Archive of Our Own ^beta

'Lawrence Hansen is a mentally ill queer poet currently residing somewhere in Vermont with his dog, Eva. He rose to prominence after he won the National Plath Poetry Competition with 'letters to my past', which was featured in the poetry collection ‘A Cry for Help: What it Means for a Mind to be Ill’. His semi-autobiographical debut poetry collection, 'to my half loved boy' sets out to explore similar themes as his first poem, and he would like to assure you that it's not an entirely depressing collection. For more information, email [email protected]’.'

It’s odd, what Evan’s imagination could conjure up just based off author’s biography in the back of a book. The thoughts weren’t new by any mean; they had been there since a year ago, when he received the book in the mail, a small note sprawled on the title page, somewhat hurried and rushed looking.

‘I miss you more than I thought I would. I hope this doesn’t make you cry, because that would make two of us and that’s too much crying if you ask me.’

It had become a pre-show ritual for Evan, reading the biography and the note as he waited for his set to start, wondering what had become of Connor. At least he was alive. Well. Alive a year ago. And sometimes when he searched for ‘lawrence hansen’ on google, there’d be a new interview, even if that was conducted through the publisher. So. Connor was alive. Maybe not Connor anymore, but he was alive.

A month and a week ago, it was Connor’s twenty third birthday. He could be declared legally dead now, but there weren't any new stories if the Murphy’s went that route. Evan wrote him a card and letter as always, brought a small gift that maybe Connor would like (this year it was a glass rabbit figurine, and last year it had been a candle that was meant to be Mark Twain as a scent, which apparently was vanilla and tobacco) as always, and promptly shut them up in a shoe box, as always.

Anyway. Pre-show ritual.

There was only one more song of the other guy’s set to go, and then it was Evan’s set, so he really had to get ready. Five songs, all acoustic covers, and then it was over.

Performing still didn’t come naturally to him. Even with pills and therapy and coping mechanisms, there was still a part of him that froze up on the idea of a big stage, with a big audience, and messing up on the big night. So acting wasn’t really a question.

Singing at open mike nights was something different.

His acoustic guitar and subsequent lessons had been something of an impulse. Slightly emboldened by having a job (even if it was just Pottery Barn), and mostly just slightly bored because Jared was at college and he wasn’t, and Zoe still refused to talk to him after everything, and Alana was nice and willing to talk over text but she was so busy he just felt like he was a bother, so he brought an acoustic guitar, texted a number from a flyer offering lessons, and tried his best to learn, keeping at it even when he did go to a college a year later. His mom was the one who suggested performing, saying it might help with his confidence, like she did with almost everything.

Still though. He liked the idea.

He had carved out a routine for himself by performing, which helped a lot, and he stuck with it. Tuesdays and Thursdays were the college campus’ open mike nights, 7 while 10, open to all, often closing with Evan and having a lot of amateur poets beforehand. Saturdays, however.

Saturdays he made the hour long drive back home, sometimes heading out earlier if his mom wasn’t working just to visit her, and sang at the HuggaMug Café open mike night. The café wasn’t anything too spectacular; it had burgundy walls and red plush chairs, and maybe their peppermint and white hot chocolate was the best Evan ever had, but it was still small. The baristas all knew his name by end of the month when he first started performing.

He wasn’t perfect at it or anything. It was just something to do that he liked to do.

“Thank you, thank you,” the guy up on stage said, breathing more heavily than he should, but smiling, grinning at the audience who were all clapping. Evan joined in a beat too late, so he was that awkward last clap, but the guy didn't seem to mind. “You’ve been great, you've been great all of you. Anyway, next up is the local star - so local, he’s even at the local college - Evan Hansen!”

Flushing red as the crowd clapped and cheered for him, Evan scrambled as best as he could, stuffing his book into his satchel, making sure he grabbed his guitar as he headed for the stage, smiling at the guy as they passed each other. His ears pricked at the sound of the café door opening and shutting, which okay, slightly rude. It wasn’t a hard rule or anything, but generally you stayed for the next person’s set before leaving, and Evan was the last of the night. It wouldn’t be that hard to stay.

