***

Pez is with him when it happens.

The first time Henry wakes up, his eyes are jolted open at an unspeakable time of morning by the insistent buzzing of a drunk Alex's late-night, whiskey-induced ravings. He doesn't mind, though. Henry never minds, when it comes to Alex. He swears the First Son could call him at the arse-crack of dawn, from the other side of the world, and Henry would move heaven, Earth and anything else in between to reach his side. And if he were too late- if something, anything at all, happened to Alex...

Henry doesn't even want to think about what he'd do, then.

So, because it's ridiculously early in the morning to be drinking- like Alex apparently is- Henry tears open another packet of Jaffa Cakes, and his fingers fumble through the darkness, fitting against the keys of his laptop as he starts to type. For an infinite stretch of time, the sound of the keyboard clacking away echoes comfortingly in the otherwise silent room; as Henry drafts, deletes, and rewrites a thousand different thoughts. They come flooding out of him; bleeding out from his aching fingertips and his straining eyes and spinning mind.

In Henry's brain, he pictures them both: Alex, his sun. His light, his joy, his love. And if Alex is that star, then Henry is his planet. Orbiting him endlessly; drawn in by his gravitational pull; helpless to escape.

And that's the thing.

Usually, Henry hates things he can't control.

But with Alex... he just lets himself be lost. Swept away in a tide of emotions and kisses and confessions and secrets and-

And then he wakes up. For the second time.

Neck cramped from where it's been resting at his desk; laptop screen dark before him; eyes bleary and bloodshot.

"Good morning, sunshine!"

"Agh!" Henry jumps up at the voice; knocking into the edge of his desk and cursing loudly- then stumbling over towards the direction of the sound; fists waving wildly.

"Hey- if you wanna fight me, let me change outfits first. I'll have you know this suit costs more than your yearly Jaffa Cake bill!"

"Pez?" Disorientated, Henry freezes beside the bed; rubbing sleep from his eyes and peering up through his fingers as his friend.

"Who else in the world is this gorgeous?"

"Ugh," Henry groans in reply; flopping backwards onto the bed covers. From the warm embrace of the duvet, he mutters; voice muffled by layers of fabric: "What do you want?"

The bed creaks; a dip opening up in the mattress as Pez faceplants onto it beside Henry. From the corner of his eye, he watches sceptically as Pez starts doing snow angels on the linen.

Silence.

Eventually, Pez pauses his strangely hypnotic movements, and says:

"Star Wars?" Henry flips over; eyes flicking shut against the sudden, too-bright light. Yawning widely, he considers his options: 1) make small talk with Pez until he gives up and leaves Henry alone to sleep more, or 2) watch Star Wars in silence. Like they always do when he gets like this: when insomnia strikes, when the world has Henry's insides in turmoil.

And that seems to happen an awful lot.

In the end, Pez sprawls himself out on Henry's bed- and kicks Henry out, forcing him to resume his position at his desk; knees tucked up to his chest, head drooping into his hands, eyes barely open.

They get through Return Of The Jedi, and then Henry fishes around online and finds the 2005 version of Pride & Prejudice- so they watch that as well. Pez strikes up a fuss about it, and complains that he wants to watch something 'more modern,' but he doesn't really have a choice; he surrenders readily, when Henry threatens to throw Jaffa Cake crumbs at his blinding aquamarine suit.

"You, sir, are a monster and a menace to well-dressed society-" Pez grumbles, as the screen lights up and the film begins.

Halfway through, Henry slides back the curtain behind his desk, and watery light pours in.

"Ah- my beautiful eyes!" Pez yells deafeningly from the bed, and he lets the fabric flop back into position; deciding he doesn't even want to know what the time is.

Later, Darcy is monologuing a dramatic confession scene in the rain, when the alert comes through.

Henry's phone buzzes insistently at him from his bedside table, and he pauses the film; stumbling over to it in the dark.

"Hey! I was watching that!" Pez tosses a pillow in his direction. Ducking, Henry continues his blind scrabble for his phone, as he mutters back:

"You're the one who protested against watching it, hypocrite- ah, there it is." Henry sinks down beside a window; back against the icy frame, facing the misty palace grounds. He takes one bite of leftover Jaffa Cake, and- and spits it straight out again.

"Alex." The name soars from his mouth like an arrow; headed straight for Henry's heart.

"Oh my god oh my god- I- I'm such a- fuck- I-"

His phone, along with the news article, sails across the room and hits the floor hard. Glass shatters in his ears, but Henry doesn't hear it. He's on his feet- then back on the ground- then beating the window with his fists until they start to bleed- and Pez is grabbing his hands and talking to him but it's like there are balls of cotton stuffed in his ears and this can't be happening- it just can't- and none of it feels real but also everything is way too loud and way to bright and his thoughts are drowning him and he can't breathe and-

He's out the door.

Legs carrying him at a frantic pace; Pez following after him, slower. Somehow, he dodges past all the PPOs and security, and then he's out on the freezing London streets in nothing but his pyjamas. Wind whips his bed hair into mad spikes, there's nothing on his feet, and he's shivering to the bone- but Henry keeps on running. Running from the eyes of the press; the public's judging, disapproving voices; his family- but most of all, he's running from himself.

