*ahem*

IMPORTANT NOTE!

This story contains a lot of stuff that could upset some audiences. I'll be posting specific warnings for each chapter in the beginning author's note, if applicable. The only warning for this chapter is severe child abuse, but the story as a whole will include even more severe child abuse, mental/verbal abuse as well as physical, panic attacks, swearing, anxiety, homophobia (internalized and otherwise), neglect, starvation, self-hatred, borderline torture, implied and referenced rape... yeah, it's not a very lighthearted story.

Other than the abuse, which is mentioned a lot, none of these should stop you from being able to read this story if they trigger you, but please use your own discretion as well. If any of the above upset you to a large enough degree that you don't feel comfortable reading about them at all, this story might not be for you. I won't mind if you just close the tab. Stay safe, gals, guys, and otherwise. :)

With all that out of the way...

Prologue

Alexander Hamilton was no stranger to being hated.

Hatred seemed to be the common thread between just about everyone he'd met since arriving in America, actually. At the very least, it was a constant in his foster families. People of every color and creed had tried to give him a home; some who just wanted money, some who wanted the good publicity, and some who legitimately wanted to make the world a better place. And, regardless of their motives or how hard they tried to be accepting, they all ended up hating him within the first few weeks of knowing him.

Not for no reason, mind you. Besides having strong opinions on just about everything ― which was dangerous enough on its own ― he also lacked any sort of verbal filter. It was an unfortunate mix that often equated to him loudly voicing his political views at every possible opportunity. And, even when he wasn't giving long-winded rants about the moral shortcomings of today's society, he could never seem to shut up. So, needless to say, hatred of Hamilton wasn't exclusive to just foster parents and the occasional schoolyard bully. The various forms of animosity tended to extend far beyond the walls of his latest placement.

Alexander Hamilton was also no stranger to people expressing their hatred for him in a rather violent manner. You didn't get tossed between foster homes like a hot potato without getting a bit singed, after all. And, to tell the truth, he was more than just "singed". It certainly didn't help that something about him ― maybe his big mouth, maybe his brutal honesty, or maybe just the fact that he was irritating and insufferable in general ― tended to make even normal, well-meaning families snap within a week or two of meeting him.

He didn't blame most of them. It wasn't like every placement he'd ever visited had ended up beating him. Even some of the ones who did beat him weren't so much "abusive" as "unable to put up with his constant bullshit". But, then again, it didn't need to be every placement, did it? All it took was one bad arrangement to turn a kid paranoid, and Hamilton had been in far more than one bad arrangement.

This wasn't the worst home he'd ever been in. He reminded himself that often. It wasn't so bad; it just seemed that way because this was the longest he'd managed to stay in one place since he was a kid. Six months; almost seven. He'd been counting, like some people counted how long they'd been in a relationship, except he was only counting because it helped him remember that he'd already survived this long. He recited the numbers under his breath at night, reminding himself that he'd pushed through for half a year; he could make it another hour. Another day. Another week.

(Just a year and a half until he was eighteen. Just a year and a half between him and freedom.)

On top of that, he'd been with Pace for six months, so he was more than used to the man's incessant temper tantrums. Like most foster kids, he was accustomed to adapting to new environments quickly, and it had only taken him maybe a few weeks to get into groove at the Pace household. Pace himself was a very simple man; one-sided and easy to comprehend. Everything about him, from the words he spat to the beatings he doled out, was exactly as expected; absolutely nothing new.

Pace was bad, yes, but nothing Hamilton couldn't handle. In a way, he was even comforting in his predictability: nothing ever came out of left field with Pace. He got mad; he beat you. His actions didn't get much more complicated than that.

So, when he shuffled through the front door into his current home, slouched under the crushing weight of his backpack, he almost expected the fist that careened out of nowhere, catching him solidly in the gut.

The blow was neither especially strong nor especially surprising. Nevertheless, Hamilton grunted, stumbling back. His shoulder rammed into the door, which swung back open all-too-easily, and, maybe it was a little weird, but his first thought was 'He usually isn't this sloppy. Doesn't he know someone could see?'

But, naturally, no one saw, even when he landed heavily on the porch with a loud thud, skidding a few feet as the cheap paint peeled off underneath him, old wood groaning under his meager weight. On instinct, he tried to squirm onto his feet, but no dice; his backpack weighed him down, keeping him sprawled out on the ground like a turtle flipped on its back.