He left his bag by the edge of the stage, slinging his guitar on via the strap as he stepped up to the mike. A quick survey of the crowd revealed that it was mostly familiar faces, performers or faces he’d just grown to recognise over doing this. He smiled at the crowd as best he could, because for all the pills and therapy and getting better in the world, he still couldn’t over the anxiety that churned in his gut, that hammered in his heart, that made his head go light.

Still though. He could do this.

“I - I hope you’re all ready,” he began, brandishing his guitar, “because here’s Wonderwall.”

The groans that rippled across the café were enough to make him grin as he began to strum chords that clearly weren’t Wonderwall.

He didn't have anything against Wonderwall. He just refused to play it. Not since Jared sent five memes in a row the moment he found out Evan was learning the guitar. The joke had become another part of his routine. Make a joke and play a different song. He was surprised they weren't used to it now.

Maybe they were, and they just played along for him.

“Slip inside the eye of your mind, don’t you know you might find a better place to play?” He could feel the relief radiating from the crowd. “You said that you'd never been, but all the things that you've seen - they slowly fade away.”

It was easier once he started singing. He could fall into a routine then, focus just on the chords and the lyrics. Pretend it was just him in his dorm room, practising in front of his mirror, the tabs for the song open displayed on his laptop.

“And so Sally can wait, she’s knows it's too late as we’re walking on by,” he sang, eyes focused just a tiny bit higher than the crowd like he read online to do. “Her soul slides away - but don't look back in anger, I heard you say.”

And that's how it went - he sang, looking above the crowd, thinking through the lyrics and chords until the song was over and people were clapping. This - this is why he liked performing.

People liked him performing.

And that made him feel good. Even for just a day or so, he felt so good remembering how people clapped for him.

Maybe his mom was right. Maybe it was good for his confidence.

He scanned the crowd the moment, like he always did, trying to figure out the general mood. It seemed to be mostly college students again, here to actually watch people and not just to have background music. That was good. One time when he was performing, a couple had broken up, and when he started to play Skinny Love, a boy had broken down into tears, which wasn’t the best night of Evan’s life if he was honest. He didn’t perform that particular song for a few weeks after that.

Then he saw him.

There, sat in the very corner in the room, half curled in himself, hair long and face half-skeletal, but his eyes wide and staring and frightened, and his body almost drowned in so many jackets and scarves, his long thin fingers clutching at a large mug was Connor Murphy.

It wasn’t real.

No. No. No, he wasn’t there.

He - He couldn’t be. He - Vermont, he was meant to be Vermont, why was he here? He’d die here, Evan could remember, remember how he whispered there was nothing for him on a park at night, and Vermont was different, no one went to Vermont and no one knew him in Vermont, and Eva, he can remember Eva, small and matted fur but coloured like she was a tuxedo cat and he didn’t even know she was a girl and Connor Murphy should not be here, he should, no no no this is wrong this is wrong this is -

In-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, out-two-three.

Lights, the microphone, round oak tables, plush red chairs, that awful portrait of a peacock on the wall.

In-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, out-two-three.

The body of his guitar, the strings of his guitar, the material of his polo shirt, the weight of the guitar strap across his shoulder.

In-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, out-two-three.

Murmurs of concern, the hiss and whir of the coffee machines, his own heavy breathing.

In-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, out-two-three.

Rich coffee beans, someone who used too much perfume sitting close to the stage.

In-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, out-two-three.

There was nothing he could taste. A muffin, if he wanted to buy one afterwards.

Okay.

Okay, he could do it. He was better now.

“Sorry about that folks,” he said, smiling like he actually wanted to smile. “Just got a bit distracted for a moment - now, who wants to hear Mr. Blue Sky as an acoustic song? No one? Too bad, because it’s what you’re getting anyway.”

There were a few scattered laughs, some shakier than others, and Evan started to play and they fell silent again, and then it was okay.

