Chapter 9: Doubt That the Sun Doth Move | August, 2015

Benedict

It's the opening night of the play, and I'm sitting backstage reviewing a few lines which are giving me a bit of (irrational) anxiety, when I look up, noticing Holly, ushered by a backstage assistant, in my peripheral vision. I had to go through some loopholes to acquire a seat for her, since the show sold out with such startling speed—but we were successful, and she's been as excited as me about tonight's show for the past week.

"Just five minutes," says the attendant with a note of apology, as he delivers her to me, and I nod at him in friendly understanding before he turns and goes away. Now I turn my gaze upon Holly, whose eyes are wide as she looks around the space, the stage visible through the wings.

"This is... magical," she says after a moment of quiet observance, and looks up at me with a wide grin on her face, shining through the half-light. "I'm so excited! Are you nervous?"

"Nervous!" I exclaim with an exaggerated scoff—and sarcastic, in truth. "Who do you think you're talking to!"

She shakes her head at me, seeing through my façade, and, unexpectedly, I feel a sudden, light palpitation of my heart in my chest. I can't tell whether it's because of my nerves, or because she's here with me backstage, in this sacred place which I can tell she has such respect for, so very close... There's something dear and fragile, altogether mighty and loveable about her face in this light, that I'm only seeing, now, for the first time.

"Okay, Ben," she says to me, bringing me back to the present, "here." She looks up slightly, scanning the invisible teleprompter in her mind, and then quotes the line which leads into the part she knows I've been worrying over: "A truant disposition, good my lord."

Then she looks at me with a half-expectant faith, and before I know it, I've remembered my line without any effort at all: "I would not have your enemy say so, Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, to make it truster of your own report against yourself."

"See!" she says with a feisty smile, mock-punching me in the chest, though she has to incline her arm upwards significantly given her short stature. "You're going to be perf-"

"Someone get her into costume!"

We both wheel around slightly, to where Lyndsey, my director, stands looking on, in the midst of making her pre-show rounds, checking up on everybody. I chuckle at her comment, turning back to see Holly, blushing all the way to the tips of her ears. Lyndsey sees her reaction, as well, and approaches with a reserved smile and a hand extended to be shaken, which Holly takes rather shyly.

"I'm Lyndsey," she says to Holly.

"Holly," she responds with a smile.

Lyndsey smiles and laughs slightly as she looks between us with a glint of humor in her eye. "I'm so glad to see someone so young, so excited about Shakespeare—but I'm afraid I have to ask you to rejoin the audience—we're fifteen minutes out, and you're making my Hamlet entirely too happy! But, Benedict, she's right—just relax. This is going to be great." Then she nods between us one last time, taps her watch with a friendly but meaningful smile, and moves on to speak with a huddle of crew near the rear of the wings, double-checking the set.

Holly looks back at me and takes my hands in her smaller ones, smiling widely and giving up a high-pitched sound of extreme excitement. "Break a leg!" she whispers excitedly, and then, with a final chuckle and an energetic grin between us, she takes her leave and finds her escort again, waving once more from the shadows before leaving to rejoin the audience.

After her leaving, I settle back into my pre-show routine, finding a few of my coworkers, congratulating, encouraging—but all the way up until the final five minutes before places are called, I think long and hard about what Lyndsey had said of Holly... I suppose it is the truth that I'm made happy by her, extremely happy, in fact... But now is not the time to think about that, and I have to press down the smile the thought of her plants upon my lips to start getting into character.

Backstage Is full of an entirely different energy after nearly three hours of Shakespeare performance, and I feel myself sweating from exertion and ecstasy at the completion of the opening night performance—and with such success! I've just shared a relieved embrace with Sian, and am heading for the main backstage hallway for a bottled water when I hear the slight patter of feet and suddenly Holly's arms are wrapped around my chest from behind, her smile so wide I can feel it physically against my side.

"Oh. My. God!" she says against my ribs as I turn around and, knowing it would be pointless to pry her off of me (not to mention that I don't particularly want to, either), return her embrace with a light-hearted chuckle, adrenaline still pulsing through my veins. "You were absolutely stunning!" she says, after a moment, looking up at me and leaning back slightly, my arms still around her shoulders. "How the hell do you—I can't even express—That was fantastic."