Alex tried very hard not to feel helpless. It was very hard.

Without warning, a foot pressed against his shoulder, and he was half-kicked, half-swept back into the house like a deflated soccer ball. Or a particularly vexing speck of dust on an otherwise immaculate floor. The door slammed shut, and he felt his chest tighten when it locked with an audible click. By the time he coaxed his heart out of his throat, a boot was pressing into his abdomen, slotted in between his jutting hipbones: making sure he didn't try to get up, he realized.

And, damn both him and his big mouth to an eternity of torment, but the first thing he said was "I just got here. What could I have possibly done?"

He regretted his words immediately, as he usually did. The noise that came out of his foster father's throat was a straight-up snarl. There was no other way to describe it. Taking his foot off of Alex's stomach, he grabbed two fistfuls of the boy's tee-shirt, jerked him free of his backpack straps, and lifted him into the air without much difficulty. "You think you're smart, Hamilton?" he growled, shaking Alex harshly. "You think you're clever? Huh? Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Following the instructions yelled at him during a punishment only ever managed to make things worse, but, against his better judgement, Alex complied anyway, lifting his chin from where it rested against his chest and locking eyes with his attacker.

William Pace was hardly a sight to behold. His slicked-back hair always looked greasy, his cruel eyes seemed to pop halfway out of their sockets, and his facial features were screwed up tight and surrounded by deep creases, as if he was constantly swallowing a lemon that just wouldn't go down. Still, he was tall and broad, and it was really hard not to be intimidated by the way his lip curled back to bare his crooked white teeth.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" In just a few quick strides, Pace dragged him across the room and slammed him into the wall; he hissed in pain, but, predictably, was ignored. "Did you think I'd just let this slide, Hamilton?" Almost too easily, his arms were jerked sharply above his head, both wrists pinned firmly to the wall with one of Pace's huge hands, and he winced. That was definitely going to bruise. "You think you could get away with disrespecting me?"

Pace leaned closer without breaking Alex's gaze. His breath smelled strongly of toothpaste.

"You think I'm 'big and stupid, like an animal'?"

Alexander could feel his entire body go rigid at the familiar phrase, eyes widening. As if that didn't give him away enough, his breath then hitched audibly, practically signing a written confession and handing it to Pace on a silver platter.

"Pace, as always, has size on his side," he had scribbled down one night, his body covered with a dense coat of bruises and his pen itching to tear his foster father a new one, "but, big though he may be, he's also brainless and bullheaded; not unlike a large, untamed animal or similarly unintelligent creature."

Correctly interpreting his silence as an admission of guilt, Pace glowered, his entire face crinkling up like a plastic bag. With a low growl, he tightened his grip and tugged Alex's arms up higher, forcing him to roll forward onto the balls of his feet, his body stretched and his shoulders straining. Automatically, he tucked his chin against his collarbone to protect his exposed throat, but Pace's free hand quickly tangled in his hair, yanking his head back.

Alex crushed a pained yelp between his teeth, screwing his eyes shut and locking his jaw. "You think you can write whatever the hell you want about me in that stupid little book of yours, Hamilton?" Pace's breath was hot against his face, entirely too close to his throat for comfort. "Is that what you think, son?"

'Shit,' Alexander breathed. 'He read my journal. How did he find it?'

'No,' Alex sobbed, 'please, I didn't mean it; don't hurt me, please―'

"Don't call me son," Hamilton said through gritted teeth.

Pace's movements were clearly telegraphed, as always, and Alex was able to brace himself before the fist landed in his stomach. Doubling over anyway, he wheezed out the air left in his lungs, then quickly sucked it back in, anticipating another blow. He wasn't disappointed. "God," Pace hissed as he once again heaved back and unleashed a vicious punch into Alex's gaunt frame, "why did I ever agree to take you in?"

This time, he aimed for the ribs, and Hamilton gasped, both legs seizing. "You never shut your mouth!" Pace grunted, his knee ramming into the boy's side. "You think you're better than everyone!" Another solid blow to the torso; Alexander choked on a yelp, too busy wheezing for breath to complete the sound. "You're disrespectful. Downright insubordinate!" This time, it was a backhand; hard enough to hurt, but not enough to bruise. Alex's head snapped to the side, bouncing roughly off the smooth drywall.

