Shaan's piercing gaze slices clean through Henry.

Clean through the newly washed facade; the perfectly ironed suit- dark blue, the matching tie patterned with a honeycomb of gilt crowns, which Henry thinks is a bit on the nose- hair combed flat to his scalp, uncomfortably pinned in place with spray just the way he hates it.

Clean through to the bone- to the whirling storm of regrets barely concealed under the table, where his thumbs aimlessly refresh and refresh his messages.

Hoping for a sign- something, anything.

He wonders blankly, listlessly, if across the ocean, Alex is doing the same thing.

Too scared to send the first message, too pathetic to turn off his phone, he sits up straighter in his chair and stews; half of his attention on the table full of PAs and publicists and family all watching him as the other half watches the screen.

Nothing.

Days of waiting, and it's always the same.

He'd been sad at first- devastated; tear stained pillows and icy bathroom tiles and rotting away to skin and salt and bones.

Then angry.

And now... now, Henry's just tired.

God, he's so tired.

"Henry." Shaan's voice is firm, commanding. Slowly, he raises his eyes and makes contact. "Turn it off."

The whole room swivels round to watch the two of them. Henry has no idea how Shaan knows, but, not daring to look away, his fingers fumble to the side and press down. The screen flickers to black.

A long exhale is flushed free from his chest, and Henry sags, all the tension flooding out of him.

"Thank you." Now Shaan's tone merges seamlessly into sympathy. "Now," He cranes around to address the room, "There's the matter of the dinner."

And Henry's heart-

Stops.

"It's compulsory-"

"Part of the deal-"

"You'll fly private of course-"

"Black suit or gold or-"

"Good image-"

"The press-"

"It'll only be a few days-"

"Disappointment-"

"Fix your mess-"

"Best friends-"

"Show your friendship-"

"Friends-"

"You're best friends."

The voices slam into him in a wall of static, and he slams hands over his ears in answer- blocking it, blocking them all out.

How could he have forgotten?

How could he have forgotten that while his mistake seeps into his reality, blocking out the light, the rest of the world spins on- oblivious.

To the press, to his family, to the people, nothing had changed at all.

The show must go on for them. Even if Henry's left behind.

How could he have forgotten?

How could he-

How could-

How?

"Stop it." The words stumble clumsily out of his mouth, only half formed. "Just- just make it stop!" Louder, now. "I just wanted- I just- stop it, stop it all, make it all go-"

Hands plant down on his shoulders, and then Shaan is tugging him out of the chair and ushering Henry out the door, phone still clutched in a white-knuckled fist.

"It's okay," He says- over and over and over, "It's okay, Henry. It's going to be okay."

Outside, he sags down against a hideous beige-painted wall, and opposite him, his equerry takes up a similar post- only straight-backed, running a careful hand through his newly trimmed beard.

"How could I have forgotten?" Henry whispers hoarsely to himself, as he descends further down the plaster to rest against the floor. He hugs his knees to his chest and waits.

"So," Shaan starts shortly, beginning to pace smooth circles up and down the short corridor; his strides even and fluid in a way Henry's always tried to mimic- and always failed, "When are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"I'm not," Henry admits, staring down guiltily at his feet.

"Right. I see." There's a beat of awkward silence. Then-

"It's just a dinner." Shaan searches his face again, but Henry just nods once, resolutely, still not looking up from the tips of his polished shoes.

"Just a dinner," He echoes, and then his equerry leaves.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable stillness, eavesdropping half heartedly on the ongoing meeting and sprinting circles in his mind, Henry leaves too.

***

The next morning, thoughts unspooling amidst a rush of water, standing naked in his bathroom, he realises he's not entirely sure about how he feels.

Terrified, of course- terrified of Alex, of how he'll react; what he'll say or do or feel. If Henry's lucky, he'll make it quick. If not...he'll be boiling over with unspoken words and never ending horniness for the rest of his life.

Either way, he's a dead man walking.

But part of Henry still dares to hope- to get excited and flutter with butterflies instead of writhing anxiety.

Alex's lips on his again, his hips caught between Henry's thighs, his breath hot in his ear; head thrown back, eyes blown wide, hair tangled and damp with sweat.

Icy water hammers down on his back, but Henry barely feels its sting for the warmth thrumming in his core. Raising one eyebrow, he glances down at his naked self, glistening with droplets, as he shuts the shower off and leans back heavily against the wall.

Fucking hell.

What is Alex doing to him?

God save the Queen and all that, but Henry has his own motherfucker to worship now.

"Honey, I'm home!" From somewhere beyond the bathroom, a door slams dramatically, and Pez's singsong voice fills his head.

Sighing wearily, Henry towels himself off- careful to avoid all thoughts of Alex now- and tugs on faded jeans and a rainbow striped shirt that reads move bitches, I'm gay.

"Aw, you're wearing your birthday present!" Pez coos, clapping excitedly, the moment Henry sets foot in his bedroom.

"Phillip tried to burn it."

"And you saved it! How sweet of you." He's enveloped in a suffocating hug that reeks vaguely of alcohol, and traces circles on Pez's back awkwardly, before choking out:

"Actually, it was Bea."

"On your request, I'm sure."

"I told her to let it burn."

That stumps Pez for a moment. He finally releases Henry, crosses to the curtains and flings them aside as he yells-

"Flames of love!" Light streaks into the room, and they both blink, disorientated.

"Pez," Henry asks slowly, a sinking feeling pooling in his chest as he collapses into a chair, drained by his embarrassing experience in the bathroom, "What time is it?"

"Erm...nine?"

"Oh. Dear God." Henry dumps his soaking towel on the floor and races over to the closet, chucking clothes into a large suitcase at random.

"H- what- what the-" Pez catches at his arm and holds Henry still with all his strength. "Hen, what's up?"

"I've got a flight in..." Trailing off, he breaks free of the grip on his arm and seizes his phone and charger, shoving them into a smaller bag then feebly jumping on the case to zip it shut.

"You seriously need to chill," Pez remarks helpfully.

"No I don't- I need to pack for this goddamn dinner!"

"I heard alcoholism is in fashion nowadays."

"Not. Helping," Henry grunts from the doorway, where he's wheeling the monstrous, overflowing bag out into the hall.

***

An hour later, he reclines back in the aeroplane seat. The window is up beside him, like always, and Henry tilts his head against the glass to gaze out.

Clouds skitter by below; scraps of green and brown and ochre fields peeking through at intervals.

Digging around in his pocket, he grabs his phone and opens up his messages.

Refresh.

Refresh.

Nothing.

Again.

Reluctantly, Henry closes down the app and opens his camera- snapping a photo.

He's never been much good at social media, but he's reminded now of Alex in his kitchen, glasses adorably crooked, telling him to not overthink it. To just do what he does and not betray himself after.

He takes a deep breath, holds it, then exhales in a rush.

His thumb hovers for a moment- then descends.

A gentle whoosh filters through his headphones as the picture is uploaded.

It's a casual shot- only revealing half of his face; faintly ruffled hair against the crisp airline leather; heather grey hoodie pulled up to his chin; one hand raised in an awkward thumbs up.

It's not great, but it's something.

Henry only glances at it once before switching his phone off, ignoring the inevitable flood of likes and comments and notifications he knows will be waiting for him when he lands.

Then it's eyes out the window again.

Head spinning in space.

Heart 7 hours away-

In America.