Chapter Text
Connor had exactly one person in the world who loved him. A statement which would sound sad to just about every single goddamn person on the planet. Especially himself. He was pretty sure his family just tolerated him, and all the other kids in school either feared him or despised him, the mocking tones and shoves in the hallway had died down throughout the years, for his own anger had showed just about everyone what a psycho he actually was. Connor wouldn’t disagree with their uneasy glances or avoided eye contact and whispers. He was belittled by basically everyone, so it was safe to say that Evan was the only exception. Evan had told him so in a letter; that was the only way they had ever really communicated: letters.
It had started out when Connor had found Evan in the computer lab when he was yet again skipping class. He had recognized him immediately as the kid he had shoved down in the hallway earlier. Connor had mistaken the kid’s throat clearing for a mocking laugh after Kleinman had put him in a bad mood with a snide comment, and on the first day of senior year, too. Connor almost grumbled at the thought, about to turn himself around to find somewhere else to hide. But something deep inside compelled him to approach Hansen.
Thank god the floor was carpeted, or the clomp of his combat boots would’ve scared Evan out of his own body. And another thank god for the fact that Hansen had his back turned, the room lit mostly by the synthetic glare of the computer screen. He was typing away at something in a fidgety and quick manner. Connor knew the kid was the school loser, the shutout, the one who couldn’t say a damn word in front of a small classroom of students without looking like he wanted to submerge himself into the tiled floor as he stuttered one word over and over. Honestly, he looked like he wanted to cry at every given second of his life. Who knows how this kid had managed to get through the hell of school without hyperventilating at every look he got, genuine or not. Then again, Connor was the one who threw a printer at his second grade teacher.
He decided it was fair game. They were the same level of freak, if not the same type.
Connor had crept up behind Evan, standing silently behind him as he read over his shoulder out of curiosity, and had noticed that the letter was addressed to the person who was writing it. ‘Dear Evan Hansen’. Did this kid not have any friends? It didn’t even seem like he had completed a sentence… The rambling he always poured out of his mouth had leaked profusely onto the page in front of him, no period in sight as far as Connor could see.
“Do you not have any friends?”
Evan’s hands flung off the keyboard, his body swinging around so violently in the chair that he almost brought himself and the seat he was in crashing to the ground below them. He looked like a deer in the headlights. A baby deer. This kid was fucking Bambi in human form.
“What - why do you ask, is there something wrong? I have friends, well one friend, but Jared is a family friend so I guess that’s not an actual friend but he still hangs around me even though he sort of acts like he doesn't want to but he’s still my friend I guess and-”
“Okay, stop,” Connor cut the kid off before he hurt himself. Evan’s fanatic hand motions came to a halt. His mouth clamped shut, gaze averted down into his lap, hands dropping with it as his fingers fidgeted with each other. “I just asked because it’s really fucking sad that you’re writing a letter to yourself.”
“Oh, that,” Even mumbled. “Well, it’s actually something my therapist is having me do to help with my anxiety and, um, depression. But I’m not crazy, I just get sad sometimes and also really nervous. I guess.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Connor echoed. Thank god he didn’t ramble on more for once. He didn’t think the kid could stop himself even if he tried. If he talked for long enough into the microphone on his phone, he could have a fucking book by the end of the day. A poorly written, three sentence long book that consisted of 1,000 pages. Connor would probably read it just for shits and giggles.
Then, out of the blue, a sudden thought popped into his head. No clue of where it came from, it spilled out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Or maybe he didn’t want to stop himself.
“Maybe you should write the letters to me instead of yourself.”
Evan’s gaze flickered up, and he just stared at Connor, his mouth slightly open in shock.
“It’s a lot less pathetic than writing them to yourself, and it’s not like I have anyone to gossip to about you. I’ll write you ones about my life, if it’ll help.”
Somehow, this spiel had been convincing enough that Evan had agreed. Maybe out of pure terror that if he didn’t, Connor would beat the everloving shit out him, but that’s beside the point.
After a mutual agreement, Connor felt like he should continue the conversation instead of leaving Hansen hanging. Connor’s eyes drifted to the cast sheltering Evan’s left arm. No sharpie looked like it had even been in a five mile radius of it.
“How’d you break your arm?”
Evan seemed to sputter at that, the fingers on his right hand starting to pick a bit at the cast. Connor had overheard Jared announcing that Evan had finally jerked off too hard and broke his entire arm, to which Evan hastily looked around the emptying hallway and hushed him up. Kleinman was even a dick to Evan Hansen. Well now they can just have a fucking party. ‘Jared Kleinman is an Asshole to Me, Let’s Eat Cake and Celebrate Our Hated Existence Together.’
“I, um… I fell out of a tree,” Evan finally stated.
“Well isn’t that just the saddest fucking thing,” Connor retorted. Evan seemed to sink into his chair a bit. Shit, Connor hadn't meant to freak him out, he just really wasn't good with people.
In an attempt to salvage the conversation, Connor said, “I’ll sign your cast.”
Evan’s eyes shot up towards him now, an alert but confused gaze now pinning Connor in place. Again, Bambi fucking Hansen.
“I - you don’t have to sign it, I mean, I know no one has signed it and I know it looks pathetic but -”
“Just let me sign the cast, Hansen.” And with that, the sharpie was thrusted into Connor’s hands. Connor took it upon himself to write his name in big bold letters across the cast like he was marking his territory. It might even stop people from picking on Evan so much if the student body thought they were friends.
Evan let his eyes scan over the cast, muttering out an, “Oh… thanks…”.
“There,” Connor said, “now we can both pretend we have friends.”
