Was Once the King: Chapter 6: Like Breathing Again

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The days rolled by in their steady rhythm.

Call times, rehearsals, touch-ups. Lights, angles, quiet on set.

There was a strange kind of comfort in the routine—something Hector hadn't realized he missed until he was back in it. The chaotic quiet of a working set. The hours that passed in scripts and costumes. The temporary relief of pretending to be someone else.

And always, Benjamin was there. Never in the way. Never lingering too long. But present, steady—like a breath Hector didn't have to think about.

That week's schedule was filled with emotionally intense material, but today's scene was different.

A rare, quiet scene between Oran and the King—no anger, no heartbreak. Just two men who had once been more, standing on the edges of memory.

It was a scene about stillness. About the way grief softened when shared.

The director had called it a pocket of air in a drowning sea.

They rehearsed it in one of the courtyard sets, the lighting soft and gray.

Benjamin stood just across from him, their characters face to face.

No yelling. No scripted breakdowns.

Just stillness.

And somehow, that made it harder.

The cameras rolled. The set fell silent.

Oran sat on a low stone bench. The King stood behind him, hand gently resting on the back of the bench—close, but not touching.

There were lines, yes, but they barely needed them. The moment breathed on its own.

Oran spoke first, voice low.

ORAN: "The garden hasn't changed. Not really. Still the same wind through dead leaves."

CALE: "It's quieter now. The noise left with you."

ORAN (after a beat): "Noise. That's generous."

CALE: "It's what I missed."

Oran's eyes didn't rise. He traced a faint circle on the stone bench with his thumb. A gesture that wasn't in the script.

ORAN: "We never said goodbye properly."

CALE (soft): "That's because I never meant it to be goodbye."

ORAN (still not looking): "And yet."

CALE: "And yet."

There was nothing overly dramatic. No grand declarations. But something about the way the lines fell between them—how their silence carried weight—brought the scene to life.

Hector felt it—like stepping into calm water after the storm. For once, he wasn't acting grief or rage. He was simply... present.

Benjamin said his lines softer than usual. Not out of hesitation, but intention. Like he was afraid to shatter whatever fragile balance they'd created.

When the director called "Cut." no one spoke for a second.

Then came the quiet murmur of approval.

"Keep that. That's the take."

Later, Hector went to the costume room to collect his coat.

The space was dim, lit only by the single yellow bulb in the back corner. Dust motes drifted lazily in the narrow beams of light like fading applause.

He paused at the doorway.

Benjamin stood with his back to him, carefully adjusting the sleeve of Hector's jacket. Fixing a thread that had come loose. Not speaking. Not rushing. Just... doing it, like he'd done it a hundred times before.

Hector watched for a moment, silent. There was something achingly gentle about it—the way Benjamin's fingers moved with care, his brows drawn in quiet concentration.

Then, gently:

"You always do that?"

Benjamin didn't look up. "Only when it's about to fall apart."

Hector stepped inside slowly, each footstep soft against the tiled floor.

"It's just a button."

"Sure." Benjamin clipped the thread and smoothed the fabric down, then carefully placed the coat on the hook like it might crumble otherwise.

He turned slightly, as if to leave, but hesitated.

"I wasn't trying to fix anything." Benjamin added after a pause, voice low. "Just... keeping it together."

Hector didn't answer at first. His gaze lingered on the coat. The room felt too quiet.

Their eyes didn't meet. But the silence felt less strained than it used to—like a shared breath instead of an empty space.

"Thanks." Hector said, barely louder than the rustle of the fabric.

Benjamin nodded once, a flicker of a smile on his lips.

Then turned and left, the door closing gently behind him.

The sky was cloudy that night.

The stars mostly hidden, as if the heavens themselves were trying to give him privacy.

Still, Hector climbed to the rooftop.

No wine this time.

Just tea in a thermos someone from makeup had handed him without a word. A kindness he didn't ask for—but didn't reject.

He sat where he always did, legs stretched, back against the wall, staring up at a sky that used to make him feel small and safe. Tonight, it just felt... open.

He didn't expect Benjamin to follow. But when he did—ten minutes later, carrying his own cup—Hector didn't flinch.

Benjamin didn't sit beside him.

He took the usual place, a few steps away. The wind ruffled his hair slightly. His cup steamed in his hands, fogging the air with something floral and terrible.

"You didn't bring wine." Benjamin said after a while, voice a notch above the breeze.

Hector took a sip. "Didn't need it."

Benjamin's lips twitched. "That's good."

A pause.

Benjamin sipped from his cup. Grimaced.

"This is terrible tea."

Hector smirked. Just a little. A quiet, flickering thing.

"Better than silence?"

Benjamin tilted his head. "Not always."

That earned him a quiet huff—almost a laugh.

Another pause.

The city lights blinked in the distance, neon and soft yellow. Somewhere below, a car honked. A dog barked. Life, continuing, untethered to the weight Hector carried.

He leaned back more comfortably against the wall, shoulders lowering, the familiar ache in his spine easing.

The wind blew again—colder this time, sneaking past the collar of his coat.

Benjamin stood up briefly and crossed over, placing a folded scarf beside Hector. Not too close. Just enough.

Then returned to his spot.

Hector looked at the scarf. The color was familiar—soft gray with thin blue lines. It looked like something Benjamin had owned for years. Worn, but clean. Like it had lived a life of its own.

He didn't pick it up. But he didn't move it either.

They stayed like that for a while.

Not speaking.

Just breathing.

Every so often, Hector's gaze would flick sideways. He never caught Benjamin looking—but somehow, he felt seen.

Not exposed.

Just... witnessed.

It wasn't the same as being known. But it was something.

And for the first time, Hector didn't feel the need to run.

His shoulders didn't brace themselves against words that never came. His fingers didn't tighten around the cup like a lifeline. His jaw didn't lock.

He was quiet. But not alone.

He closed his eyes, and let himself feel warm.

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