Was Once the King: Chapter 3: If it had been Easier
The news broke slowly, like a tide coming in just a
little too fast to ignore.
At first, it was just whispers on anonymous forums. Then
came a blurred photo of Hector standing outside his trailer, with Benjamin
walking just a few paces behind him. It wasn’t damning. It wasn’t even clear.
But in the world of fan speculation and industry gossip, it didn’t take much.
The post read: “Reunion or rivalry? Hector Brandon and
Benjamin Wordsworth spotted together on the set of Was Once the King — a drama
too close to real life?”
Hector saw the post before his second cup of coffee.
He stared at it on his phone screen, then turned it off,
face-down on the table.
There it was. The beginning of the wildfire.
On set, the tension thickened.
Not because of the article itself—most of the crew was
too professional to bring it up—but because of what it implied. The unspoken,
camera-ready chemistry between the two men was no longer just a creative
miracle. It was now a story.
Benjamin walked onto the lot that morning like he hadn’t
read a single word. And maybe he hadn’t. Or maybe he had and just didn’t care.
Hector had always envied that about him. That quiet
steadiness. The way Benjamin didn’t flinch from the world but absorbed it
gently, like it had always belonged to him.
They were filming a chamber scene that day. The director
called it one of the drama’s “breathing moments”—a silent storm before the next
political ambush in the script.
Inside the towering set of stone and glass, the
characters—Cale and Oran—found themselves temporarily locked in the royal
armory after a siege. Tension. Silence. Old history brushing against fresh
wounds.
No dramatic declarations. No raised voices.
Just them.
Benjamin was already seated when Hector arrived. Their
eyes met for a second, then quickly moved on. The crew bustled around them.
Light adjustments. Costume tweaks. Mics hidden in armor seams.
The director called for a take.
Cale stands, brushing dust off his shoulders. Oran sits
on a broken pillar, silent.
Cale (softly): “It was never about the crown, you know.”
Oran doesn’t respond.
Cale takes a step closer.
Cale: “All I wanted was a place beside you.”
Oran looks up—eyes hard, unreadable.
Oran: “And when the world watched me fall, you just…
stood there.”
Cale: “Because you wouldn’t let me catch you.”
The line fell like glass cracking.
There was a moment—a real moment—when the air shifted.
Hector’s fingers twitched slightly. His expression almost
changed. Almost.
Then the director yelled, “Cut!”
The moment shattered.
Hector stood without a word and walked off the set.
Benjamin stayed seated.
He didn’t watch Hector leave. He didn’t need to. He
already knew.
Some part of Hector had heard the line. Not as Oran, but
as himself.
And some part of Benjamin had meant it.
Later that day, Benjamin sat in his dressing room with
the script open in his lap but unread. A small fan hummed quietly in the
corner. The light was soft.
He pulled out a pen and, on a torn piece of paper, wrote
a single line from the next scene:
“Some thrones are shared, not stolen.”
No signature. No initials. Just the words.
He folded the paper and asked his assistant to leave it
on Hector’s dressing table.
Hector found it hours later.
He didn’t react.
Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown.
He simply stared at it, then placed it under the corner
of his mirror and said nothing.
The buzz online grew by evening.
Fans had begun drawing parallels between the drama’s
story and real-life scandals. Old photos of Hector and Sam resurfaced. A few
amateur sleuths dug up a blurry photo from years ago—Benjamin, standing in the
background of an awards ceremony Hector had once headlined.
And then someone made the connection.
“Did you know Sam Aron and Benjamin Wordsworth are
distantly related? Like, third cousins or something. This is starting to sound
like a K-drama off-screen too.”
The post went viral.
Hector saw it by accident.
He was scrolling too fast, trying not to look for his
name, when it popped up. A side-by-side of him, Benjamin, and Sam.
Old. Familiar. Exposed.
He felt the weight settle back onto his shoulders.
It had always been heavy, but now it was shifting.
Threatening to move from his back to Benjamin’s.
And that… he couldn’t allow.
That night, filming wrapped early. A power issue on one
of the outdoor sets.
Most of the crew packed up and left quickly. Benjamin
lingered by the catering table, sipping warm tea.
Hector stepped outside alone, past the trailers, past the
chain-link fence, until he reached the edge of the lot. Beyond it, the city
blinked quietly under a violet sky.
He leaned on the hood of his car, wine glass in one hand,
the other tucked into his coat pocket.
He hadn’t intended to drink. But he’d left the bottle in
his car for nights like these—quiet ones, heavy ones.
He poured slowly, not looking around.
Benjamin didn’t follow him.
Of course not.
But that didn’t stop Hector from remembering the moment
earlier that day. The way Benjamin had looked at him when he delivered that
line. All I wanted was a place beside you.
He’d heard it.
And he knew it wasn’t just acting.
He closed his eyes and remembered another set—years
ago—where Benjamin had been no one. Just a hopeful extra. And Hector had been
the lead, the star, untouchable.
He’d seen Benjamin struggling with a scene—too much
emotion, not enough control. Hector had stepped in, adjusted his stance,
softened his voice, and said:
“Don’t perform it. Feel it. Or don’t bother.”
Benjamin had blinked at him, stunned.
That day, Hector had done something he rarely did—he
stayed to watch the next take. Just one. Just to see if Benjamin listened.
He had.
And now, years later, Benjamin was the one holding him
together on set. Without asking. Without expecting.
It would’ve been easier if he was cruel. If he was cold.
But Benjamin had always been warm.
And that warmth was dangerous.
The stars blinked above him. The wind tugged at his coat.
He lifted the glass to his lips but didn’t drink.
Instead, he whispered to no one:
“If it had been easier… I might have let you stay.”
Comments
Post a Comment