So one day I was watching Lady and the Tramp (I'm five years old) and this fic crossed my mind because hey, why not. And here you are with a silly AU where Disney meets Doctor Who. You're welcome.
Christmas was by far his least favourite time of the year. The presents, the tree, the constant impression that one had to be happy because it was a very particular time, all this made him want to throw up. The general prettiness of this all felt so fake, so utterly hypocrite... Unfortunately, his father did not share this point of view, especially not these days. Since he had married that woman, a tall, slender thing with razor-sharp nails and too much make-up on, he spent all of December cooing and simpering about stars and candles and all the ravishing things that made Christmas. He had also started to drink, which could be related to this unending comedy. There was actually one good point to Christmas : his father's drinking was more happy than violent.
Nonetheless, he had that unfathomable feeling that this very particular Christmas would be much more of a torture for him than all the previous ones. There were clues, but he was not too sure yet what they meant. His father, who was already not very talkative, had completely stopped addressing him his stepmother spent everyday humming with a demonic smile on her face, her hand laying on her stomach, and he was strongly encouraged to spend everyday locked in his room. He hated that. Of course, that gave him plenty of time to study however, he could not say he was particularly enthralled by the idea of being stuck at home. His neighbours were worried about him, he knew that, he saw them passing before his house once or twice a day for a few days before they gave up. Usually, he spent his afternoons with them, taking tea and discussing philosophy and politics, which was slightly boring but not as much as staying here, locked between four walls, with no distraction except his books.
At least, his father did not hit him as much as usual. He turned that thought over and over again in his head, until it became so full of rage and despair that it lost all its comfort.
When did it all go to waste ? Surely it had started even before his stepmother entered the game. She was a disgustingly superficial creature but not clever enough to be mean, or so he thought. When he was a child, his father was never the loving type but at least, they seemed to get along as well as possible. Sometimes, he would go to bed and ask his father for a story, without fearing a punch or the belt. Though he was much too old to listen to stories, it felt dreadful to think that daring to ask such a thing would now result in a proper beating.
He could not remember exactly when his father started drowning in alcohol or when he took his belt for the first time. Somehow, he did not want to remember. At least, the holidays would soon be over and he would be able to go back to school, which would give him whole weeks of peace. He did not have many friends but none of them would dare to lay a hand on him : he was not asking for more.
Sighing, Koschei Oakdown opened his book for the hundredth time and buried himself in his studies.