I'm grinning down at her, trying to sort the jumble of emotions and words in my head into a response, but at that moment I spot, over her shoulder, another figure approaching, coming directly toward us, and a great smile breaks across my face when I identify the figure as my good friend Tom.

"Tom!" I shout towards him, letting Holly go slightly, but letting my hand linger on her comfortable shoulder. She looks in the newcomer's direction with her smile still plastered on her face. "I thought you couldn't make it!" I exclaim, pulling him into a tight embrace, smiling and letting him go again as he claps me in a brotherly way on the back.

"You know I never pass up the chance to surprise you," he says with a cheeky grin, then turning to Holly with a bright but slightly wary smile. "Hello, you," he says in his deft, friendly tone, bending over and pretending to huff and puff as he sees I already have company. "You beat me to it. You young people, I say—it took me way too long to shoulder my way out of there."

"Holly-" I interject, glad to see that she's already smiling widely at his sense of humor and friendliness, "this is my excellent friend Tom."

She extends her hand with a bit more bravery than she'd had when being faced by Lyndsey before the show, earlier, and Tom smiles down at her from his six feet and two inch height—even taller than myself—and takes her hand with a gentle firmness. "Nice to meet you," Holly says to him, as they shake hands, and I search her eyes for a moment, wondering whether she recognizes him—but it seems to me that she doesn't.

I glance up at Tom and I can see in a half-second that he's extremely grateful for this. Lately, he's become used to people, especially women, spotting him and knowing him virtually everywhere (as have I). So, I can tell that it's a relief and a welcome change of pace for him to be so casual and friendly with someone who isn't awkward or starstruck.

"How are you and Ben acquainted?" Tom asks, glancing at me with a question in his eye though he directs his question, chivalrously, to Holly.

Holly looks towards me, in turn, unsure of how to answer, whether now is a time to protect my privacy, and I acknowledge her silent urging for me to answer the question. "She's been staying in my guest room for the duration of a summer internship. She's going to be the greatest literary mind of her generation."

"Oh..." says Holly humbly, smacking my arm lightly and looking sheepishly at the floor—though, truly, I believe there is a measure of truth in my words, and I think that a small part of her knows it—or at least strongly hopes for it—too.

"Don't look too shy, my friend," says Tom to her, "Ben has an excellent eye for people with creative gifts. I think I'll take his word for it, in your case." She smiles at him shyly and visibly keeps herself from shaking her head modestly. Tom gives me a look of questioning, but only briefly, and I can tell he's wondering whether our connection runs deeper than I've let on. A moment later, though, the moment has passed and he says to me, "I'm only in London for the night; I head out on a plane dark and early tomorrow morning, but I had to be here for the opening."

"Well, hold on a minute," I say, the cogs turning in this state of post-show elation, "why don't you come back to my flat for the evening? Just some casual food, some catching up. Would that be alright with you, Holly? He's a very good friend, and very easy to get along with."

"I don't bite," Tom assures her with a smile. She looks between us, and then up at me, and nods her head in the affirmative, smiling, though I can tell she's placing herself slightly out of her comfort zone.

"Well, that's settled, then," I say with a grin, squeezing her shoulder lightly again, just as I see an assistant waving to me urgently from across the space. "Look-" I say to them both, "I've got to go say a few words to the press. Could you wait here for me? I should be back within the quarter hour."

Both of them nod in the affirmative, and I bid them farewell with a promising wave, winking supportively at Holly as I go toward the hall, and the assistant. I can see in Holly's eyes as she gazes after me that she's a bit nervous at being left alone with someone she's just met, but as I walk away, taking a bottled water from the assistant and thanking her profusely, I say Tom say something to Holly behind me, which makes her laugh—a light, genuine laugh—and I smile to myself, knowing that I've left each of them in good hands until my return.

On the ride back to my flat we have the cab stop outside a pizza place, and send Holly (the least conspicuous of us) in to get our large cheese. While she waits and pays with cash which Tom had given up for the good of the cause, she sticks her tongue out at us through the window, making us both chuckle. It's very late at night when we get back to my flat, but we have plenty of adrenaline and excitement at the company of our new dynamic between the three of us to keep tiredness at bay.

