Was Once the King: Chapter 4: The Space Between
On set, the silence between them spoke louder than any
line.
Hector didn’t need the whispers to know the crew had
picked up on it—the tension, the ghost of something unspoken hanging between
him and Benjamin. But he also knew no one would say it aloud. They were
professionals. Paid to keep their thoughts behind their eyes.
Still, the glances lingered. Still, the pauses stretched.
Benjamin, for his part, didn’t seem to mind. He moved
through the set with his usual quiet grace, always polite, always present,
always aware. And yet, there was a difference now—a softness in the way he
positioned himself. A stillness when Hector entered a room. A subtle
recalibration.
He was watching.
Not with suspicion.
Not even with hope.
But with a kind of attentive care—an understanding that
Hector wasn’t ready for something more, and maybe never would be. And so
Benjamin simply adjusted, orbiting at a distance that neither intruded nor
abandoned.
That day, the schedule was stacked with two emotionally
demanding scenes: one heavy confrontation and one softer, more nostalgic
flashback. The director—exuberant and theatrical—gushed about emotional
layering and raw intimacy.
“We need to feel the pain. The betrayal. The love that
never had a chance to bloom.” He told them, hands animated. “This is the spine
of the entire show.”
Hector nodded once, expression unreadable.
Benjamin, seated across from him in costume, casually
raised a hand.
“Would it be possible to film the two scenes with a
longer break in between?”
The director blinked. “Why? We’ll lose the emotional
momentum.”
Benjamin smiled gently. “We’ll gain clarity. If we push
too hard, the emotion will become noise.”
A few people shifted in their seats. No one disagreed.
The director mulled it over, tapping his pen against the
table. Then he nodded. “Fair. Let’s split the day in two.”
Silence followed. Hector didn’t speak. He didn’t look at
Benjamin, either.
But when he passed by the wardrobe table an hour later,
on his way to change into costume, he paused briefly. Benjamin stood nearby,
quietly reviewing the scene notes with the script supervisor. He didn’t notice
Hector at first.
Then Hector's hand twitched—just slightly—as if he meant
to reach out. Maybe to grab a water bottle. Maybe to steady himself. Maybe for
something else entirely. But he stopped short.
Benjamin turned, sensing the shift. Their eyes met, only
for a second.
There was nothing said. Nothing even offered.
But something lingered.
Then Hector turned and walked away.
Benjamin didn't follow. He just exhaled through his nose,
quiet and measured, and looked back down at the pages in his hand, a smile
trying to take over on his face, uninvited but persistent.
The confrontation scene took place in the dimly lit
remains of a throne room, mid-rebellion. The set designers had gone all
out—cracked stone, banners torn from the walls, and ash dusted across the
marble floors.
Hector stood in the center, his character Oran once again
wearing the weight of his own fall. Benjamin, as Cale, entered slowly, almost
hesitantly.
The lines were sharp. Sharp enough to bleed.
ORAN: “You waited for my crown to fall.”
CALE: “I waited for you to take my hand.”
ORAN: “You should have left me in exile.”
CALE: “And live with the silence of not trying? No.”
The pain between them pulsed like a third presence.
The scene ended with Oran turning his back, and Cale
stepping forward—close enough to touch, but not daring to.
“Cut.” The director said, barely above a whisper.
“That’s… that’s it. That’s the one.”
Hector let out a breath. It had felt real. Too real.
Benjamin didn’t approach him. He simply nodded to the
crew and stepped back, giving Hector space.
During the extended break, most of the crew scattered to
the trailers or catering tents. Hector disappeared into his dressing room.
Benjamin didn’t follow.
Instead, he went to the assistant director and made a
quiet request. A short meal break. Just twenty minutes of breathing room before
the next setup.
The A.D. agreed.
Half an hour later, Hector found a packed meal waiting
for him in his trailer—his usual preferences noted. No note. No grand gesture.
But the silence was filled with meaning.
He stared at the box.
Then he sat down and ate.
The second scene was a flashback—a quieter time. The two
princes, before war and politics, before betrayal. They sat on a grassy hill (a
set, but a beautiful one), beneath painted stars and soft lighting. They spoke
of dreams.
CALE: “One day, we’ll change the kingdom together.”
ORAN: “Change it into what?”
CALE: “Something worth protecting.”
The lines were gentler now. The anger faded.
In one take, Hector faltered. Just slightly. A pause too
long between lines. The weight of old memory threatening to crash into
performance.
Benjamin adjusted instantly, improvising a smile and
brushing imaginary dirt off Oran’s sleeve.
CALE (softly): “You’ve always carried too much dust with
you.”
Hector blinked.
The moment grounded him.
The director kept the take. Said it felt unscripted and
real.
Hector said nothing, but this time, he didn’t walk away
first.
Evening came.
The crew packed up. Lights dimmed. Another day of
shooting ended, and the quiet descended across the lot like a sigh—the kind of
silence that only followed long hours, difficult scenes, and emotions too thick
to speak aloud.
Hector didn’t drive home right away.
Instead, he walked to his car, opened the glove
compartment, and pulled out the familiar wine bottle and single glass. He held
them for a moment, staring at the chipped label on the bottle, running his
thumb over the worn edges as if it carried the weight of something unspoken.
He climbed the stairs to the studio rooftop—a quiet, open
space where the city lights blinked just out of reach and the air was laced
with the faint scent of stage smoke and something colder, sharper.
He poured the wine slowly, sitting on the edge of a
raised platform. His coat wrapped around him, collar turned up against the
night chill, one boot dangling just off the ledge.
He took a sip.
Then another.
The wine tasted familiar. Faintly bitter, slightly dry.
Like a memory he never invited but always returned to.
Then—
Footsteps.
Soft. Careful. Familiar.
Benjamin didn’t say anything.
He stepped onto the rooftop, eyes finding Hector in the
near-dark. For a long second, he just stood there, like he wasn’t sure if he
was allowed to exist in the same space. Then he moved. Slowly. Deliberately.
He paused a good distance away, leaned against the wall,
and slid down until he was seated on the ground. Not close enough to crowd. But
not so far he’d vanish into the night.
He didn’t light a cigarette. Didn’t pull out his phone.
He didn’t even glance Hector’s way after that first moment.
He just looked up at the same sky.
It was quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—but
full. Heavy with things unsaid.
Hector didn’t speak.
But he didn’t ask him to leave either.
He just drank. Let the cool glass press against his lips
and tried not to think about the fact that Benjamin was there.
Minutes passed.
The silence stretched, but never felt awkward. If
anything, it became something like company.
Then—quietly, barely more than a breath—Hector glanced
sideways.
Benjamin caught it.
He noticed the wine glass still in Hector’s hand. The
faint tremble in his fingers that wasn’t quite cold. The tiny, reluctant
softness at the edge of his mouth.
A smile.
So faint, it might’ve been mistaken for shadow. But it
was there. Real.
Benjamin saw it.
And in that instant, his heart skipped.
His cheeks flushed, heat creeping up like something he
hadn’t expected to feel again.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ruin the silence with
misplaced words or premature closeness.
But his thoughts whispered: “I haven’t seen that smile in
a long time.”
He closed his eyes.
And smiled too.
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