His head fell limp, lolling forward, but thick fingers wrapped around his chin before it could hit his chest. Pace pressed closer, wedging Alex against the wall with his knee, as if there was any chance of the nearly emaciated boy breaking free. "You'd be better off dead," he hissed into Alexander's ear, furious and cruel. "All you do is―"

Alex didn't bother listening to the rest. Pace's next words were predictable. All you do is make everyone's lives harder. All you do is sit around and make people miserable. All you do is leech off of everyone around you because you're too pathetic to take care of yourself.

Pace's favorite hobby was probably hurling punches, but hurling accusations was a close second, and Alex had learned not to take what he said to heart. Besides, it was nothing he hadn't heard plenty of times at previous placements. (Nothing he hadn't told himself in the dead of night, palms pressed over his eyes, knees held tight to his chest.)

Without warning, his arms were released, collapsing at his sides. Before he had time to be relieved, fingers were curling around his neck, pinning him back up against the wall. Alex grimaced, instinctively reaching up as if to pry them off, but it was no use, and he knew it. He was smaller, weaker, and, at the moment, much more battered. Pace had the upper hand in every sense of the word.

Pace's voice was in his ear, breath tingling against the back of his neck, and he felt his skin crawl. "Would you like to be dead, boy?" he asked quietly; almost serenely. His hold on Alex's neck tightened, just short of obstructing his airway but certainly enough to hurt. "Would you like it if I just squeezed your throat until you fell asleep and never woke up? Huh? Would you like that, boy?"

Damn him. Damn him and his big, stupid mouth.

Damn him, but he looked Pace dead in the eyes and spit out, "At least then I wouldn't waste any more energy trying to force logic into your miniscule brain."

The consequences were swifter than he'd expected, and much more brutal. Without another word, Pace pulled back, holding Alex's entire body up by the neck only. Just as rapidly, a knee rammed into his diaphragm hard enough to make the entire wall quiver behind him, and then all the breath was whooshing out of his lungs and he couldn't get any air back in.

After a brief spasm of his legs, his entire body went slack, dangling uselessly from the fist clenched around his neck. That was when the blows started raining down. Pace's free hand launched a furious assault on his chest and ribs, while his abdomen became intimately familiar with the tread of Pace's boots.

"Yeah, that's right." Once again, the voice was uncomfortably close to his ear. "Just take it." Alex winced, mouth stuttering open, trying and failing to suck in a breath. "Just take it, boy. Just lie down and take it."

His teeth clenched, but he didn't bother justifying that by thrashing or squirming. That was what the asshole wanted. Alex knew it, and he refused to give him the satisfaction.

Still, it was hard to ignore when the blows just wouldn't stop coming. 'What the hell?' Alex hissed inwardly as a jab glanced off of his jaw, making his whole head snap back. 'First he bruises my arms, then my neck, and now my face? It's only Thursday. He knows I have school tomorrow!'

But another blow landed heavily in his stomach, making him gag, and the realization struck him even harder than Pace's fists, curling sharp and tight around Alex's throat and strangling the last bit of air from his lungs.

'It doesn't matter.' The thought was leaden and almost numb, but cold terror twisted in the depths of his stomach. 'He could put out cigarettes on my face if he wanted to. No one would even consider him a suspect.'

Alexander had been dubbed "the delinquent" a long time ago. He'd first received the title soon after the Le ― his worst family, who he wasn't thinking about. Ever since then, no one had trusted him. But this was the longest he'd been in a placement since then ― just over half a year ― and, by now, he wasn't just "the delinquent". He was Alexander Hamilton, the kid who got into fights after school more often than not. Alexander Hamilton, the kid who had scars covering his entire body from years ago; scars that were spoken of only in hushed voices by those who'd seen him changing during gym class. Alexander Hamilton, the kid who'd been targeted by the school's resident "gang" last June; the kid who had left that encounter with nothing more than a scrape on his cheek while his opponents spent the first month of summer vacation in the hospital.

Of course, he was never the one who started those fights after school. He hadn't been the one to give himself those scars all over his body. He hadn't been the one who cornered the gang after the last day of school with brass knuckles and two-by-fours. And he hadn't laid a finger on those gang kids ― he'd just put those fancy words of his to good use. It was relatively easy to get them to argue with each other, and then he'd just watched in morbid curiosity as it devolved into a free-for-all fistfight.