Tom looks like a giant next to Holly, especially once she's in her stocking feet, but she plays it cool, once even making a clever remark: "So, Tom, how's the weather up there?" which makes him laugh and offer her a boisterous fist-bump, which she takes.

I can't help but feel extremely proud of her, for all the work she's done to gain back her confidence in the past months, overcoming the terrors of her past and becoming more comfortable in her body. A spark of happiness is kindled in my heart, at knowing that I've had a small part in her healing—though it is still underway, and it would be terribly untrue of me to lay claim to any but a small part of her improvement. She's fought so hard for it on her own, and It's been my privilege to be able to help her along and offer her support, trying to exemplify the way she should expect to be treated by men.

They both won't let me hear the end of praise, calling me a sensational Hamlet and raving about my deliveries of the better-known soliloquies and monologues. I shake my head humbly, grateful for the complements, but incapable of shaking that little irking feeling which keeps me coming back to this job, keeps me striving for a better performance night after night.

But after a few rapid-passing hours of energetic conversation and our shared pizza, sleepiness starts to get the better of Holly, and she is forced to excuse herself at last, admitting that she simply can't keep her eyes open any longer, and that she ought to leave us, since she has an early morning tomorrow. I give her a gentle embrace good-night and Tom tells her he's overjoyed to have met her, to know that I'm in good company in London, and that he hopes he'll be able to meet with the two of us again in the not-too-distant future.

She thanks him, and Tom and I wait to say anything further until the sound of her door closing thuds in the hallway beyond. At that moment, he turns to me with a cheeky look in his eye, and an arch in his eyebrow that tells me what's coming before he's even begun to speak. "Ben," he says, as though reprimanding a guilty child, "do tell."

I mimic his facial expression. "Do tell what?" I say, knowing that he's going to ask me more about my relationship with Holly, but having no idea how I'm supposed to answer any of his questions, as I don't truly know any answers, myself.

"Is she, perhaps, a love interest? She is staying in your apartment, Ben. And you must admit, she's very pretty, very intelligent, kind..." I open my mouth slightly, a few indistinct sounds coming out, as I try to vanquish my confusion. He smiles at me and leans in slightly, sensing my unsure nature in regards to Holly, saying, "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Involving yourself with someone wouldn't do you any harm."

"Christ, Tom," I say lightly, though the situation bears a great heaviness and significance in my mind, as I've been pondering it so much lately. "I know that. I just... I'm not quite sure how I feel, on my own. And I doubt that she..."

But at this, I have to trail off, for is it not true that I've caught her eye a few times and wondered whether she's begun to feel the same confusion that I have? There's something inside me that is warmed and made joyful by being around her, something the likes of which I've never felt before, in all this complexity—and the thought of her having the same feeling is nothing short of frightening for its newness...

I shake my head to myself and dismiss the line of conversation, which Tom allows me to do, and then we spend the rest of the night speaking about upcoming projects, and when we might get together again—before, ultimately, he has to leave the flat and get in a cab to his own London residence, where he hopes to catch a couple hours of shuteye before making the journey to the airport. But the thoughts he's planted in my mind linger much, much longer, and I wake up with a strange, fizzing feeling of mingling sleeplessness and intrigue next morning.

In the following days some critics release reviews that are not entirely positive, calling my Hamlet "too sane" in the role. Through all of this, however, Holly is my enthusiastic defender, telling me not to be worried by these more negative reviews. "It speaks right to so many people," she says, "because, when you're inside that type of mindset which Hamlet finds itself in, you really do think you're sane... you don't see yourself as totally mad, the way an audience watching your inner turmoil would. I think you've done something revolutionary, bringing an audience into that believed sanity..." An it's when we have these conversations of such depth and emotional understanding, when I begin to think more on what Tom told me that night, and to begin understanding my feelings towards her a little more than before.

In the mornings, before she leaves for her internship and before I go to the theatre to start preparation for nightly performances, we take to going on jogs together. We stick to places where it's not too buys, loving the risk of it all, the intense enjoyment that comes from the slight tang of danger in our actions. Sometimes we play childlike games with one another and I feel years and years younger in my heart, outrunning her in short spurts, taking advantage of my much taller stature, but then being overtaken by her and her steady persistence in the long run. I'm coming to fall in love with the perfectly balanced combination of challenge and ease that comes with being with her.

