"Do you remember," Callum said, "how we used to come here when we were little?"
Rory smiled. It made him look sleepy, soft around the edges. When he had still been alive, Callum had liked that best, but now it was just a little too on the nose, a little unsettling; when he smiled like that, he looked like the ghost that he was. "Mm," Rory replied.
Probably he had forgotten. They'd come before the cameras, mostly, and Rory's memory had never been very good. "We used to come here all the time in the summer. We didn't have money, so mostly we threw rocks, though sometimes I'd steal coins off my mother's nightstand." He picked up a pebble, polishing it a little on the front of his shirt.
"You used to wish to get rich and famous," Rory said. He'd drifted over to the edge of the well, bracing his hands and leaning too far forward. It still made Callum's stomach drop when he did it, though at least now Callum could check himself a moment later, remember it wasn't possible for Rory to get any deader than he already was.
"You do remember," said Callum. "Though to be honest, I was just saying that. I always figured I'd get rich and famous anyway."
Rory laughed. "You didn't need the gods to help you with that, huh? What did you wish for then?"
"To make you stay," Callum said.
A chill winter wind picked up, ruffling Callum's hair. Rory said nothing, still staring into the well. The sleepy smile was gone, his features slack, his eyes grown unfocused and far away. Callum waited, like he always did.
When Rory finally turned to look at Callum, his smile was sad.
"Don't say it," Callum whispered. Then, leaning close, he pressed his forehead to Rory's, and closed his eyes. "Merry Christmas, Rory."