Orion || RWRB fanfic || Henry's POV

Part 15- A Dickensian Street Urchin

Henry can't sleep. He squats down by the window and stares listlessly out at the ink-smudged sky. He tries to focus on the book cradled in his hands, but he's pretty sure he's been reading the same sentence over and over and over for the past hour; thoughts of the episode with Phillip keep on creeping into his mind, no matter how hard Henry tries to shut them out. When he thinks back on it, he feels a small twinge of pride somewhere in his chest- that he stood up to his brother, and it was definitely worth it to see Phillip's face after.

***

Soon after Phillip's litany of insults had slowed, Henry had jumped at the chance to steal away, and had spent the rest of the day eating Cornettos in the little kitchen he shares with Bea, who was rendered almost senseless the whole time by breaking into bouts of giggles at random, until Henry had claimed a headache and sent her away, with only a small tinge of regret.

***

The muffled shuffling and flurries of laughter that had been issuing from Bea's rooms ever since dinner have long faded away, and Henry glances down at his watch and puts his head in his hands. It's 2am. And he's still awake. So he gives up on reading, setting the book down wearily and tugging on a thick jumper over his plaid pyjama bottoms and rumpled shirt. He runs a hand through his tousled hair as he slides silently into the hallway, padding down the shadow-crowded hallway, not wanting to wake Bea by switching on a light.

He's passing through the kitchen, when the light flickers on, blinding him for a moment, and Henry freezes, jerked violently back in time to another kitchen, another person perched on the countertop.

"Bea. You scared me." He blinks, letting out a low, shaky breath as his sister comes into the light, hopping nimbly down from the counter and attempting unsuccessfully to conceal several packets of what looks suspiciously like Henry's own food behind her back. She smiles brightly up at him, attempting to brush past nonchalantly, but he grabs her elbow and snatches the food off her before she can stop him.

"Come on, Hen. I was just hungry." She complains, pouting pathetically. Henry sighs, unmoved by this display. This isn't the first time he's caught Bea in the act of sneaking food out of his fridge like some Dickensian street urchin, and he suspects there have been many times when he hasn't been around to stop her.

Right now, though, he really needs to get out of the palace- get away from his rambling thoughts. So he goes along with her, shoving the packets roughly back at Bea, who smiles happily at him, already munching away.

"Fine, okay. Take it."

"Thanks. I knew you'd see sense eventually." Bea wraps Henry in a tight hug that he returns gently for a moment, before disentangling himself and shouldering past her.

"Wait- where're you going?" Henry groans, pausing halfway to the door and turning to face his sister again.

"Just...somewhere." Bea narrows her eyes at him, and he raises his hands helplessly, then her face relaxes back into a grin.

"Fine."

"Fine?" He echoes suspiciously- surely she wouldn't just let him go like that?

"Fine. I trust you, Hen. Just- be safe, okay?"

"I promise." She gives him one last smile, then he finally makes it through the doorway and slips down the hall, leaving Bea to her late night feast in the kitchen.

The gates of Kensington Palace loom close ahead of him, shrouded in cloaks of shadow, and Henry passes silently through them. Then he's free in the darkened streets of London.

The roads are mostly deserted, with a few cars flashing by, headlights pinpricks in the stifling black of the city. Henry's been here so many times that his feet know the way, and he finally allows himself to dive into the swirling flood of his thoughts crowding his head.

***

He's not quite sure why he lost it at dinner- maybe it was the years of Phillip forcing him back; never letting him be who he wants to be; never letting him do what he wants to do- he's not even allowed to write anymore, though Henry thinks that's a perfectly fine career for a young royal. But still, Phillip forbade it years ago; he himself is Lieutenant Windsor in the RAF now, and between him and Henry's Grandma, Henry is being constantly hounded to follow in his footsteps; to go into the military. A shudder runs up his spine at the idea.

***

Henry's jerked out of his thoughts once again by an insistent tug at the back of his mind telling him that he's here, and he looks up and allows a small smile to curl his lips.

He's been coming to the Victoria and Albert Museum since he was little, but the sense of awe and pride that welled up in him then, when he glanced up and saw it standing there in front of him, has never ebbed. The pale columns seem ghostly and translucent in the night, stark against the satin of the dark sky. The door are shut, but a burly security guard waits patiently outside, and Henry flashes him a quick smile, fishing a wad of money out of one pocket and handing it over, thanking the man quickly and quietly and tugging out a large, burnished key on a ring, which he slots it into the door, wincing as it creaks open, then sneaking inside. The door swings shut behind him with a loud clang.