Was Once the King: Chapter 7: Unscripted
It started with a photograph.
A crew member had snapped it during a quiet moment
between takes—Benjamin and Hector still in costume, framed by the weathered
stones of the courtyard set. Hector had been looking down at his hands, and
Benjamin had been looking at him.
Not at the camera. Not at the world.
Just him.
The photo wasn't posed. Wasn't even intended for
publication.
But someone posted it anyway.
'A moment between kings #WasOnceTheKing'
The comments exploded. Fans reposted it with heart
emojis, crown emojis, theories. Within an hour, it was trending.
Hector saw it the next morning.
He was sitting in his car, engine idling, hands wrapped
around a still-warm thermos of coffee. The photo appeared in a notification
from a friend who hadn't texted in months.
He clicked the link.
And there it was.
His face soft in a way he hadn't allowed in public for a
long time.
Benjamin's gaze steady, warm, caught in an unguarded
moment.
Together, they looked like they belonged to each other.
Like the frame had caught something real.
Hector stared at the screen for a long time.
Then turned his phone over and placed it face-down in the
cup holder.
He didn't text Benjamin.
He didn't say a word about it all day.
The set buzzed with quiet tension. No one mentioned the
photo directly, but the glances were sharper. More curious. A few people
whispered. A makeup artist giggled behind her brush.
Only Benjamin seemed utterly unchanged.
He greeted the crew the same way. Rehearsed his lines
with care. Asked the assistant director if they could slightly soften the
lighting in Scene 17.
And then, just before lunch, he made a post.
'That was from a scene we were filming. If it looks like
we meant it—good. That's what acting is. We tell stories by living them.
#WasOnceTheKing #CaleAndOran #ActorsDoFeelButAlsoAct'
It wasn't defensive.
It wasn't fake.
It was calm. Grounded.
Hector saw the post during a break in the trailer.
He read it. Once. Twice.
And this time, instead of turning his phone face-down, he
tucked it into his pocket and exhaled.
Benjamin wasn't retreating.
But he wasn't pushing either.
That afternoon, they were scheduled to film a pivotal
flashback.
Cale and Oran—before the war, before the betrayal—sharing
a quiet moment beneath the old tree that grew on the palace grounds. A rare
moment of peace. A gesture of closeness.
The script had one line that gave Hector pause.
ORAN reaches out, his hand brushing Cale's cheek. A touch
that says: stay. A touch that means: I never stopped.
He stared at it in the makeup chair for a long time.
"You okay?" The stylist asked softly, brushing
back his hair.
Hector blinked once. Then nodded.
"I'm fine."
When they stepped onto set, the sun had dipped just
enough to cast a golden glow across the trees. The lighting techs called it
magic hour.
Benjamin stood already in position, one hand resting on
the carved stone bench. His eyes found Hector's immediately—but he didn't
smile. Didn't break character.
Hector walked to his mark. Nodded once at the director.
"Ready when you are."
"Scene 12, take 1—action!"
Cale moved with deliberate calm.
Oran stood beside him, body tense with unsaid words.
The lines flowed easily. Muscle memory. Professionalism.
And then, the moment came.
Hector reached out. His hand hovered, just for a second.
Benjamin's eyes didn't waver.
Then—Hector's fingers brushed the side of his face. Just
barely.
Soft.
Not scripted softness.
Something else.
Benjamin leaned into the touch a fraction of an inch.
And when Hector pulled his hand back, it lingered in the
air just a heartbeat too long.
The director didn't call cut immediately. He waited.
Let it breathe.
Then: "That's the one. Moving on."
Neither of them spoke as they left the set.
Benjamin ducked into wardrobe. Hector returned to his
trailer. His phone buzzed twice with new messages—he ignored them.
Later that evening, Hector lingered by the food truck,
half-heartedly stirring soup with a plastic spoon.
"Still warm?"
He turned.
Benjamin.
"Barely." Hector replied.
Benjamin glanced down at the bowl. "It's always the
chicken lentil that tastes like regret."
Hector huffed. "You remember that?"
"I remember more than that."
The words weren't heavy. Just true.
They didn't stay long in the lot. As the last crew
members packed up, Hector moved toward his car.
He paused.
Then turned.
"You headed home?"
Benjamin shrugged. "Eventually."
Hector nodded. "Me too."
That night, the rooftop was quiet again.
This time, Hector brought the wine.
Two glasses.
He set them down carefully, hands steady, and sat in his
usual spot. The scarf Benjamin had left was still there, neatly folded.
He waited.
Ten minutes passed.
Then footsteps.
Benjamin appeared, carrying nothing but his silence.
He paused, as always, a few steps away.
This time, Hector lifted the second glass and held it
out.
Benjamin blinked.
Then smiled. Blinding, soft. The kind that warmed the
whole sky.
He crossed over and took the glass.
Didn't say a word.
Didn't need to.
They sat shoulder to shoulder now.
Not touching.
But close.
The city lights blinked like fireflies far below. The
wine glowed dark in their glasses.
Hector spoke first.
"You handled it well. The post."
Benjamin looked over, a flicker of surprise passing
through his eyes—quickly replaced by quiet relief.
He didn't ask what Hector meant.
Just said, "Thanks."
A pause.
Then, more gently, "I wasn't trying to deny
anything. But I won't let them twist it into something ugly either."
Hector gave a faint nod. Then, without a word, tapped the
rim of his glass softly against Benjamin's—an unscripted gesture. A signal that
said more than his words could.
"I know." He said. "That's why it
mattered."
A few more seconds passed. Then: "Thank you."
Benjamin's eyes softened. But he didn't press.
Didn't ask for more.
Just lifted his glass properly this time.
"To honesty?"
Hector hesitated for just a breath.
Then smiled—faint, but real—and met Benjamin's eyes.
"To something that doesn't need a name."
Their glasses clicked softly, a sound as gentle as the
space they'd built between them.
And for the first time, Hector didn't feel like he was
chasing the pieces of himself.
He just sat there.
Unscripted.
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