"Hey. You okay?" Henry glances sharply up from the book he's reading, propped up in bed, fully clothed but still half-asleep, to see Bea perched at the foot of it, peering down at him. Henry drops the fistful of hair he's been tugging at for the past hour, setting the book down and sighing deeply, mouth quirking downwards at the corner.

"Yeah. You figured out what you're gonna wear yet?" Bea nods and stretches out languidly on the duvet, yawning.

"Course I have. Phillip's only been nagging me about it for the past year- how could I forget?"

"Right." Tomorrow is his brother's wedding; a whole day of watching Phillip strut up and down, preening; a day of putting on the hollow Prince Charming mask, of forcing back his anxiety, of shaking hands and smiling blandly, of pretending to laugh at people's jokes and acting the perfectly bland, blank canvas prince role that everyone expects him to play.

He takes a sharp intake of breath, feeling the next come shallowly. Bea gazes down at him with concern flitting in her eyes.

"It's gonna be fine, Hen."

"I know. I know it will be. I just- he's going to be there, isn't he?"

"Who, the First Son? You know he will." Oh God. Alex, First Son of the US, his sworn enemy. Henry doesn't know why, but every time Alex sees him, he scowls and frowns and hates Henry profusely. It stings more than a little, because Alex is...well Alex is absolutely gorgeous. A mental image pops up unbidden in his head; Alex, his wild, chestnut curls, all bronze, Texan skin and lips that look impossibly soft, the way his lilting American accent curls around the end of every word. His ears flare fiery red, and Bea pointedly glances away from him, picking absently at her nails.

"You sure you're alright?"

"Really, I'm fine." Henry forces a too-bright smile onto his face, wincing slightly and feeling a wave of nausea rolling over him. He falls back onto the pillows, burying his face in the pages of his book- he's re-reading Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Henry's press team has been hounding him about picking a publicly acceptable favourite author- he suggested George Eliot, but no, that was really Mary Ann Evans under a pen name. The press team wanted a strong male author, and in the end they chose Dickens, though anyone who knows him will realise the fruity truth; that his favourite author is in fact Jane Austen. He finds her writing comforting, and re-reading her books like visiting an age-old friend.

"Well...I'll leave you to mope around for the rest of the day, then."

"You do that." Henry flips onto his stomach, bleary eyes not focusing on the page, his thoughts whirring at a million miles an hour. There's a soft click as Bea pads out the room, pressing the door shut behind her, and Henry lets loose the low growl building in the back of his throat, tangling his feet in the bed covers, grabbing at his hair again and again, breaths coming shallow and fast- too fast. He squeezes his eyes shut, conjures up an image behind his eyelids- Alex, smiling at him at the Rio Olympics years ago; Alex laughing at something his sister said; Alex, Alex, always and only Alex. His breaths calm, even out, and he presses a hand to his chest, feeling it rise and fall slowly, comfortingly.

It's just one day. One single day. He can do this. Right?

***