Was Once the King: Chapter 12: Echoes of Silence

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The rooftop was quiet.

Too quiet.

The city hummed in the distance, but up here, the noise never quite reached. Hector sat curled slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees, his coat hanging loosely off his shoulders. He didn't speak for a long time.

Benjamin stood nearby, watching him from a respectful distance. But when Hector's fingers curled tightly into his palms—when his breath hitched just slightly—Benjamin moved closer.

He didn't say anything right away.

He just sat beside him.

Close enough to share the silence.

"I didn't think it would follow me this long." Hector finally whispered. "I thought... if I just disappeared for a while, the world would forget. That maybe I could come back and rebuild something—anything."

Benjamin listened.

Hector's voice cracked. "But they didn't forget. They just waited. Waited for me to fall again."

A long pause.

And then, quieter:

"Sam left before it even hit the headlines. He said it was for my protection. Said he couldn't handle it, that I should've kept things quieter."

He laughed bitterly. "We were never even public. But they found out anyway. And he walked away like none of it mattered."

Benjamin's voice was gentle, barely audible. "You didn't deserve that."

"I didn't deserve you either." Hector said, still not looking at him. "Back then, when you were just... kind. Kind without a reason."

Benjamin reached over then. Slowly. Deliberately.

He let his shoulder brush against Hector's. Gave him room to lean.

Hector did.

And Benjamin let him.

"I was scared." Benjamin admitted. "That I'd lose you before I ever really had you. That speaking up would only push you further away."

A beat.

"But I'm not afraid anymore."

He turned slightly to face Hector, his tone steady and sure.

"I'm here now, Hector. And I'm not going anywhere. Not this time. Whatever happens—whatever mess still waits—I'd rather be in it with you than out of it without you."

The rooftop lights buzzed faintly above them.

And Hector, finally, closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

Letting the warmth of another person's presence steady his breath.

"Why didn't you stop him?"

Oran's voice cracked—not just with betrayal, but with something older. Something worn and wounded.

Cale didn't respond right away.

Benjamin let the silence breathe.

He took a step closer, the overhead lights casting long shadows across his face.

"Because I thought you didn't need me." he said finally, his voice low, trembling with truth. "And I was afraid that if I tried to help, I'd lose whatever little place I had beside you."

Oran's expression faltered.

Cale went on, softer now:

"I saw what he was doing. I saw you fading, piece by piece. And I hated myself for watching from the sidelines."

A pause. Heavy. Real.

"I wasn't strong enough back then." He added. "Not brave enough to risk everything for someone I barely knew... but cared about more than I should've."

Oran looked at him—not with anger now, but ache. The kind of pain that only comes from truths that arrive too late.

And in that moment, the scene blurred.

Because the lines weren't just lines.

They were echoes.

And every word spoken between Oran and Cale—was another page of Hector and Benjamin's shared history, finally unfolding.

The director didn't call cut right away. He let the silence linger. Let the air hold everything that wasn't said.

Finally: "Beautiful. That's it for today."

Applause rippled faintly from the crew, but Benjamin and Hector didn't move right away.

Hector kept his head bowed for a moment longer.

Benjamin turned and offered a hand—not as Cale, but as himself.

Hector took it.

Their eyes met.

A flicker of something passed between them.

Not closure.

Not yet.

But something close.

Later that evening, the two of them sat quietly in the back corner of the greenroom. The buzz of the crew faded into the background. A kettle clicked on. Makeup bags zipped. Laughter came from the hallway, distant and unobtrusive.

Benjamin poured two cups of tea. Set one in front of Hector without a word.

They drank in silence for a few minutes.

Finally, Hector spoke.

"You said those words like you'd waited years to say them."

Benjamin didn't deny it.

"I had."

A pause.

"Back then, I thought stepping in would make things worse. I wasn't close enough to you. Not enough to be allowed in."

"You were afraid of being collateral damage." Hector said bluntly. Not accusing. Just true.

Benjamin nodded. "Yes."

Another silence.

Hector stared at his cup. "You were right. Back then, it would've ruined you."

"But it ruined you." Benjamin said quietly.

Hector shrugged, lips tilting bitterly. "I was already halfway ruined before anyone knew."

Outside, the city was darkening.

The lights flickered against glass towers. The rooftop waited again.

And they went.

This time, Hector didn't bring wine. He didn't need to.

He brought the thermos of tea again. The same one the makeup team had teased him for carrying around lately. Benjamin didn't bring anything either, except a folded note in his jacket pocket he'd been meaning to give Hector.

They sat in their usual spots, the sky above them bruised with dusk.

"You ever think we'd end up back here?" Hector asked, voice low.

"Not like this." Benjamin admitted. "Not with... peace."

Hector looked over.

Benjamin took out the note and handed it to him.

It was a quote from one of the early scripts they'd rehearsed years ago. Something Cale had said in the second act.

'Sometimes you don't get to rewrite the past. But you can decide who holds the pen next.'

Hector didn't respond.

But he kept the note.

That night, Benjamin posted a quiet photo on his social media: a shot of the rooftop skyline, no faces. No names. Just stars, barely visible, and two cups of tea on the ledge.

No caption.

But everyone knew.

And in a quiet corner of the internet, a new thread began. Not one of scandal or bitterness, but one of healing.

One user wrote:

'Sometimes a story isn't about redemption. Sometimes it's about being seen.'

And under that post, Hector left a like.

His first public gesture in months.

Benjamin checked his phone hours later. Saw the notification. His smile was quiet. But it didn't fade.

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