Chapter Text
"And here's the final, and most important room in the grand Hamilton house tour!" Phillip opened the door to his room and led a simpering Theodosia inside. He followed her in and unceremoniously flopped down on the bed, turning onto his back and making a grand gesture. He heard Theo giggle, genuine and sweet, and had to take a minute to tell himself that no, he was absolutely not in love with that sound. And yet, he found he quite wanted to hear it again. So he did what he always did around Theodosia: he simply spoke, and hoped he wasn't too much of a flop.
"And this, my dear Miss Burr, is where the magic happens. Any questions?" He winced even as the words came out of his mouth. You don't fucking tell someone 'This is where the magic happens', and then ask if they want details! his brain screamed at whichever part of him was pushing out the words. In his internal self-reprimand, he didn't notice Theo's smirk- a clear sign that she really wouldn't mind a few details. She nudged him over on the bed and dropped down next to him, the bedsprings bouncing under the sudden weight. Dark brown eyes wandered up to hazel and lingered for a few moments, before darting away again. The two of them drifted into a comfortable silence, content to just be near each other for the time being.
Finally, Theodosia spoke. "Well, I have a few questions," she began in a teasingly ginger tone, betrayed by the smirk that was still sitting firmly on her lips. "But, really, it's nothing I can't figure out on my own." She heard Phillip's quiet, but still sharp, inhale at the implications of her words. She continued, edging closer to him on the bed as she spoke, "Mind you, I wouldn't mind an answer key." They were close enough now that if Phillip moved his head to sharply, he'd be sure to collide with her own forehead. Luckily, though, it appeared he wasn't thinking of doing any such thing- at least, if the way he was now staring at Theodosia's lips was anything to go by. Theo sucked in a little gasp as Phillip's hand came to her hip, thumb running just beneath the hem of her shirt and rubbing soothing circles on her waist. Just as she leaned up to close the gap, the bedroom door opened with a bang. In its place stood a triumphant looking Angelica Hamilton. The two of them stared at Phillip's younger sister for a moment, dumbfounded, before leaping away from each other as though they'd been shocked.
"I hate to be a cockblock guys, I really do." Angie waggled her eyebrows and nodded to each of them. She dragged out her next syllable, bouncing back on her heels. "But, I'm afraid Theo's dad just called. He wants you home soon. Like, twenty minutes soon." Theo nodded somewhat awkwardly, nodding at Angie and pointedly avoiding Phillip's gaze.
"'Course. Don't suppose you'd drive me, would you?" Before she'd even finished, Angie was jingling a set of car keys in front of herself. With one final eyebrow-waggle at the pair, she turned briskly and walked out of the room. Theo shot Phillip an apologetic look before following after Angie. She backtracked into the room after a few seconds, her lips (Phillip mourned that he hadn't gotten to know them better today) poised perfectly to ask a question.
"Have any hair-ties?" she asked simply. It really wasn't what he expected, but he nodded nonetheless. Wordlessly, he plucked a pack of elastics off of his bedside table and tossed it to her. Theo smiled sweetly and twirled the pack between her fingers before exiting, equally silent. Phillip let himself fall back onto the bed.
Cockblocked, indeed.
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"So," Angie used her free hand to playfully punch Theo's shoulder, the other thoughtfully stuck on the steering wheel. "Did you guys..." She trailed off and raised her brows at Theodosia, who returned a confused expression. Angie sighed. "Like, did you get up to anything?" Theo couldn't hold back a chortle at this point.
"I mean, I stole a pack of elastics, if that's what you mean." Suddenly sheepish, she looked into her lap and continued, "Nah, we didn't kiss or anything. I think we were awful close this time, though." She looked back over to see Angie gaping at her, adorably puzzled. Theo frowned. "What's wrong?" The younger girl had to open and close her mouth several times before any words came out. When they did, however, they were loud and, had they not sounded so confused, could have been mistaken for outrage.
"You barely have enough hair for a ponytail!"
