The Greatest Showman #1159 - Line of Warning

The December night sky in Surrey was overcast and profound. Starlight barely pierced through the thick clouds, leaving the sky muted—neither grand nor brilliant. The full moon, veiled by layers of cloud, tried to assert itself but couldn't quite dispel the thick blanket of darkness that enveloped the world. The night seemed to stretch endlessly, quiet and heavy, as though the world itself was holding its breath.

In the rural suburbs, it was already past nine o'clock, and the air had grown still, with only the faintest traces of life lingering. A single bar remained open, its warm golden light seeping through the windows, casting a gentle glow on the otherwise peaceful surroundings. Even the insects, usually so vocal at night, had fallen silent.

Renly and Rooney sat side by side beneath the night sky, two empty seats between them—a respectful, if distant, space that neither seemed eager to close. The familiarity they once shared had faded into a quiet formality. There was no awkwardness between them, but there was a noticeable distance, both physical and emotional, that seemed to linger.

But this distance didn't surface in their conversation.

"God, I think we might be the only people in the world who'd choose this night to stargaze," Rooney remarked with a playful tone, then looked up at the sky with renewed focus. "Even so, can you spot the constellations?"

Renly chuckled softly. "Sorry, I'm not Cyclops, nor Professor X. I'm afraid I can't be of much help."

Rooney froze for a moment, caught off guard by his dry humor. She turned to him, her eyes wide with disbelief, then exaggeratedly rubbed her arms as if to shake off the goosebumps that had appeared.

Renly, however, remained as calm and composed as ever. Rooney rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips as she turned her gaze back to the sky. "Who knows? Maybe the skies in Scotland are clearer. That would make for the perfect stargazing spot."

The two of them fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. The stars above twinkled brightly, each one distinct against the vast navy blue expanse. But both knew there was so much more hidden behind the clouds—countless stars waiting to be revealed.

"Did you find it?" Rooney suddenly asked, breaking the silence. Renly raised an eyebrow, confused by her abrupt question. She turned to him with a smile. "When the next light disappears, I'm curious—have you found it yet?"

For a moment, Renly was taken aback. He had heard those words before, once, after the Oscars earlier in the year when he and Rooney had met beneath the stars. That night had marked the beginning of the Heather-Cross Foundation's journey, and the phrase "another light" had become its anthem. It was a lyric that carried the weight of their shared commitment.

He hadn't expected her to remember.

Looking into her eyes, Renly saw sincerity and warmth, an openness that made the memories flood back. He met her gaze without hesitation, feeling a strange sense of connection. Her pupils flickered for just a moment, and Renly couldn't help but smile.

"Yes," he replied softly. "I found it. In fact, I've found a lot."

The Heather-Cross Foundation had made significant strides, its work visible to all. Some might argue that initiatives like the "Ice Bucket Challenge" were just fleeting fads, that once the buzz wore off, people would forget about ALS, about Heather Cross, the young girl who had ignited it all. But for Renly, it had never been about the fleeting fame or the media spotlight.

After the buzz faded, when no one was looking, the Foundation would still be there—he would still be there—keeping the light burning, keeping the memory alive.

That light, once so small, was now something far greater.

"Heather Cross," Rooney said softly, "she's not just a fading light. She's something far more significant now."

Renly's smile faltered for a moment, but then he nodded, his expression softening. "Now, we're waiting for that light to shine even brighter. There are already so many stars in the sky, but maybe it's time to look elsewhere."

Charity, he knew, was about more than just being seen. It was about real, meaningful change, even if that change went unnoticed by the rest of the world.

Rooney nodded thoughtfully. "Like 'American Idol,' right?"

Renly chuckled, his face lighting up with a knowing smile. "Exactly, like 'American Idol.'"

She tilted her head, curiosity in her eyes. "So, what was Heather like? Not the symbol, not the face on the posters, but the girl behind it all? The girl who dreamed of being on stage?"

Renly paused, his gaze lingering on Rooney as he tried to put into words the feelings that had built up over the years. He had never truly spoken about Heather—not to the press, not to his friends, not even to those closest to him. Jennifer Lawrence, the one person who knew Heather, had never asked him to open up about it. There was always a sense of protection, a need to shield Heather's memory from the invasive nature of the media.

But there was also another reason—a selfish one. In Heather, Renly had found a connection to a past life, a life he didn't want to leave behind. Talking about her was like exposing a wound, one that he wasn't ready to open.

But now, with Rooney's gentle inquiry, he felt something shift.

He hadn't planned to open up, but the memories began to flow anyway.

"She was stubborn," Renly said, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "She always wanted to sing 'The Beast,' even though I kept telling her it wasn't the right fit for her. But she was determined. She believed that song was hers."

Rooney looked intrigued. "Really? Why? Was it the lyrics?"

Renly's eyes softened as he recalled Heather's words. "Yes. There was one line that always resonated with her. I think it was the line about fighting for something greater, even when you know you might lose. It was her anthem, even if no one else understood it."

Rooney listened intently, her expression thoughtful. As Renly spoke, the vivid images of Heather and the children she had inspired came alive in his mind. He had waited for this moment—waiting for the memories to no longer feel like an open wound, but part of his life.

Rooney didn't interrupt, her presence a quiet support. She leaned in slightly, caught up in the story. She could see it now—the Renly who wasn't the polished, public figure, but the one who radiated warmth and life. A Renly who cared deeply, not for the spotlight, but for those who mattered most.

"Rooney?" Renly's voice broke through her thoughts, his expression amused. "I think my topic might have been too boring. You look like you're distracted. Perhaps I should show some gentlemanly manners and stop talking?"

Rooney laughed softly, shaking her head. She had been caught up in the depth of Renly's words, the quiet vulnerability that was so rare for him. She didn't know how to explain the way it made her feel, but she didn't need to.

Instead, she hummed softly, her voice filling the space between them:

"Don't, don't punish me for what I feel; don't, don't punish me for the torment of my soul."

Time seemed to freeze in that moment, and the world around them faded away. All that was left was the sound of her voice, a simple melody, yet one that spoke of shared understanding, of a connection that neither of them could fully express in words.