A/N: Ok, so obviously this is a very AU world. I don't own anything, y'all should know that. There will be abuse in this story. It's not that graphic right now, but it will probably get worse. If you've read any of my other stuff, you know what I'm talking about. If not, I'll warn you, it will probably get ugly. Yee have been warned!

More Fragile Than You Think

By Lucas and Nathan Scott

Lucas

Everyone has always told me that the easiest place to start is the beginning. That if something's wrong, go back to where it went wrong, and fix it.

Well, that sounds easy enough. But what if the beginning of where everything went wrong was the second you took your first breath?

Kinda hard to fix that, huh?

But I suppose, if I'm going to get this whole story out, I should try and start with what I know of the beginning.

I was born on October sixteenth. My father had just started his college basketball career. My mother, his girlfriend, was sure that Dan –my father –would stick with her when I was born.

She was young. Innocent. Stupid.

He ditched us. Never looked back. Instead, he chose to move on with another woman. And his other son.

My mom never got over it. She started drinking. A lot.

When I was four, she left me locked in my room for the first time. A week alone while she went on a road trip. She left me eight peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and three two-gallon jugs of water that still tasted faintly like rotten milk.

On the seventh day of my mom's disappearance, my uncle Keith –Dan's brother –came looking for my mother. He found me locked in my room, unconscious, severely dehydrated and half-starved.

He told the people at the hospital that I had gotten lost in the woods.

My mother came back five days later.

When I six, she hit me for the first time. A solid back hand that sent me flying into the wall. I was unconscious for twenty minutes. When I came to, she was having sex on the couch with some random guy.

I managed to drag myself to Keith's house. He took me to another doctor. I had a mild concussion. Keith took care of me for two days, then sent me home.

When I was seven, she tied me to a chair for the first time. She left me there for two days. After I'd pissed myself twice, and begged her, cried to her for hours, she left the house.

Keith came and found me. He got me cleaned up, fed me, calmed me down. Then he left too.

When I started middle school, everybody else started talking. I was the freak, the loner, the weirdo. And my dad had abandoned me for my half-brother, who went to the same school.

I'd see him in the hallways. We usually had at least one class together.

I was the quiet, shy kid. I survived day-to-day, and that was it. I didn't have any friends, and I never fought back. I tried to avoid everyone. Just surviving was a full time job with me, and I wasn't about to add more problems to my plate.

Nathan was the complete opposite. On the days he showed up (three out of five days a week), he was angry. Bitter. He would fight anyone who got in his way, and some who didn't. I happened to be his favorite target.

I never fought back. Ever. I always sit there (or lay there, depending on how angry he was), and let him beat the shit out of me.

I couldn't explain why I let him. But I always did.

Nathan

My life sucked from the moment I could pick up a basketball. So around four years old, my life went down the tubes.

My dad was –at one point in his life –an all star basketball player. And he got it in his head that I should be too. I hated the game. I wanted to do things that other four years olds did, not focus my life on a game that I didn't even enjoy.

But my dad made me play. Every day. And every time I missed a shot, or when I could have done something better, he'd beat me until I couldn't walk. Then an hour later, I'd have to do it again. And that was my life. Eventually I started school, but the only thing that changed was now he came to my practices, and my games, and the beatings would be worse. Sometimes I'd be unconscious for hours… Once, for three days.

My mom worked out of town a lot; when she was home, she hid out in the spare bedroom. She never asked about the bruises, or the blood. She drank. Frequently. She ignored me. Frequently. She slept around. Frequently.

Only once did she take me to the hospital. And that was only because I was bleeding all over her bed. I had crawled into her bedroom after my dad had beaten me with a baseball bat, another sport I was expected to be excellent at. I was unconscious, blood pouring from my head, nose, and lips, and lying on her bed when she got home. I guess she felt that taking me to the hospital was ok, since the only other option was me making a mess, and being inconvenient.

When I started middle school, my dad's dirty little secret came out. I had an older brother. A bastard brother, one my father had had right before he hooked up with my mom.

I was already acting out long before middle school. Stealing, fighting, skipping… Having the embarrassment of a bastard brother –especially one as weird, and pathetic as Lucas Scott –only added to my constant frustration, and anger. And Lucas took the brunt of it.

I fought so much that no one thought it was odd for me to be bruised and broken. I beat on Lucas so much that no one thought it was weird for him to be bruised and broken.

But I did. I knew it was weird. I knew that while yeah, I was beating on him a lot, I wasn't hitting him that hard. He usually ducked, curled up into a ball, and then I would mainly just beat on him for show. I knew that he was getting bruises from someone other than me. And based on my own personal experience, I knew chances were good the bruises were from home.

So one day I decided to confront him about it.

Lucas

Eighth grade. My last year as a middle schooler. Beginning of second semester classes. First day back after a week vacation.

I was pretty sore. My mom had tied me to a chair and locked me in my room for three days, then beat on me with a broom handle. Things had only went downhill after that.

So when I seen Nathan coming, I tried to turn down another hall. But he was a hell of a lot faster than I was right then, and he grabbed me.

"You, me, bathrooms, now," He hissed in my ear.

I shrugged hopelessly, and followed him down the hall, and into the boys bathroom.

"Can't beat me up in front of your friends anymore?" I asked, honestly curious. He always seemed to wait for an audience most days; it was weird for him to want to be alone.

"What's goin' on with you?"

I stared at him quizzically. "Uh… I'm here, you're gonna kick my ass?"

He rolled his eyes, and hopped up onto the counter. "That's not what I meant, dumb ass."

I leaned against the stalls. "Ok, I'm confused as to what you are asking then."

"I know those bruises aren't all from me. Granted, they could be if I really wanted them to be, but they aren't. So the thought comes to mind… where do they come from if not from me?"

My face switched to it's typical dead-pan look. "I fall down a lot."

Nathan scoffed. "Yeah, and someday you'll whoop my ass at basketball too. Try again."

For one of the first times in my life, I found myself getting angry. "It's none of your damn business," I spat, heading towards the door.

He was up, and in front of the door in the blink of an eye. "Wrong answer. Try again," He said, his voice deadly sounding.

"Fuck you! It's none of your damn business! You stole my life, you beat the shit outta me, and know you wanna act like a concerned brother?! Bullshit!" I swore, trying to push my way past him.

Big mistake.

The second I put my hands on him, he punched me. In the gut. The exact same spot my mother had set the iron on the previous day.

I fell like a pile of bricks. Instantly.

Nathan

I watched, angry at Lucas, and angry at myself as I watched him curl into a ball, clutching at his abdomen.

It had been an automatic reaction. I hadn't even thought about it.

I sighed, and leaned down to help him up.

"Don't touch me!" He hissed, pushing himself backwards with his feet.

"Look, I'm tryin' to help y-"

"I don't need your help," He said quietly, arms clutched around his middle.

I leaned down, and -fighting him the whole way -pulled his shirt up to see how bad the damage was.

Looking back now, I almost wish I had left him alone.

A huge ass burn covered most of his torso. It looked like...

"Shit... was that from a clothes iron?" I asked, just... staring at it.

I could see tears in the corners of his eyes as he pulled his shirt back down. "Yeah. Now you know, you can go tell everyone, and I'll be the pussy who lets his own mother beat on him. Go ahead. Kick my ass. Do it!" He yelled, pulling himself up, and screaming in my face. His hands were clenched into fists.

I just stared at him, before shaking my head, and walking out.

I guess our lives weren't really that different.