuck it up.
The lights dropped, the room quieted, and the usual reminder flashed by. Then the title appeared over a shot of Celdornian cityscape: “Robert and Julie.”
The first thing Cole noticed was the picture quality.
It shouldn’t have looked this good. Celdorne sat somewhere around Victorian tech, magic notwithstanding, which ought to have put their filmmaking closer to early Edison – grainy, jumpy, probably silent. Instead, the image was crisp. Not quite 4K, but close enough that he could see fabric texture, sweat on an actor’s brow, dust drifting through a sunbeam.
The sound held up just as well. Music, dialogue, and background noise stayed balanced, without the distortion or instability he would have expected from tech that wasn’t supposed to be this capable.
He suspected Scrying Panes had something to do with it. If people could transmit images in real time, recording them wasn’t much of a stretch. One more reason to get in touch with Tanaka, assuming he was still around.
That was a rabbit hole for another time. For now, he was supposed to be watching a movie.
And the movie turned out to be good. Not in a polite way, or a lowered-expectations way, but actually good.
Cole had gone in assuming the usual – Shakespeare with the serial numbers filed off, actors he didn’t recognize, financed by a guy whose main credential was having been isekai’d with money. Instead, what he got looked competently made. The cinematography stayed clean, the sets carried real weight, and the actor playing Robert held his scenes well enough that Cole could have believed him in a Hollywood production. The rest of the cast kept pace, which mattered more.
The execution was better than he’d expected, and he registered that much. It just didn’t pull him in. He already knew how the story ended. Most people did, at least back home. And familiarity had a way of flattening things that would have worked on him once.
The dramatic irony never quite landed for him anymore, not after seeing enough versions of the same thing – the DiCaprio one back in high school, the stage production his mother had dragged him to, a few others he was sure he’d forgotten. Somewhere along the way, he stopped tracking the plot and started paying attention to the audience instead.
That turned out to be more interesting, actually. The locals didn’t seem to know what was coming. When Robert slipped into the Capulet – or whatever they were called here – estate for the balcony scene, audible gasps rippled through the theater. Someone a few rows up whispered something to their companion. Meanwhile, a woman to his left had her hand over her mouth like she was watching a horror movie.
These people had no idea how it ended. No spoilers, no memes, nothing. To them this was brand new. Cole almost envied them for that.
He glanced at Elina during the balcony scene. She was actually into it, leaning forward slightly, eyes fixed on the screen. He could get used to seeing her like this.
He looked back at the screen before she could catch him staring.
The story moved on: secret marriage, alternate Mercutio’s death, Robert’s exile. Tanaka had kept the pacing tight, which Cole appreciated even if he already knew every beat.
Somewhere around the wedding night scene, Elina shifted closer. Her arm brushed against his on the armrest and stayed there.
Cole wasn’t an idiot. He knew what incidental contact that lingered meant. And he wasn’t about to fumble this by either ignoring it or coming on too strong. Elina wasn’t the type you rushed. He’d said that himself, back at the onsen. If he was going to reciprocate, he was going to do it right.
He knew what came next. Julie’s fake death, the message that never arrived, Robert buying the poison, finding her, drinking it, and then Julie waking up too late.
But for Elina, this was all new. And if he was going to make a move, the timing mattered.
It was kind of unfair, honestly. He knew exactly when the emotional peak was coming. She didn’t. He was basically playing with a cheat code.
Then again, all’s fair in love and war. Especially love.
On screen, Robert entered the tomb. The score dropped to something low and mournful, and the room went dead quiet as Robert knelt beside Julie’s body and started his final monologue. Cole figured that was about as good a moment as he was going to get.
He moved his hand over Elina’s, and she didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into it.
They stayed like that as Robert drank the poison and through the audience losing their shit at Julie waking up too late. Cole hardly paid attention by that point; his focus was entirely on Elina.
The movie ended as it always did: dead teenagers, grieving families, a speech about how this was everyone’s fault. The credits rolled over a final orchestral swell, which somehow wasn’t enough to drown out the sound of someone blowing their nose a few rows back.
The lights came up slowly, giving everyone a moment to compose themselves.
Elina let go and reached for the last of the poptorp. Part of Cole wouldn’t have minded holding on a bit longer, but that would’ve been getting ahead of himself.
Elina turned to Cole. “That was…” She paused, searching for the word. “Unexpectedly affecting.”
Cole nodded. “Yeah. Tanaka knows what he’s doing.”
Technically, it would’ve been much more proper to say ‘Shakespeare’, but he didn’t want to kill the moment by diving into some lecture. Plus, he had to hand it to Tanaka – he’d made a damn fine remake.
“Ah, yes. I do suppose Tanaka’s expertise was rather impressive as well.”
Oh. Oh.
Elina wasn’t referring to the movie. She was referring to the hand thing, and that meant Cole was on the right track.
She hardly gave him any time to internally celebrate. “Shall we find the others?”
“Sure.” Cole stood and offered his hand to help her up. She took it. “Wonder how their golf game went.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “I suspect they did not play golf.”
Cole chuckled. “I suspect you’re right.”
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