Mordred fucking hates December.

He hates pine trees. He hates candy canes. He hates how cheerful he's supposed to be. He hates every single blow-up santa decoration, every single cheerful song about Christmas spirit, every single nativity scene, every single person who tells him to have a happy holiday, and most of all he hates winter break, which removes the only excuse he has not to go back to the place that is not home.

So when person number one hundred and thirty-seven asks him what he'll be doing for Christmas, in a booming voice that sounds like it's auditioning for a Coke commercial Santa Claus, he looks up from his laptop exactly long enough to say, "I'll be making a toy volcano out of vinegar and bleach. Hear the reaction's really something."

Mordred fucking hates December.

He hates pine trees. He hates candy canes. He hates how cheerful he's supposed to be. He hates every single blow-up santa decoration, every single cheerful song about Christmas spirit, every single nativity scene, every single person who tells him to have a happy holiday, and most of all he hates winter break, which removes the only excuse he has not to go back to the place that is not home.

So when person number one hundred and thirty-seven asks him what he'll be doing for Christmas, in a booming voice that sounds like it's auditioning for a Coke commercial Santa Claus, he looks up from his laptop exactly long enough to say, "I'll be making a toy volcano out of vinegar and bleach. Hear the reaction's really something."