But the problem is: you can't run from your demons, when they live inside of you.

It's broad daylight now, and the doors of the V & A are crammed full of tourists. Shoving through the rising, staticky panic of bodies and voices and noise- so much fucking noise- with his hands clamped down over his ears, Henry's feet hit icy marble floors.

Once more, they carry him down a familiar route, and soon he's curled up behind a statue of Aphrodite; tears seeping slowly out of his eyes and soaking his pyjamas until the salt dries on his skin. His nails dig into skin until Henry's palms are a tapestry of fresh, crimson scratches. The blood mingles with his tears, and turns his whole mouth to metal.

He stays there for so long, he forgets how to feel.

And that's how they find him.

Later, it all comes back to him in bits and pieces; fragments, shards of razor-edged memory.

A flock of stern-faced PPOs scooping him up and dragging him into a blackout car.

Pez and Bea's twin faces: white with shock.

Phillip's furious lecture.

The crack of a slap across the face.

The blossoming pain of a split lip.

The taste of blood in his mouth.

His broken phone.

His scarred palms.

The numbness of it all- but at the same time, the flood of emotions; too bright, too loud, too many.

Henry is buried under a mountain of raised voices and harsh words and blank meetings and blood and tears and blood and tears and blood and tears again.

Then the sun is crashing down through the sky and everything descends into darkness and Henry knows that it's night but he can't sleep- how can he, with everything happening right now?

He thinks that at some point, he tries to run away- and then there's a murky recollection of reaching the palace gates before he's hauled back inside again. This time, his bedroom door is locked.

At some point, he hears Bea's desperate voice pleading with the PPO stationed outside his door to let her in- but Henry calls through the door to tell her not to bother; to just leave him. And eventually, she goes away. Pez tries, as well; with exactly the same results.

Through it all, Henry burns to call Alex; just to hear his voice, just to make sure he's okay- because, after all, wasn't it just this morning that Henry swore he would tear the fabric of the universe apart to see Alex, if he had to?

But the Queen has banned it. And even if she hadn't, his stupid phone is in pieces on the other side of his room. He still hasn't cleaned up the glass. He can't. Henry doesn't think he'll ever even move again.

So he stays; rocking back and forth by the window; blood running down his wrists, tears running down his cheeks, whispering one word over and over and over:

"Alex."

Everything after that is darkness, and shadows.

***

"Henry! Are you in there?" Shaan's voice filters in through the door.

"Hello?" He whispers- voice hoarse and croaky from crying- as he lifts his head from where he's been listlessly watching a flock of birds circle the palace gardens out the window.

There's the click of a lock opening, and then Shaan's there, in his room, and a phone is being shoved into his hands, and-

"Hello?"

And it's Alex.

Alex.

His Alex.

"Sweetheart," Henry exhales slowly; shakily. "Hi, love. Are you okay?"

Then he hears Alex laughing softly over the line, and everything melts away.

They talk, and with every word slipping from between both their lips; meeting somewhere in the air between Alex's plane and London, Henry feels all the shattered, broken parts of him slowly knitting themselves back together again.

When the call disconnects, and he wordlessly hands the phone back to Shaan, Henry glances around- and spots two people hovering awkwardly by the door. Slowly, unsteadily, he gets to his feet.

And then Bea is running towards him and her arms are thrown around him and he's pulling her close and breathing in her warm, familiar scent. Her eyelashes are damp against his pyjama top, and leave wet blotches that he doesn't care about. And then there's Pez; clad in the very same aquamarine suit- now crumpled and covered in dirt stains. For once, his hair is a mess.

"You ruined your suit for me," Henry mumbles, dazedly.

"Of course I did. I would ruin my pink-sequin jacket for you, Hen." And then he makes a noise that sounds like a depressed, halfhearted chicken squawk, and they hug as well.

Faintly, Henry notices Shaan leave the room first. And then Pez heads off- to mail his suit to the dry-cleaners as soon as possible, apparently.

"I- I should get changed. Have a shower," Henry tells Bea- and then she's gone as well.

In the bathroom, he strips off his salt-encrusted pyjamas, and the crash of scorching water all around him rinses the tears from his skin; the now drying blood from his hands. Henry dresses again in a casual shirt and trousers, sticks ewok-patterned plasters over his cut palms, and heads down to the music room to find Bea again.

Sure enough, she's there; plucking away blankly at Annie's Song on the guitar. She jumps up when he enters, and tugs him into a bone-crushing hug again.

When Bea finally releases him, Henry goes straight to the cabinet in the corner, and withdraws a bottle of brandy and a single glass.

"Cheers," He sighs; sinking down onto the sofa.

Several drained glasses later, there's a firm knock on the door. Instantly, Bea is up and ready; guitar brandished over her shoulder like a weapon.

"I told you to stay away-" She shouts- but then the door is opening, and behind it-

Alex.

At last.

Some stupid remark flies out of Henry's mouth, and then Alex is crossing the room and Henry is closing the distance between them, and then-

They meet in the middle of the room.

Henry's arms are around Alex's neck.

Alex's breath is hot against his skin.

And all Henry's stars align.