It's an utter and overwhelming relief that I have at the fact she's not put off by the fact that we have to do some sneaking around when we want to venture outside together. It's elating for me to see her, not put off or overly excited by the fact of my fame. She treats me like a completely normal person, casually, without completely neglecting my passions and the fact of my being well-known—and the feeling is wonderful.

Most nights, I'm extremely exhausted after shows, so tired, that I arrive back to the flat, bid a short goodnight to her, and then collapse into bed. But at other times, I have some precious energy left over from performance, and on those nights we sit together in the main room, where she sometimes goes to write. She's taken to sitting in the big windowsill looking over the alley converted into a garden, and often, when she perches there, I'll find myself looking at her... finding her body so small, and loveable, gentle but undeniably strong. We settle into a simple comfort with each other, talking about our days. She's started to write a novel she's extremely excited about, a totally new idea, she says—and though she can't let me read any of it until she's done (a part of the creative process which I suppose I can understand in my own way), she promises to let me, once she's finished.

On one particular night, which falls between the two extremes of exhaustion and energy, I arrive home, peek into her room to see that she's fallen asleep early, and head into my own room for a shower, thinking about heading to bed myself. But when I get out again, dressed and on my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, I hear, coming from her bedroom door, the low sound of reigned-in tears, and the sound of a professional, authoritative male voice made tinny, coming through a phone speaker. I feel slightly awkward pressing my ear to the door, but worry about what might be going on, and want to make sure that she's safe.

After a moment of listening, I hear the man on the other end stop talking, and the sound of her putting her phone down somewhere and crying lightly, almost with relief. I tap on the door twice with two fingers and she calls "Come in?" through her tears.

I open the door a crack and stick my head in, saying, "Is everything alright?"

At first she shakes her head no, but then she presses her hands to her face and wipes away her tears stiffly, instead nodding yes, and almost managing a slightly melancholy, confused smile. "They, um..." she says after a moment of hesitation, trying to decide whether to be relieved or devastated, and deciding on the first option. "They found my father. He's been detained... they gave him a life sentence."

My hands go to my mouth, fingers steepling against my lips in my surprise at the news, and I want to shed a few tears, myself, but am incapable, my reservoirs already exhausted after the show. Instead I cross the room to her and open my arms, letting her fall against my chest, where she trembles but manages to smile, as we share a victorious embrace.

In the next days alone she becomes infinitely better and more confident than she had been before, and it is with great delight that I watch her become more comfortable in her skin, less fearful when we go outside together, more comfortable even when we are alone, as though her father's being locked away—where he should have been long, long ago—has relived her of a tremendous physical weight, along with the emotional and physical weights that have plagued her for so long. It's a joy to us both to know that, now, she has given herself the permission to begin living her life again, to begin building herself up into who she's always wanted to be, into who she has always been—finally allowing her true self out into the world.

To take an emotional load off, as August comes to its conclusion and the marathon of nightly performances has begun to weigh heavy on my mind, I take to reserving some time for myself physically in the late mornings, after Holly and I return from our jogging, to relieve myself of physical tension as well.

I'm in the heat of it, nearing the final climb to the peak of my physical relief, when Holly taps on my bedroom door. "Ben, somebody's calling you?" she says, and I can hear my phone-which i realize I left out in the main room—ringing through the door.

For a moment, the sound of her voice makes me harder than before, and a wave of heat takes over my face as I realize this, slightly embarrassed. I'm always sent over the edge, but I'm still not quite there, and so I manage, "One second!" in the direction of the door, shielding my current state from my voice as much as possible and succeeding reasonably.

I focus all my attention on banishing my erection before going to the door, not confident in my ability to hide myself from her. Okay, come on, come on... I think, focusing. A freezing lake... Running naked through the street in midwinter... Eight times five is forty... 'Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew, or that the everlasting had not fixed his canon against self-slaughter...' THERE we go.