“I can be your friend,” Evan’s words raced out of his mouth as he stood up from his chair, almost knocking it down again. Connor’s brow furrowed, causing Evan to start up again, the gears in his head visibly cranking together. “I-I mean, we’re already going to be writing letters to each other, so we might as well just become friends if we’re going to be sharing life details, but, I mean, I guess we would already be becoming friends anyways! I guess it was a silent agreement before, so, um, yeah.” His words trailed off into nothingness as his gaze drifted to the floor again. This kid needed to take a fucking chill pill. But at least he was probably the first person to act like Connor wasn't a rabid animal. The only exception being Alana Beck, but she talked to everyone in that joyful tone she always used.
“Fine. It’s a deal, then,” Connor spoke clearly. “Evan Hansen and Connor Murphy are officially not friendless.”
The look of relief that washed across Evan’s face was almost calming. Connor felt like he had actually done something good for once in his life.
Thus, they started to build a friendship, one tear-stained, doodle covered, rant-full letter at a time. Everyday, letters were exchanged through the slits in their lockers, ranging from one letter to five letters depending on how well they managed their time frames and how much they actually wrote in each letter. Connor could write notes all day. It wasn’t like he payed that much attention in class anyways. But he knew Evan couldn’t ever not jot something down or not study for something, afraid of failing at something else in his life. He understood a fair amount of what Evan went through, the thought of failure and wrongness cycling over and over in his head would drive any sane person crazy.
This had gone on for months, the two never speaking in the halls or outside of school, but giving each other looks in the halls if they passed each other. Not snarky, not mocking, just a genuine friendly look. And God, that felt so good to Connor.
But in his most recent letter, Evan had told Connor he loved him. It had struck Connor in a way nothing had before, even if it was in a friendly sort of way. He had written ‘I love you, Connor. You matter to me, no matter what.’
It was wonderful. It was so much more than he deserved, and much more than he could really handle. Connor thought he could definitely get used to this. But the calm turned into a storm, and the thought process that always came along eventually chugged its way into his brain all the rest of the day. He couldn’t possibly be responsible for the eventual breaking of Evan’s heart, like he had broken Zoe’s, and his parents’. He hadn’t meant to, but his temper kept getting the best of him and he always hurt the people he was closest to. That’s why he had to end it. He had to stop himself before he ruined another person’s life, especially Evan’s. Wonderful, kind, sweet Evan who chose to see the best in the fucking future school shooter.
The next day, Connor slipped the letter into Evan’s locker. It would be his last letter: it would explain everything. He just hoped Evan would be able to forgive him.
---
Connor Murphy knew a thing or two about how to acquire drugs. Pot, crack, ect. So when he left the school grounds in his beat up, chipped black painted, probably going to fall apart any second car from early 2000’s his dad had owned, who had only given it to him if he promised to drive Zoe to and from school everyday and not get into a hit and run (to which Connor replied with, “No promises.”), he went to the sketchiest dealer he knew about. A man who hung around the outskirts of the local park and thankfully knew how to make himself look less of a stalker drug dealer and more of a father with three kids looking stalker drug dealer. Connor asked for the strongest thing they sold.
“What do you want it to do?” the dealer asked, flipping through the wad of bills Connor had handed him. It was a stash that usually sat in the bottom of the middle compartment in his car under a pile of old CD’s, just incase he had suddenly ran out of whatever drug he had stashed away in his bedroom.
“Just make sure it’s something that can fix me. Permanently.”
“Alright.” The man shrugged off the response, probably having weirder responses beforehand from how long he’s been around their town. Plus, all this guy wanted was to get paid. He obviously had no intention of getting into an emotional conversation with a buyer.
An orange bottle filled halfway with grey, oblong pills was placed into Connor’s hand, then stuffed into the front pocket of the black hoodie he always wore. He hardly ever took it off, except for maybe when he was alone, for many reasons that he wouldn’t name to just anyone. It was a comfort object to him now, shading the skin lined with darkened scars underneath from the rest of society.
Connor found a nice spot in the park, and sat himself down under a tree. A Cyprus, he thought. Evan always said they were the most depressing trees. Evan had told him long ago that he had a lot of tree knowledge, his forest expertise showing whenever the topic came up. If that kid could legally marry a tree, he would be more than likely to do it.
The thought of Evan halted him as he gripped the pill bottle hard enough to nearly crush it. How would Evan react to this sudden tragedy? Tragedy. Connor almost laughed to himself. He’s saving everyone else’s asses from himself. Everyone should feel lucky that he hadn’t shot up the school already. Even Evan Hansen.
Connor tugged his hood up onto his head, slipped the bottle out of his pocket, and downed the first pill. But, right as he leaned his head back against the tree behind him, pain immediately sparked through his body, immobilizing him. Connor kept himself from yelling out in agony, instead keeping his fingers dug into the dirt below him. His eyes were glued shut, teeth gritted. Was this actually what death felt like?
“Where am I?” A voice in his head asked. “Where are the others?”
“What the fuck?!” Connor shouted, eyes flinging open, scaring off some pigeons and getting a few side eyed glances from pedestrians. “Who the hell are you?!”
A few seconds of silence passed, only Connor’s own raspy breaths being heard from the space around him. Maybe he was just going crazy! A side effect of the drugs before he finally died. Maybe a spirit or something.
“We need to go to New Jersey,” the voice finally spoke up decisively.
Nope, definitely crazy.
“I’m not going to fucking New Jersey! I’m supposed to be dead!” This couldn’t be happening. He knew he was a complete psychopath, but he didn’t think he was schizophrenic.
“You are not schizophrenic, Connor. And you can die after we get to New Jersey,” The voice retorted calmly. “Or do not, because I will need a vessel in order to keep functioning as I am now.” And without another word from either, and no permission granted, Connor’s fingers retracted from the ground, pushing him off of it and onto his feet. He started walking. Apparently to New Jersey. Not controlling any of his movements.
This was definitely happening.