Danny sits down on the soft, luxurious sofa, pouring himself a generous glass of wine as he turns off the radio's obnoxiously cheerful Christmas music.

Alex pours two perfectly measured glasses from a bottle of wine that probably cost the same as Danny's rent. He walks from the tiny kitchen to the sitting room where Danny is sitting under a blanket, smiling at him as if he was the most glorious sight in the world. Bach's Christmas Cantatas play from the radio.

Danny was alone that year by choice. Sara and Pavel have made it clear that he was more than welcome to come and see them, that the new flatmate was visiting relatives so he could even sleep in his own bed. He knows Sara was disappointed when he turned them down, but he wants to get drunk alone this year.

Alex reaches his hand forward, unsure as to whether it is an acceptable motion, and gently brushes Danny's hair to one side. He lets his hand fall once the action is complete; there is no other motive to the initiation of contact. It is an oddly intimate action. Danny smiles lovingly, taking a sip of the expensive wine and nodding appreciatively at the taste.

Danny looks around at the house that still doesn't feel like his. Alex has never been here. None of his memories of this house are with Alex. He wishes he could imagine Alex here, wishes he could fabricate a memory. Wishes he could see anything other than empty space.

Alex raises his glass as the numbers on the clock turn into a row of zeros. "Merry Christmas, Danny."

Danny looks at the clock. 00:01. Christmas morning. He raises his glass to the vacant seat on the other end of the sofa. "Merry Christmas, Alex."