Are you coming home for Christmas?

Mattie's stomach, which already twisted uncomfortably at the sight of a new text message from Arthur, continues sinking, urging him to double over and fill the vacuum it left behind. He shuts off the screen and tosses the phone onto his bed, then picks it up again and powers it off all the way. His roommate glances briefly up at him, then returns to the economics textbook he's been reading for the past hour.

"'r dad?" The question comes out slurred around the pencil jammed in the left corner of Carlos' mouth.

"Yeah," Mattie sighs, combing his fingers forcefully through his hair. "He wants to know if I'm coming home."

Carlos grunts, removes the pen from his mouth, jots something in the margin of his book, and then shoves the pen deep into the dreadlocks piled into a bun on the back of his head.

"Are you?"

Another, more aggravated sigh. "I don't know."

Carlos hmphs and nods sympathetically, but only mutters something about compound interest and turns the page.

"It's not like I don't want to go home," Mattie continues somewhat plaintively. "Well. I don't want to stay here, anyway. It's just..." he struggles to find the right phrase, "We haven't really done Christmas the past few years."

Another nod from Carlos, but there's less understanding this time. Mattie sighs.

Last Christmas had been like a game of passive-aggressive chicken to see who could go the longest without doing anything about the holiday, with Mattie painfully aware of the impending date, but too afraid to upset Arthur by mentioning it in case he was ignoring it on purpose. Then on December 24th, Arthur looked up from the book he was reading and frowned.

"Tomorrow's Christmas," he said with apparent surprise.

Mattie attempted a noncommittal yet pleasant noise that he hoped didn't betray the surge of hot anger that flashed upward from his stomach, making his jaw clench and his ears ring. In another moment it had passed, but he brought it back again, unwilling to let go of the way Arthur's absentmindedness grated on his own excruciating sensitivity.

They ended up ordering Chinese and buying chocolate bars from the gas station. Arthur lit a fire and they sat on the floor and watched World War II documentaries.

Mattie's heart still aches for how not-bad it was.

The thought of missing a follow-up text is slightly harder to bear than the thought of reading one, and Mattie turns his phone back on. It buzzes as the screen flares to life.

You can bring a friend if you want.

Mattie looks up from his phone at Carlos, who is now staring blankly at a graph and chewing on his pencil. He can hear the sound of soft wood crunching from across the room. There's a picture of Carlos grinning in the middle of an enormous, multigenerational family photo hanging on the wall.

Mattie looks back down at his phone and starts a new text.

. . .

On Christmas Eve, Arthur dumps an untouched pan of hot chocolate down the sink, shoves a perfectly spiraled ham to the back of the fridge, unplugs the Christmas tree lights, swallows two sleeping pills, and collapses into bed with a hollow feeling in his stomach that's only partially because he didn't eat any of the dinner he spent all day preparing. He's asleep by seven o'clock.

. . .

He wakes up to stiff joints and the smell of coffee. He's so focused on getting out of bed without tweaking anything that it takes him a moment or two to realize the strangeness of the second thing. He doesn't even stop to address the appalling state of his hair before venturing downstairs with his dressing gown hanging loosely over figgy pudding printed boxers.

There's a blond tree in his kitchen, sipping coffee out of a chipped mug that Arthur has been meaning to throw away. He blinks groggily, not yet awake enough to be surprised.

"Hello, Matthew," he says, and reaches for the kettle. Things will make more sense with a cup of tea.

"Hi," comes a voice from behind him.

Arthur turns to see Mattie in the kitchen entrance, then turns back much more quickly to the figure lounging against the counter in front of him.

Alfred smirks. "God, Arthur, can you please tie your robe?"

Arthur leans weakly against the stove and puts the kettle back down.

Some surprises are too much, even for tea.