Christian thumbed the remote control morosely, squashing himself into the poor comfort of the sofa cushions. It had been eight minutes since Syed had left. Or so the Sky box said. It felt decidedly longer, and he was pretty sure the clock was broken – or was lying in order to make him feel as pathetic as possible. The flash of the screen reflecting back on him, he flicked despondently from one thing to the next, rejecting 24 news – 'Life is shit, deal with it' – and a romantic comedy – 'Shut up' – miserably.

He threw the control behind him sullenly, the ache emanating from his insides doing little to shift his sulk. He told himself that it was the grease, those lamb sausages turning out to be as unnatural as he suspected and joining with the egg nog to start a war against his stomach lining. He couldn't quite ignore the voice that told him he knew full well that the ache was coming from another organ somewhat higher up, and the cause was something more important than breakfast.

Pulling his legs to scrunch them up to his chest, Christian fidgeted as he felt something long and hard press into his backside. 'Oh it's you again' he vexed, squinting his eyes suspiciously. Pulling the remote out from the cushions with enough force to make the channel involuntarily change, he looked up to the sound of sleigh bells.

'I wanted to show Syed this film', he moped regretfully.

Christian was aware Syed was a Muslim, not a Martian, and that even with a Grinch like Zainab as a mother, he'd probably seen it and a bunch of others before, but he had wanted to show him it anyway. Reading the film listings in the Radio Times last week, he had made a plan to be incredibly annoying and point out Santa in every scene, saying "that's Santa" and doing the same for reindeers, trees, and anything covered in glitter. He had thought by the time he'd got to "and we call that a Christmas present", Syed would have pinned him to the sofa, one hand over his mouth, the other starting to beat him. He had hoped so anyway.

'It's nowhere near as good without Syed. Nothing is,' he thought glumly.

A few minutes in of Richard Attenborough talking through a magnificent beard, Christian was sure Syed would have really liked this. He thought of how Syed would have argued that they should be watching the black and white version, and how he'd have kissed him mercilessly, telling him Christmas was no time for pretension. 'He'd tell me he thought I'd feel more at home with the original 'cos I probably watched it as a child', he smiled forlornly.

Spotting a classic 90s quiff on the screen, he threw lame insults at the characters, hoping it would make him feel better.

"Your hair looks ridiculous man."

It didn't. It only made things worse. 'Sy's hair is heavenly,' he half sobbed.

"No six year old talks like that."

Even insulting a little girl wasn't helping. 'You are such an arsehole', he moaned, shaking his head. Christian comforted himself with the fact that said little girl was probably twenty five by now, and being fictional, couldn't hear him. It didn't do much about Syed though. He was twenty five too, but though thankfully very real, tragically did hear him. 'I should call him' he thought, remorsefully. The thing was, Christian couldn't remember what he'd said and wasn't actually sure what he'd done. In fact, the more he thought about it, he was pretty sure Syed had been the one yelling and storming out when he was the one practically dying on the bed.

Poking his mobile down the sofa arm with the sulking shove of his index finger, Christian threw himself into the cushions in protest. 'I didn't even do anything', he grumbled.

Delving morosely into the comfort of self-pity and cushioning, he jumped as piercing noise broke the air, the whirring of the fire alarm penetrating the flat.

Startled, he flipped his head to see the source of the racket, turning with panic to see smoke billowing from the oven, the beginnings of black cloud filling the room.

"Shit!"

Rudely awoken foot collapsing onto rudely awoken foot, Christian clambered from the sofa to the kitchen in a few ungainly panicked leaps.

The shrill sound ringing his already pounding head, in haste, he grabbed for the cooker door.

"Fuck shit ow!"

Leaping back at the painful singe, he shook his burnt fingers in a frantic bid to soothe them, dancing manically on the spot.

Spotting the oven mits on the counter through the haze of the smoke, he made a grab for them, lurching to the oven and clanging the guilty tray up and out.

Christian coughed, surveying the mess.

Smoke clearing, his thumping heart calmed, his clouded mind re-finding its way to basic thought.

Sensing an unfamiliar softness and the hints of red fur out the corner of his sight, slowly, he looked down at his hands, his eyes squinting.

'Why do we have Santa shaped oven gloves?' he bemused, his brain tracing last night to gauge the likelihood of having made a drunken siege on a grotto.

The warning in his gut suggesting part of him knew it was best not to look, cautiously, he leant to peak at the worktop. His chest sank. There, lying in the smoke filled tray, sat the remnants of little pastry parcels, the blackened bits of lovingly made, dead mince pies. Resting casually against the bread bin was a note, the hand written scrawl tugging at Christian's heart.

A seasonal hangover cure for the man passed out on the bed. Love S x p.s. You're drooling but I still would – even without a vow.

'You are an arsehole,' he groaned.

Bringing his hand up to drag it along his shame ridden face, he felt Santa's nose brush his own. "Oh for crap's sake…" he exhaled, pulling them off with force.

He stood there, smoke filtering away, the enthusiastic alarm still sounding out. Christian couldn't help but think, through the dull ache of his heart, the alarm wasn't so much screeching "Fire! Fire! Fire!" as "Twat! Twat! Twat!" He considered for a second getting a custom made one, a clanger to sound whenever his boyfriend skills needed it. It would probably be too subtle. Apparently, he was pretty dense…and the problem went far beyond his sense of smell. As if the past few weeks seeing Syed's family re-ignoring him, and his need for the comfort of family ritual and intimate loving touch wouldn't have some correlation. 'Twat', he chastised.

'What did you think? You were just too good to resist or he's turned on my festive meat?'

Frustrated, Christian sighed.

Staring sorrowfully at the corpses of seasonal treats and the chipper grins of novelty kitchen accessories, he shook his head at himself, and ran to get dressed.