The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 14

Xavier

It's amazing how quickly time moves when you don't want it to. Janice ships off tomorrow, which gives me one more day with her. One lousy day, and I have no idea how to spend it. Nothing seems worthy of taking up our last 24 hours together.

The week has waned away in the blink of an eye, and December 1st looms over us, a fast-approaching dark cloud.

Janice sleeps in my bed every night, and the thought of it without her is almost too much to bear. It'll be hard enough just being away from her—add to that the strong probability of her death in a losing war and you have a misery sundae.

I sigh, watching the early morning light stream in through my windows to let me know there's no chance I'll fall back asleep. I've been up all night, drifting in and out of sleep. Mostly out.

Janice is dead asleep, her eyes closed and breathing steady. I stare at her for a long time, drinking in her features. Her split-dyed hair is matted and she's sans makeup, but she looks unbelievably beautiful. I sound cliché, but I can't bring myself to care, because she's here next to me, so close it feels surreal.

The comfort she brings should be enough to lull me to sleep, but I can't close my eyes without thinking of what she's about to go through. I don't see inky black beneath my eyelids; I see Janice, wounded or dead or dying. I see her go through every injury imaginable, every outcome, every awful scenario. In my head, I see her suffer the absolute worst, and it's way too much for me to handle. I can't escape the thought of vibrant, funny, gorgeous Janice becoming a mangled corpse, one of millions of nameless casualties, a statistic in someone's report. It's a morbid, cynical concept, but it's gotten harder and harder to escape, and at this point all I can do is look at her and try to remember her like this.

It's not until much later that she wakes up.

"Hey," she sighs, stretching her arms.

"Hey." I sit up.

"Jesus, did you get any sleep last night?" she asks.

"What?"

"You look like a zombie." She laughs and combs her fingers through my hair.

"Oh," I mumble. "Yeah, probably. I was up most of the night." My eyes sting and my head hurts, and I can tell it'll be a bad day if my mood doesn't improve.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I reply automatically. "I was just thinking. About tomorrow."

She sighs. "You know I'm gonna be fine, right? You don't have to worry so much."

"I'm sorry, are you reassuring me right now?"

"Well, you're the one who needs it."

"You're the one going to war tomorrow," I remind her. "You're honestly not terrified?"

She falters. "Honesty, I've been trying not to think about it. You know, it's hard to stay optimistic when you're thinking about..." She trails off and seems to search for a word, probably to replace death. "That," she finally concludes.

I have to admire her optimism. She's trying not to feel sorry for herself while I'm staying up all night doing it for her. But I should have guessed she'd be this way. Janice isn't one to wallow in self-pity.

"Look, Janice," I start, "I don't—you know, I don't want you to feel like you have to be brave or strong or anything. I just want you to know you can talk to me, okay? If you're scared or you're worried, I wanna be there for you. You don't have to keep it all in."

Her expression softens, and for a second I think I've upset her, but she wraps me in a hug and I realize she's the good kind of emotional.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. "Honestly... I'm scared shitless. If I think about it for too long, I feel like I'll vomit. But you help."