After almost a full day of posing for photographers and watching Phillip preen like a spoilt peacock until he wants nothing more to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off his stupid face with Henry's own fist, he creeps along the corridor to his bedroom, trailing a soft finger along the oak-panelled walls.

"Hen!" He jumps as Bea barrels into him from behind, wrapping her arms around him in something more like a rugby tackle than a hug, already beginning to drag him away from the safety and much-needed comfort of his bed.

"Have you forgotten? Dinner's now. Come on!" Henry sighs. He hasn't forgotten. He's just been hoping that Bea would forget about it amidst the chaos of the Christmas preparations. But she's obviously remembered.

So much for a peaceful evening.

When they enter the dining room, Phillip and the rest are already seated. Henry feels a twinge of guilt at making his sister late, at putting her in the firing-line of Phillip's insults. So he attempts to divert attention from her, placing himself subtly in front of her as they cross to their seats, next to each other, thankfully. With Bea to exchange knowing, long-suffering glances with the whole time, maybe this dinner won't be a total loss, after all.

At Henry's side, Bea starts to strike up a conversation with Phillip- seated opposite her- both of them guarded, words careful, skirting round any talk of Henry; of their Mam; of their whole family, really.

Abruptly, Henry notices an absence, a strange, not entirely unwelcome gap at the long dining table.

"Where's Gran?" Their grandma usually made an effort to attend the family Christmas dinner- always made an effort to be extra critical, extra cruel to Henry. Before his grandma, he felt stripped to the bone. His innards spilled out- displayed for the whole world to see.

So he isn't sorry when Phillip replies, after a brief, tense pause, his words clipped.

"She couldn't make it."

"Ah." Henry nods. He understands the words left unsaid between them: she didn't want to make it. Because of you. Because of Henry. He can't bring himself to be even the tiniest bit sorry about it.

***

Henry makes it through the rest of the meal without having to speak; he suspects this is mostly on Bea, who's suddenly developed a deep interest in internal relations- something that Phillip is more than happy to give her several mind-numbingly boring lectures on. At one point, Henry thinks he spots Bea's eyes flickering shut, her head resting heavily on her hand before Phillip's monologue jerks her awake again moments later.

Henry slinks back up to his room, Bea trailing after him- her festive spirit has dimmed slightly with the dinner, but she's still beaming and belting out Christmas songs at random. At the door to his room, he pauses, unsure whether to send her away or put up with her presence for the rest of the night, but Bea shoulders past him and sprawls herself on the bed covers. Henry sighs; he loves his sister, he really does, but sometimes, on days like these- when the harsh, icy frost of reality bites at him, tries to take him over every time he lets his guard down- on days like these, he just needs to be alone. He craves solitude, silence, comfort. And Bea is none of those things. Not just now.

But Henry doesn't have the heart to send her away- not when she spies Pez's discarded Christmas jumper slung over the back of a chair, and Good King Wenceslas crackles out of it, the music sluggish, battery run down from a day of almost constant use. Between Bea and Pez, Henry now has a spectacular headache.

He doesn't complain.

As Bea hums along to the tune, grinning her wicked grin at him, he doesn't tell her to stop; tell her about the pounding pressure building behind his eyes. As she runs off to fetch her guitar from the music room and plucks away at another carol Henry doesn't know, he doesn't still her hand, cut off the music and tell her he just wants to sleep.

He listens in silence.