The ride to the interview is short, but still goes on years too long for Henry. A cloud of attendants hover round him, combing his hair and thrusting notebooks full of talking points in his face. Henry grits his teeth and sets his jaw and bears it stoically, keeping his eyes carefully away from Alex.

When the doors slide open smoothly on well-oiled hinges, a wave of noise and bright colours hits him like a bus; rows of photographers jostling one another for space behind an all-too flimsy barrier, along with a crowd of the usual royal worshippers waving Union Jacks and shouting over each other. Out of the corner of his eyes, Henry spots one young woman clinging onto a sign with a crude message that makes his ears burn, before security wrestles it away from her and into a nearby rubbish bin.

Beside him, Alex smiles lazily, turning on the all-American charm and waving and laughing handsomely to the crowd, who shout even louder, if that were even possible. Henry grimaces deeper, trying on a fixed smile when Shaan frowns at him, touching his earpiece and cocking his head slightly, adding to Alex:

"Prince goes first, then you.'' Alex winks at Henry, donning a pair of sunglasses and bowing extravagantly.

"Go ahead, Your Royal Highness. Your subjects await." Henry clears his throat, wets his mouth, then steps out into the light and the bright flashes of cameras, waving indulgently at the crowd. He feels dizzy and light-headed, unmoored, until a familiar voice curls into his ears.

"Act like you like me!" Alex swaggers up next to Henry, threading an arm around his shoulders. Henry lets out a sharp breath, frowns slightly, then gives with a well-rehearsed laugh that sounds hollow and tinny to his ears.

"There we go."

***

Henry's been on This Morning before, so it doesn't alarm him when a second storm of stylists descends on him in a frenzy. He glances over at Alex, who pointedly turns away- ignoring him, of course. Henry knows he should look away, but his eyes are drawn magnetically to Alex, as the attendants straighten his collar and he scowls as his a brush is run through his curls. He makes an effort and drags his attention back to the notebook of talking points Shaan has shoved into his hand again, but he can't focus on the words, and ends up tugging restlessly at his hair. The stylists tutt disapprovingly at him, but he pretends not to notice.

All too soon, they're being ushered on stage, and Henry perches awkwardly at one end of the comfortable couch opposite the presenters; a cheerful woman in a floral-patterned tea dress called Dottie, and a bespectacled middle-aged man named Stu. Alex follows him onstage, clasping Dottie's hand in his and accepting a kiss on the cheek that sends a fierce jolt through Henry. He's not jealous, is he? He shakes his head at himself, not daring to look as Alex drapes himself over the other end of the couch, perfectly at ease. Henry sits up straighter, tense and fighting the urge to fiddle with the stiff, chafing cuffs of his shirt.

"What do you think of jolly old England, then, Alex?" Dottie smiles, her voice high and piping, and Alex grins back at her.

"You know, Dottie, it's gorgeous. I've been here a few times since my mom got elected, and it's always incredible to see the history here, and the beer selection." The audience laughs and laughs and claps and claps and Henry thinks: he's good at this. "And of course, it's always great to see this guy." Good at lying, too. No one who isn't sitting right next to him when he speaks would notice the tiny frown of discontentment that ghosts across his lips for the split second before he answers. Henry notices, and his heart contracts a little.

Alex extends his fist towards Henry, and for a moment he wonders if he's going to punch him, but Alex quirks an eyebrow at Henry's confused expression and he finally catches on, bumping his own fist against Alex's stiffly, wishing he could just disappear. That would be so much easier than the hour or so of fake laughs and handshakes and staged shared glances that ensues.

***

After the interview, they're bundled immediately into another car, driven a few miles away to the Royal Marsden NHS Foundation Trust. He and Alex unpack bulky boxes of books and pose robotically for photos next to children with cancer. Henry absolutely hates being here; the memory of his Dad brought to the surface again, a gaping, throbbing wound in his chest burst open again. So he tries to focus on the children, climbing into bed next to them or crouching by their sides, reading aloud, introducing them to Alex, who smiles and laughs and puts up with their barrages of questions. The whole event is well photographed, with photographers trailing after them wherever they go, lugging round huge cameras and snapping photos constantly. Inside, Henry seethes with anger- that this is all just a stunt for the papers, that he knows the people organising this don't even care about these children, just about the fame they'll bring them.

One particular little girl catches Henry's eyes; frighteningly pale and skinny with large, soulful eyes and a bright orange headband emblazoned with the Alliance Starbird tied around her head. He breaks away from the huddle of people watching Alex chat to a tiny boy stuck full of tubes, and slips behind her curtain. A sign at the foot of the girl's bed tells him her name is Claudette, and he calls out softly.

"Claudette. Hi." The girl's eyes light up as she sees him, sitting bolt upright in her bed and grinning at him. He kneels down next to her, wincing when he sees how fragile and paper-like her skin looks, as if she's a glass doll that might shatter at any moment.

"Star Wars fan, are you?" He keeps his voice low, conscious of the photographers and publicists ready to hound him just outside the curtain. Claudette dimples, gushing:

"Oh, it's my absolute favourite. I'd like to be Princess Leia when I'm older because she's so tough and smart and strong, and she gets to kiss Han Solo." Her cheeks colour a little, and Henry leans towards her, conspiratorially.

"You know what, I think you've got the right idea." Claudette giggles, and the corner of his mouth curls in a smile.

"Who's your favourite?"

"Hmm, I always liked Luke. He's brave and good, and he's the strongest Jedi of them all. I think Luke is proof that it doesn't matter where you come from or who your family is- you can always be great if you're true to yourself." His ears flare with heat again, and he glances anxiously behind him, worried that he's said too much, revealed something he shouldn't have.

***

"All right, Miss Claudette," Henry jumps, stifling a gasp as a nurse bustles round the curtain, drawing it back with a swish of fabric, revealing Alex, hastily righting a chair and clearing his throat loudly, ignoring Henry again, his cheeks blushed faint red. Was he eavesdropping on me, Henry wonders in astonishment.

"You two can go, it's time for her meds." The nurse gives them a pointed look, and Henry gathers himself. Immediately, Claudette wails her protest, and he gets heavily to his feet, winking at her and feeling his face tug upwards in a smile again.

"No need to apologise. Rebel commanders outrank royalty." He salutes Claudette smartly, merging back into the general rush of people in the hallway and falling into step with Alex, who's blush is fading readily.

"I'm impressed." Alex says, and Henry raises an eyebrow, waiting for the catch. "Not impressed, just surprised." He amends hastily, and Henry gives a small, relieved laugh.

"At what?"

"That you actually have, you know, feelings." For some reason, Henry doesn't mind this obvious jibe, because Alex grins broadly up at him, and his mind dissolves into streams of gibberish.

He has feelings, now. That's a start.

***