"Shut up, Angie."
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He'd come for a bottle of diet coke, and he'd left with a heart full of regrets.
Georges had been standing in the Target checkout line, cradling a bottle of soda in his arms and minding his own business. Or attempting to, at least. It was only when he caught the briefest glimpse of the person checking out in front of him, that he realized they looked almost exactly like Phillip. Long, thick, curly hair, average height, freckles dotting what skin he could see. And really, how many people did he know that looked like that? Georges slid up to him and let loose.
In retrospect, he doesn't even remember what he said. Probably something from a meme. Definitely something inappropriate. As soon as he'd finished speaking, though, mortification struck. The guy turned to him with eyes the size of saucers, and though he still looked like Georges' best friend, he also looked... older. Tired. There were lines etched into his face, and his eyebrows were knitted together, as though he were trying to read Georges. Then, it hit him where he'd seen Not-Phillip before. The teen scrambled to apologize and explain at the same time.
"Merde!Oh, shit, Mr. Laurens, I'm so, so, sorry! I thought you were someone else! Fuck, sorry!" Word vomit. The man, who Georges now recongized as Frances' father, was chuckling now. Georges, on the other hand, sincerely wished that the earth would open up and swallow him right then and there.
"Hey, no problem, kid," Mr. Laurens flashed him a grin as he bagged his items. "I get mistaken for people all the time. Must be these dashing good looks." With that, the older man flipped his hair and waltzed away with his bags in hands.
Outside the store, Georges clutched the bottle of coke to his chest like a lifeline. Today was shaping up to be a nightmare.
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John was a normal guy. He saw movies, hung out with friends, went to football games. Did his civics homework at three in the morning. And, just like any normal guy who did homework at three in the morning, he was absolutely fucking baffled. How the hell am I supposed to know this shit? He ran his hand through strands of soft hair, before using them to flip through his textbook a few more times. It was useless, of course. He shot a text to the chat, praying that someone, anyone was up.
To: The Squad™ did any of you do the civics homework?
He settled back onto the bed and took out his laptop, content to pass the time this way until someone responded. He was in the middle of a Buzzfeed quiz (he really had wanted to figure out which Jane Austen heroine he was) when someone finally replied.
From: PipperPupper dude it's like 3 in the morning
Tell me something I don't already know. Knowing Phillip, he hadn't done the work either. The two boys had a quick tête-à-tête, during which John's suspicions were confirmed. He set aside his phone and burrowed under the covers, content that he, at least, would not be the only one in tomorrow's class with a zero.
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Frances glowered from her spot on the bench. It was a beautiful day in central park- not one cloud floated through the clear blue sky. The trees, heavy with late-summer foliage, rustled in the wind, and the sound of children's laughter filled the air. And oh, wasn't it awful. Normally, she'd be thrilled at such a day; she lived for the spontaneity of leaving the house unplanned, drifting wherever she pleased, simply being. But something was taking away from that right now. And that something was dressed in an MCR t-shirt, had a feathery purple fringe, and was situated on the bench directly across from her own.
And really, it hadn't bothered her a bit at first. If anything, she felt pity for the poor girl, who would undoubtedly grow to either be a socially awkward adult who found herself superior because she'd watched every single episode of Doctor Who (really, Frances wasn't bothered; just a bit harried) or, hopefully, a bright young person who realized that punk rock didn't put her first in the pecking order. She'd resolved just to ignore the girl when she heard it. That song. Drifting from the younger teen's mouth in raspy but not careless syllables, not loud enough to be considered showboating, but too thoughtful to be accidental.
"I am a lost boy, from Neverland. Usually hanging out with Peter Pan."
Frances snapped right then and there. She felt as if her very peace of mind had been thrown out the window, and almost wished that she'd gone with it. Almost immediately, she had sent an angry rant to the group chat.