“Sun is shining in the sky - there ain't a cloud in sight…”

When that was over, he launched into Swim and Sleep Like a Shark without a thought at all. He just needed to play and sing and play and sing until he was even more better than before.

He paused only for a drink of water from his bag, then he went straight into playing Three Fishers.

His set didn’t make sense. Mr. Blue Sky was too cheery for Three Fishers or Don’t Look Back in Anger. Three Fishers was more of a ballad than the others. He wasn’t even sure if anyone else knew the last two songs he sang.

Maybe in the future he should decide on songs to play during his set.

“So, uh,” he began, looking around the crowd again, searching for Connor, his hands clammy and sweating. “This last song isn’t one I’ve performed in public before, so forgive me if I’m not the best but uh.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “T-There’s someone here tonight who - who I thought of when I first heard this song, and I think it’s just important that he hears it, y-you know? So, uh, yeah. I hope he’s still here.”

As he fingers began to move and he started to play, Evan didn’t feel real. Nothing felt real. Maybe he died and didn’t realise it.

“This is a song with the same four chords I use most of the time, when I’ve got something on my mind and I don’t want squander the moment, trying to come up with a better way to say what I want to say.”

Still. He was singing it now. There wasn’t a way to pretend otherwise.

“People were mean to you, but I always thought you were cool, clipping down the concrete hallways with your spiked heels back in high school.”

Maybe Connor wasn’t even there. Maybe he left the moment Evan had noticed him, slipped out of his life more easily than before.

Would that be nice? Nice to not even speak to him?

“It's good to be young, but let's not kid ourselves it's better to pass on through those years and come out the other side, with our hearts still beating - having stared down demons, come back breathing.”

Five years.

It had been five years.

And Connor was back home, looking worse than he ever did in high school. Or did he?

He was thinner, sure, and his hair was longer. But that didn’t mean he was worse. He liked long hair - Evan could remember that much. And it was five years. A lot can change in five years.

“You deserve better than you got, someone’s gotta say it some time ‘cause it’s true.”

Maybe he was okay. Maybe he was better.

He finished with as best a flourish as he could, the claps and cheers of the audience washing over him as he tried to search out for Connor again in the crowd, finding his table, and Connor -

Connor was leaving.

Evan wasn’t good at taking risks. Never had been But sometimes, impulse just grabbed him and whispered in his ear to go.

“You’ve all been great tonight, I hope you’ve had a great time, I’ll be back nice week at the exact same time,” he gabbled into the mike, before hurrying to grab his bag and his guitar case and his coat, not even bothering to put his guitar away as he dashed out of the café into the street, and there he was, walking away and no he wouldn’t, he refused to lose him again -

“Connor!” he yelled, his heart hammering in his chest, and Connor stopped. It was raining, Evan realised, and he shivered as he yelled again. “Connor Murphy!”

And Connor turned. And he stared at Evan.

All they did was stare at each other.

He was thinner. Up close it was more obvious, his chin more sharp than Evan could remember, cheekbones more pronounced. His eyes were brighter though, shining in the half-illuminated street, even if the bags underneath them were more pronounced.

Maybe his face just got more mature. Even Evan’s baby-face wasn't as noticeable as it was in high school. It wasn't like he could see Connor’s body under all the layers he had on.

“You need your coat on,” Connor said at last, taking slow, careful steps towards Evan. “Here - pass me your guitar, I’ll - I’ll hold it for you.”

“O-Oh yeah, sure,” Evan said, taking off his shoulder strap and holding out his guitar for Connor to take. “C-Careful, she’s my first and only, s-so.”

“Yeah, yeah I got her,” Connor said, his fingers enclosing tight around the neck as he took it, clutching the guitar close to him. “Do - should I put her away for you as well?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Evan said, letting his case and bag fall to the pavement as he put on his jacket. “I just. Yeah. Lemme just -” And he bent down to his guitar case, trying hard to not actually look at Connor.

If he were honest, Evan never actually did imagine a reunion. He had dreamed about it, of course he did. Who didn’t? But it was always that.

