Was Once the King: Chapter 17: What Follows the Flame

Previous Chapter                                                                                                    Next Chapter 

No rooftop.
No script rehearsals.
Just the hush of a world that had shifted.

The silence wasn't heavy. It was full.

Full of breath. Of warmth. Of a stillness that didn't ask for more than presence.

Hector stirred first. The floor was cool under his feet as he padded across the room, the faint creak of old wooden panels trailing after him. His hair was a mess, soft and flattened unevenly on one side. He wore that faded, oversized t-shirt Benjamin always called tragic in interviews, back when they bantered for the cameras.

But privately?

Benjamin had once said it was his favorite.

Because Hector wore it when he felt safe.

He moved into the kitchen, half by instinct. Pulled open cabinets, clicked the kettle on. Opened a drawer and paused—fingers brushing over the familiar hum of shared space. Two mismatched mugs waited, side by side. His and Benjamin's. As if they belonged together, even in still life.

Behind him, quiet footsteps approached. Barefoot. Light.

Benjamin leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely. His hair was rumpled, sleep still clinging to his eyes, but his gaze was focused.

Watching.

Hector didn't turn around at first.

"You're staring." He said softly, reaching for the teabags.

Benjamin's voice was sleep-wrapped and honest. "I'm remembering."

Hector glanced back. "Anything worth remembering?"

Benjamin crossed the kitchen slowly. Not to answer—just to move closer. He picked up one of the mugs, ran his thumb over the worn ceramic.

"All of it." He said finally.

Hector turned back to the kettle, blinking hard.

The toast burned slightly. The tea steeped too long. The small kitchen filled with mismatched smells—overheated bread and jasmine and the unmistakable scent of something lived-in.

They sat at the tiny dining table, knees brushing. Sunlight poured in sideways, casting golden strips across the chipped wood surface and painting both their arms in warmth.

Hector's hands trembled slightly as he reached for his cup.

Benjamin noticed but said nothing. Instead, he took a slow sip from his own, eyes never leaving Hector's face.

"I used to think mornings were the worst." Hector said after a while, breaking the silence like cracking thin ice.

Benjamin raised a brow, gently. "Why?"

"Because it meant waking up to another day of pretending I was fine." He didn't meet Benjamin's gaze. "Pretending I wasn't angry. Or lonely. Or still bleeding."

Benjamin didn't interrupt. He just waited.

"I'd lie in bed and think, 'Okay. Smile for the press. Be charming. Be clean. Be a survivor.'" Hector's voice was quiet, but steady. "I thought if I kept performing long enough, maybe it would become true."

Benjamin reached across the table then, not grasping, not pulling—just gently tapping his fingers against Hector's. Just enough to say I'm here.

"You don't have to pretend anymore." He said. "Not with me. Not ever again."

Hector looked at their hands. His fingers slowly turned over, brushing against Benjamin's knuckles.

"What if I don't always know who I am without the pretending?"

Benjamin exhaled softly. "Then we figure it out. Together."

A bird chirped outside the window, far away. Traffic hummed faintly in the background, as the city resumed its usual rhythm. But inside the apartment, time moved slower. Like it was waiting.

Hector smiled—small, crooked. Real.

"Even if I burn the toast every time?"

Benjamin grinned. "Especially then."

They clinked mugs softly, a toast to the ordinary.
To mornings that didn't hurt.
To beginnings that didn't feel like performance.

And for once, Hector didn't dread the hours ahead.
He welcomed them.
Quietly.
Fully.

With Benjamin beside him.

Later that afternoon, Hector opened the old box again.

Benjamin sat beside him on the floor, both of them surrounded by faded scripts, wrinkled posters, and yellowed fan letters.

One letter caught Hector's eye. Folded carefully, addressed in blue ink.

He opened it slowly.

"I didn't survive my worst year — I endured it because you showed me how."

The handwriting was jagged. Real. It went on to describe a girl's battle with depression and how a single performance from Hector had given her something to hold onto.

"She would've been about seventeen when she wrote this." Hector murmured, voice catching slightly in his throat.

Benjamin leaned in, reading over his shoulder. "Do you know if she ever sent anything else?"

Hector shook his head. "No return address. No name. Just this one piece of hope."

He re-read it again. Slower this time. Letting the words sink into the corners of his memory.

Then, without saying a word, he reached behind him and pulled a notebook from the nearby shelf. The one he used for thoughts he never spoke aloud. He turned to a blank page.

And began writing a reply anyway.

It started with:

"To the girl who thought I saved her — I want you to know, on the days I couldn't save myself, your letter reminded me why I should try."

He wrote as if she could hear him. As if the paper might carry the truth further than silence ever could.

Benjamin didn't interrupt. He just sat beside him, a hand resting softly on Hector's knee, anchoring him.

"I used to be terrified no one heard me." Hector whispered. "Now I know at least one person did. And maybe that's enough."

"It is." Benjamin said quietly. "It always was."

They sat like that for a long while. Among memories, and letters, and things once left unsaid.

And for the first time, Hector didn't feel haunted by the past. He felt part of it had been given back.

The next day, at the studio, the atmosphere felt different.

Not cautious. Not reverent. Just settled.

The director called Benjamin aside after the morning meeting.

"You didn't just steady the scenes." he said. "You steadied him."

Benjamin, surprised, gave a half-smile. "He did the work. I just... stood there."

The director shook his head. "Sometimes standing there is the bravest thing someone can do."

Benjamin said nothing. But when he turned back toward set, his steps felt just a little more grounded.

In the greenroom later, Benjamin sat scrolling through social media.

Fan edits. Tweets. Emotional essays written at 3 a.m. from strangers across the world.

'Oran and Cale. We waited seven years. Worth every second.'
'This is what healing looks like.'
'I don't cry easily, but this broke me—in the best way.'

He saved a few and nudged Hector's shoulder.

"Here. Look."

Hector read quietly.

One tweet caught his attention. 'Closure doesn't need an apology. Sometimes it just needs a full stop.'

He blinked. Then smiled.

"Can I reply to that one?"

Benjamin grinned. "It's your voice they're hearing now."

So Hector did. Just a simple message. Thank you. I heard you too.

It spread in seconds. But this time, it didn't feel invasive. It felt connected.

That night, they walked together back to Hector's apartment. No tension. Just soft talk about scenes, weather, future scripts.

When they stepped inside, Hector paused.

He turned to Benjamin.

"Do you remember our first day back on set?"

Benjamin nodded. "You didn't say more than ten words."

"It was raining."

"I remember."

"You handed me your umbrella."

Benjamin smiled. "I knew you wouldn't take it if I asked."

Hector leaned into the doorway, looking at him with something soft in his eyes.

"That's the moment it started." He said. "Me believing I could stay."

Benjamin didn't answer. He just stepped closer.

And rested his forehead gently against Hector's.

No promises. Just presence.

And for Hector Brandon, that was enough.

Outside, the city moved on. But inside, something stayed.

What followed the flame wasn't ashes. It was light. And in that light, a future waited—unwritten.

But no longer feared.

Previous Chapter                                                                                                    Next Chapter