To: The Squad™ OKAY LISTEN. THESE ARTSY ALTERNATIVE BITCHES ARE ALWAYS FLAUNTIN AROUND IN ALL BLACK AND BIG DYED HAIR AND THEY LOOK FUCKING SILLY. ALSO, THEY'RE ALL LIKE, "EW PREPS ARE STUPID AND MANIPULATIVE AND BASIC" LIKE BINCH? IF YOU'RE WEARING EYESHADOW UNDER YOUR ACTUAL EYE, YOURE THE PROBLEM. AND THEY THINK THEY GET TO BE PICKY BECAUSE THEY THINK THEY'RE PHILOSOPHICAL OR SOME SHIT AND IT'S JUST PRETENTIOUS UGH LIKE HUNTY YOU AINT SPECIAL!!!
So she sat like that for a few minutes, feeling quite emo herself. She'd never been exceedingly feminine- sure, she'd wear perfume and watch old movies from time to time, but it wasn't like that discredited her character. And that curly pink hair was more a fashion statement than a personality one. Wasn't it? Later, she'd curse that poor, innocent scene girl for causing her to ponder her personality for quite a few minutes that day. I mean, there's nothing wrong- or weak, for that matter- about being girly sometimes, right? Why do these girls act so revolted by it? she wondered, tugging at a rose-colored lock of hair. Faintly, she registered the girl on the bench start to sing again. Less faintly, she considered how much of a waste it would be to chuck her copy of Pride and Prejudice at her. She decided against it, ultimately deciding to let go of it. Several minutes later, Frances was settled on a bench, a respectable distance away from anything punk.
It was a beautiful day in Central Park.
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Martha Jefferson was nothing if not determined. She'd been on distinguished honor roll since the fifth grade. She'd managed a mane of frizzy curls for several years. Took every opportunity to deny her father the affection he desperately wanted (scratch that- desperately needed). And now, Martha Jefferson was determined that if she should have to stop the world from spinning in order to gain the affection of Frances Laurens, she would.
And so, with Phillip Hamilton's helpful guide to attaining the girl of her dreams, she set off for the nearest mall. Spent a good hour and a half rooting through Urban Outfitters, looking for anything and everything that Frances might regard with even a shred of pleasure. The following hours were spent flitting from store to store, Macy's to Bloomingdale's, Areopostale to Hollister, stopping briefly at a puppy shop to ponder whether or not it was worth it. She supposed it was a good sign that she wasn't fazed by the price of Chanel perfume or a T-shirt based off her favorite movie. To be completely honest, though, she'd never been so grateful for her father's wealth as when she'd drifted from shelf to shelf in Sephora, looking for a palette to match her crush's hair.
It was only when she'd finished her final purchase- a box of Stewart's at target- when Marty began to wonder how she could possibly present it all to Frances without coming off as a total creep. She thought about it as she bagged her items, as she loaded her car, as she made her way home through the Manhattan traffic. Eventually, she figured she'd just have to come over with some soda and pop in a movie, try to give the items as casual gifts as- if, she reminded herself- their relationship progressed.
Yes, Martha Jefferson was determined. And whether all that determination would pay off, well, she'd just have to wait and see.
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If you didn't have enough context, you'd think poor Will was crying tears of agony. At least, that's what it sounded like to anyone passing by as he sobbed into his pillow. But really, it was just a mild, humor-induced existential crisis. Nothing unusual for his friend group. So he lay there in bed, lying face down in a puddle of tears, contemplating just how many legs Shawty had. And it was like this that his father found him thirty minutes later.
"Hey, Will, you alright? Though I heard you crying," his father began, trailing off. Will sat up and rubbed his eyes, nodding his head as he did so. As if in explanation, he briefly stuck his phone, still aglow with notifications, into the air.
To be fair, it wasn't his brightest moment. Still, he persevered, explaining, "It's nothing, dad. Just some Shawty- induced trauma." His father rolled his eyes. Will himself returned to his texting, not quite hearing his father muttering about how absolutely frustrating furry boots could be.
And hell, if they were all a bit unusual, they sure didn't care.