But the school didn't know that, and the school didn't care. All the school cared about was the fact that, in their eyes, he was someone ruthless enough, reckless enough, and strong enough to take out a pack of gangster wannabes with barely a scratch on him.

They wouldn't care if he came to school with his damn arm chopped off, he realized, nausea curling in the pit of his stomach. All they could see was that little scar on his cheek.

Apparently, Pace had finally picked up on that.

His entire body went limp against his will, all the fight draining out of him as if a switch had been flipped. 'Perfect,' he snapped at himself. 'Once again, you've managed to make a situation worse by thinking too hard about it.' But the vice grip around his neck tightened suddenly, and he could feel himself tense again, survival instinct overriding the dread of his realization. 'Don't fight,' he had to remind himself as taunting laughter slammed into his ringing eardrums. 'Stay strong. You have your will. Don't let him take that from you.'

It was like his mother had taught him all those years ago; the advice she'd offered with tears in her eyes, clearly praying to God that he would never need it. Don't fight. Don't scream. Don't struggle. Don't let them know that you're scared. As soon as you do that, you've lost your biggest weapon.

But, damn it all, Pace was way too close, and there was burning, too-clean breath in his nose as Pace whispered mutinously into his ear. "Just give up and admit that you're too weak to save yourself―" 'Don't fight back, don't fight back―' "Yeah, that's it, boy; just take it―" 'Let him take out his anger; let him wear himself out, and then make your getaway―' "Give in and take it like the coward you are―" 'Don't get kicked out; don't risk another placement; a worse placement―'

A huge, sickly grin spread across Pace's pinched face.

"I suppose it's to be expected from the son of a whore," he taunted. "Tell me, how many men per night did your mother spread her legs fo―?"

It happened so fast.

Red overtook his vision, and he was only vaguely aware of his knuckles hitting flesh. A powerful hook to something sharp and angular that might have been a jaw, or maybe a nose. A flurry of jabs that connected with something flatter; more solid ― a chest, probably. A torso. Pace released him and stumbled back; he didn't even register the cold, cutting air that finally rushed into his lungs. He heard, rather than felt, his sneakers hit the ground. There was a gasp ― that was him; he was in pain, apparently, although he couldn't tell you why. He probably could have collapsed right there, but adrenaline was already thrumming in his throat, leaping through his chest―

―and then he was on top of another person, raining down blows one after another; his tiny, beaten body keeping Pace's much larger one easily pinned to the floor. Fists slammed against his chest in retaliation, but he barely even noticed, still on the offense, still half-aware of his surroundings.

Finally, he was thrown off, Pace's hands locking into his hair and heaving, and he felt himself roll ― but, just as quickly, he was back on his feet, already lowering into a stance he'd been taught by Ms. Muller ― body low, fists in front of face; poised, ready to defend; ready to attack ― and now Pace was staggering upright, one leg underneath him to help him rise ― the words were still fresh in his mind ― son of a whore; how many men per night ― and he didn't even think about it before attacking; shoving Pace back to unsteady him, letting his legs scramble futilely for traction, then closing in for the kill; aiming for the knee ― bending it backwards with a powerful kick and watching Pace collapse like a felled tree, howling, clutching his leg―

Alexander was left staring down at his foster father of six months, his chest heaving with each breath, his hands pulsing in pain. Numbly, he popped one knuckle back into socket. The all-consuming ache was catching up to him, now, as he once again became aware of the countless bruises littering his body, but it was so much milder than it should have been―

And what had ever happened to ― ?

Pace.

The man was now curled into a ball, pulling at his hair ― no doubt to distract himself from the agony radiating from his entire beaten body. Chiefly, his leg, which couldn't be called anything but mangled. Definitely broken, if nothing else. Definitely warranting a trip to the hospital, if not the ER. Definitely the work of another human, if not flat-up foul play.

Clearly the work of a certain delinquent foster kid, who happened to look pretty beat up himself.

Alexander swallowed thickly. The saliva crawled down his throat.

"...Shit."

Y'know, the prologue doesn't have a title, but, if it did, it'd probably be something along the lines of "Oops, Why Did I Do That".

Fun fact of the day: my main reason for writing this is pretty much just that I read almost literally every single foster care AU on this site and AO3, and still wasn't sATISFIED, I WILL NEVER B , so I wrote my own. Oops.

(And, yes, this fanfic will eventually be Alex/Laurens/Laf/Herc, because Poly Rev Set is endgame.)