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There are many reasons Whisperain loves films. The bombastic soundtracks, the displays of emotion, the artistic intent. But right now, what she was enjoying the most is how easily they can be shared.
The main character had a revolver held to his cheek, the heat of the barrel causing him to flinch back. Weedy, sitting just next to her, winced as well. The villain announced, “Let that be your final warning. Look at her again and it’ll be the last thing you see.” He viciously kicked the main character, sending him reeling across the dry, cracked dirt. The camera spun, showcasing his various injuries, the villainous party mounting their burdenbeasts and leaving, and finally, the majesty of their surroundings.
That was one thing Whisperain loved about westerns. They showcased the beauty of the columbian desert (or in this film’s case, the siracusan desert pretending to be one) much faster than it took to journey across them. On foot, it could take her weeks or months, and even the fastest transportation methods couldn’t stop the overwhelming heat. But in film? You could see the highlights in just a few short hours.
“Ugh. An open wound, covered in dirt? He’ll be lucky if he lives an hour.” Weedy looked on disapprovingly.
Whisperain smiled. Very predictable of her. The movie’s intermission card started playing, and she rose from her seat.
“It’s a different sort of world, where that kind of infection doesn’t happen. Or maybe it happens slowly, and festers after the credits roll.” She sighed, “What a wonderful, fast-paced existence. Imagine if you could ignore all your problems like that.”
Weedy laughed, “I don’t think my problems are as bad as this guy’s.” Her smiled faded quickly, “Well. Whisperain, I’m going to miss you. Thanks for using some of your remaining time watching a movie with me.”
Of course. Her journey must continue onward. In just a week, Whisperain would return to the road. She loves rhodes island, and Weedy too, but all good things must come to an end. The savage wilderness is where she belongs.
“It’s fun for me, too.” She stepped towards Weedy, still seated, then tripped over her legs. Her entire body plummeted to the ground, head over heels.
Just before impact, Weedy catches her chest, body, and halts her so effortlessly. The hand on her collarbone is unyielding and strong, and the one by her waist clutches her inescapably.
“Are you all right?”
Was this new? When did she get this strong? Her hands were calloused, weathered, and confident. Even holding her entire form, Whisperain didn’t feel unstable. The opposite, in fact. She felt better shelter from weedy than her own limbs. Weedy lifted her back upright, guiding her to the ground without a single moment’s hesitation.
“Thank you.” Whisperain mumbled.
“Yeah! Anyway, you wanted some popcorn or something?”
As Weedy got up and turned to leave, Whisperain paid extra attention to her form. Her back, even concealed by clothes, was strong and wider than before. Her arms were no longer stick-thin, but lightly muscled. Her legs were thicker and stronger, too. Whisperain wondered how the contours felt to the touch. Just a little bit.
They walked to the lobby. Weedy took a detour to wash her hands. When she returned, Whisperain delicately lead into her new interest.
“You really caught me expertly! I had no idea you were so strong.”
“Yup. I’ve been training with Blaze for months now. Guess it’s finally paid off.”
“Why did you start training?” The Weedy Whisperain remembered would flinch at the barest hint of germs, and Rhodes’ gyms were communal.
“I don’t want to rely on others all the time. Sometimes, you have to fight for yourself. The people Rhodes Island opposes can’t just be beaten back by politics and charity. Some have to be beaten physically, and I wanted to help.” Weedy turned back to face Whisperain with a bit of a smirk, “So, yeah, not that big a deal. Everyone else does it. You know that adorable seal Closure adopted? Well, she got operator certification!”
“Really? The agoraphobe?”
“Huh? Maybe?” Weedy looked a bit confused. “But she even takes her plush doll into battle with her.”
“How cute!”
Weedy nodded.
They spoke briefly about the movie. Weedy didn’t seem particularly engaged, but it spoke volumes that she was still here, watching it with her. The violence and action in the movie must seem boring to someone like Weedy, who’s actually experienced combat. How strong was she? How many lives had she taken? Could Whisperain ask to be assigned along her? That strong, dangerous side of Weedy wasn’t so far away.
Returning to the movie theatre, Weedy took special care to make certain Whisperain was seated before taking her own. For a brief moment, she was a princess. Whisperain felt a moment of selfishness reach her throat, and she said, haltingly,
“Weedy. Would you mind if we… If we held hands for a bit?”
She would say no, of course. Weedy hated any skin-to-skin contact, and she hadn’t brought her gloves. It wasn’t necessary for sitting in a room quietly, occasionally eating corn. Weedy’s cheeks flushed slightly, and she wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“It-it’s okay if the answer’s no, it was-”
Weedy took her hand. A sure grip, just as safe and secure as before.
“I think the movie’s resuming.”
The film picked up hours after it left off, with the main character desperate, parched, and near death. Weedy removed her hand. He spotted a figure in the distance, and called for aid. Weedy… had used some hand sanitizer. The figure galloped closer, and by the long, flowing braid, they recognized it as the hero’s paramour. Weedy put her elbow through Whisperain’s. The two onscreen locked hands, and the injured man was lifted bodily onto the burdenbeast. Even separated by fabric, Weedy and Whisperain were locked together as well. In a way so characteristic of the former.
The movie continued as normal: The hero and the few friends he had collected gathered and faced their foes, their fears, head on. They suffered, worried, acquired more troubles, but persevered. They won. Bloody, bruised, but not beaten. The hero and his paramour rode off into the sunset together.
Whisperain let the climax of a satisfying story wash over her. The arm to her side hadn’t left once. She felt it move, shift depending on the scene, but she was still there. Weedy was still with her. Maybe she should return the favour.
They walked out of the theatre together.
“What did you think of the movie?”
Weedy looked up into the rafters, “It was pretty formulaic. You kinda knew how it was going to end just from the first few minutes.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“No, it’s just.” Her brow squinched together adorably, “It wasn’t any less satisfying even though I knew how it was going to end. Was pretty good, all things considered. Sometimes it’s fine to just bask in the fantasy, right?”
“I agree. You have to live in the story it’s trying to tell, not judge it by your standards. Imagine how sweet it’d be to someone who’s never watched a western before?”
“Ah, yeah. That’d be very weird. Like ‘Why’s there so many sweeping shots of the desert?’ ‘Why’s it take them so long to get anywhere?’”
Whisperain smiled, and vibrated with muted laughter.
“I know what you meant though. There’s a first time for everyone.”
--
Whisperain quietly took her expedition date off the calender. She would tell Weedy later. In the meantime, she made her way to the Doctor’s office. Someone would know what operation Weedy was being deployed to next. What blasted wasteland she would conquer. What dry lands she would wash away. Whisperain, with good fortune in her favour, would see her victorious hero in person.