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The dusk slinks shut and Wilson wakes to find he is not alone. His hotel room is the same – smells the same, feels the same, looks the same in the bleary half-faded shade of the sun. The bed is the same, except for one small difference: there are two people slumbering in its clothing and one of them is now awake. He is also naked.

 

Oh, what a leap of normality this is! What a bound to be made, from poverty to prosperity, and no remembrance of how it occurred. Some might call it luck; others fate. Wilson is nothing if not a lucky, lucky boy to wake to such presents.

 

Today of all days is the day to give friends presents. Wilson has been given two. Can you deny that he is special?

 

This second present, stripped of its wrapping before most good little boys are even awake, is breathing soft against his shoulder; he can feel the waves of air crash and recede against his skin. Her hair is twisted under and over his neck, dry strands similar to rope rutting against his Adam’s apple with each word he swallows. He longs to say something, anything, but fears what will breach his lips.

 

He is not so good at graciously accepting his presents; he never knows quite what to say.

Sometimes he doesn't say anything. (Sometimes he just walks away.)

 

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She is still asleep. Wilson can tell by the way her ribs curve under his limp, loose wrist: they stretch with each breath she employs and then collapse in on themselves as she sighs as if in a dream. This is a dream, in and of itself; a walking nightmare that terrifies with its peace.

 

Wilson doubts how any can rest in this state – how he keeps himself dreaming. He wants to wake up. But instead she does it for him.

 

She twists beneath him, the hand once of his chest skimming, rising, to whisper along his collarbone. She reaches for his neck, finds her own hair there, and then stretches up, up, up, to touch his chin. Wilson snaps his eyes shut as she turns his face to meet hers and murmurs a pleased sentiment against his mouth.

 

There are so many other things that can come out of a mouth besides words. Truths can be spewed out and only corked again by lies. The best course of action, sometimes, is just to look away (walk away).

 

Wilson keeps his eyes shut as she kisses him again.

 

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Some time later Wilson finds his mouth his own again. He says to her, Good morning. He says to her, I’m happy to see you. He says to her, You might stay with me a while. He doesn’t say please. Wilson says to her a million and two lies that he can think, all riffing off the same impossible cliché.

 

Thieves know better than to beg for their gold; they simply take it. This is something he has learned lately.

 

Be merry and be glad, the tidings of the day sound – like trumpeters announcing with no king in sight. The king has died in the night, collapse without warn, and these trumpeters bring forth his death herald! Arise, ye citizens, and be mirthful for no longer shall you suffer under his terrible reign. These are the sounds of true tidings: no longer shall ye suffer.

 

The falsehood of tidings tastes too bitter to swallow – a white putrid mess of vomit between his teeth.

 

He says to her, Merry Christmas. And that is the boldest lie of all.

 

What’s merry about it when the king didn’t die after all?

 

Wilson grits his teeth, choking back the bile that shouldn’t belong to him, and lets her whisper the same lie against his lips as she kisses him.

 

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Somewhere, some long Christmas past or future, he might have wished Merry Christmas in the same way to House.

 

Long live the king.

 

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