At last I stumble, relieved, across the floor from my bed and answer the door, smiling apologetically for making Holly wait and taking the phone call just in time, surprised to hear my agent's voice on the other end of the line. He tells me in a few short, efficient sentences that there's been a nigh-disaster with press which he's just averted, and wants to make me aware of. Someone had caught a photograph of myself and Holly jogging together in the park, and had posted it to a popular website with a caption questioning the identity of the "mystery girl," but he had caught it before more than five views could accumulate, and had payed the photographer a large sum of money to have the photo canceled and destroyed. I thank him very deeply and he cautions me to be more careful with whoever the young woman in question is, before we hang up on relieved terms.

I tell Holly what had happened—or, what had almost happened—and she shares in my great relief—but it's with a slight bit of dejectedness that we have to decide together not to go out together anymore unless under the cover of darkness-which will be unlikely given our contradictory schedules. We know, though, that our luck of not being spotted for so long had been bound to be short lived, and we only have a few days left together to begin with...

It's with a mellow feeling of sadness that I accompany her in a cab to the airport on the first day of September. The first day of her semester is on the third back in New York, and her internship had ended a week ago, leaving her a week to herself, which she'd chosen to spend with me. On the road to the airport from the flat we bit each other long goodbyes, not too melancholy, as we know that we will be seeing each other again, as soon as the possibility arises, and we discuss or personal hopes in the upcoming months. The showings of Hamlet will end at the end of October, and I tell her of a few projects I might pursue afterwards. She tells me about a part-time position she's been offered in a publishing house back in New York, in which she can work at the same time as continuing her studies.

Knowing that this visit was the first time she'd ever been outside of the United States, I express a measure of regret at how rigid my schedule had been, leaving so little time to spend with her. I tell her I'd love to have her again, at a time when we are both in a more spacious time in our lives, so that I might be able to show her more around London and around the other, beautiful parts of England in which she's expressed such a strong historical and aesthetic interest. She affirms this plan with great eagerness, and I feel myself smile more largely than I have in a long time, extremely graceful at having been able to be with her throughout this summer—for it seems that there is a part of me that has come directly from our time together, which I would not be the same without—which I would be the worse without.

At the last minute, when the cab is parked at the curb outside the airport, I lean in to give her a final, farewell hug before she gets out with her single suitcase. But, in one last pivotal second that neither of us seem to expect, but which is initiated by us both in equal measure, both our heads turn slightly towards each other, and we share, suddenly, in an unexpected kiss. Simple, soft, plain, but remarkably enticing, her lips soft under my own, small and delicate yet determined in their gentle, probing movements. I can tell that she's never kissed this way before, but the feeling of her caution is enjoyable to me, and I can tell my own mouth is enjoyable to her, too—her little body gives up a slight shudder against me when I pull her ever-so-carefully closer.

And then, at last, I have to let her go after a few sweet, savored moments, lengthened in their importance, but still far too short for our liking.

When I draw away from her I catch an expression of questioning in her eyes, and my first instinct is to swallow in surprise at my actions. "Sorry," I say on instinct, worried at what the look in her eyes might mean. "Was that... was that okay?"

The brush-strokes of heat already on her face deepen by a degree, and I feel an intense warmth spread through my own chest at the memory of the feeling of her lips, her small but supple body...

"Yes," she says in answer to my question, quietly, a smile perched on her precious, small mouth.

And she kisses me cautiously again, on the cheek, before squeezing my hand, saying goodbye and thanking me with only her bright eyes and smile. "I'll let you know when I land," she tells me, and then leaves me to gaze after her as she disappears, dragging her little suitcase behind her, through the automatic glass doors and into the current of people inside the airport.

Author's note:

Aaaah, you guys! I am loving this so, so much, I can't even contain my excitement! It feels so weird being this pumped about my own story—I don't even know, but it must be a good sign! And I am very happy to see that you guys are really liking it, too! Thank you so, so much for your consistency and support!

Just have to say... I REALLY wasn't expecting Tom Hiddleston to show up in this chapter, it just... sort of... happened. I felt like, since Holly has Alex as her devil's advocate, Benedict should have one, as well, if only for the good of the plot. I might actually bring him in as a more major character and do something with him later, but I also might not... I'm still in a great place with this story where I have a general idea of where it is going to go, but there's still a lot of room for change and additions of characters / plot development.

He could be REALLY fun, though...

Hmm.

Let me know how you feel about his possible involvement!

Lots of love,

Une-papillon-de-nuit

27 July, 2020