A dream.

“Pass her here, will you?” he asked as he unzipped the case, still focused on the ground before him. There was a quarter in there he didn’t recall seeing before. Maybe he should busk again. It was all the holidays soon, and Jared’s birthday was New Years, so he needed to save up.

“Here you go,” Connor said, passing Evan the guitar like he still didn’t know how to hold it. “You know, I never thought of guitars having genders.”

“She didn't before today,” Evan told him as he slid the guitar in. “Doesn't even have a name.”

He picked up the quarter and pocketed it, before zipping the case closed and slipping it onto his shoulder, and doing the same with his satchel. His shoulders would ache in the morning, but his mom had said he should stay the day, and he didn't have work on Sunday for the next month or so. So it'd be okay. A long hot shower or a bath would help.

“Georgina,” Connor suggested. “Georgie for short. I - she looks like a Georgina. If a guitar can look like anything but a guitar.”

He was closer now, the scuffed edges of his boots clear in Evan’s sight. The laces looked more like string than anything else.

“Georgina it is,” Evan agreed, standing up at last. And then they kept staring at each other.

Like it was all they could think to do.

It was then the cold truly hit Evan, biting at his cheeks and ears, the rain flattening his hair down and he couldn't help but shiver.

“I,” he began, taking a deep breath. “Did. Did you drive here?”

Connor shook his head. “I walked.”

“Do - do you want a lift back then?” Evan offered. “I - I have a car, if you just say where you are, it won't be too long or any trouble, I just - yeah. If you want one.”

Connor looked away for a moment. He had a helix piercing in and an ear cuff, small and black both of them, and Evan wondered if he had back in high school or not.

“Can we go somewhere else first?” he asked. “I think - we should. Talk. We ought to talk.”

“Yeah,” Evan found himself agreeing. “We - we probably should.” He reached out and tugged at Connor’s sleeve. It felt worn, and Evan realised vaguely that he knew this coat. “How do you feel about McDonald's? They refurbished it about six months back.”

“The food will taste the same, Ev,” Connor muttered, but he turned and smiled a little at Evan. “Let's go then.”

Evan smiled back at him, the back of his neck red-cold itchy.

“It's just around the corner,” he told him. “Come on.”

He turned around and started to walk, and after a moment, he heard Connor’s footsteps following. The streets were mostly empty now, one or two straggling couples left from the open mike night still about. But mostly, it was just them.

Evan’s car wasn't anything special. It was second-hand and used, four seats with only two doors so you had to pull the seats forward to even use the back seats. Inside it smelt like that fake car pine and there was a bobblehead of a dancing flower on the dashboard that was solar powered. The only noticeable thing about it was that it was bright green.

“Hop in,” Evan told Connor as he unlocked his car, put his guitar - Georgina in the backseat and climbed in. “Uh, feel free to pick any CD you want - it's just like. Odds and ends. Whatever I felt like.”

Connor nodded as he shut the car down, wincing slightly at the slam it made. “I'll just - yeah. Leave on whatever you have in.”

What Evan turned out to have in was The Mountain Goats, midway through This Year, so he skipped it back to the beginning before driving off.

The drive to McDonald's wasn't long in theory. Ten minutes at most, according to Evan’s watch. In theory.

Really, it felt like an hour. Because he didn't talk to Connor and Connor wasn't talking to him, just staring straight ahead, fists clenched into balls as he seemed to time his breaths. In-two-three, out-two-three. In-two-three, out-two-three.

Was he thinking of that night they spent together? How they drove without a real aim, without really knowing each other, how they kissed at the end of the night and never really spoke about that after?

It was Evan’s first kiss.

All he could remember about it was how warm Connor’s lips felt and how he smiled with smiling afterwards.

What did Connor remember about it?

When they parked in the McDonald’s car park, Connor didn't even seem to register it, jolting when Evan shook his shoulder. He stared at him for a half a moment, as if Evan was still a stranger to him.

“You okay?” Evan asked, frowning. “You sure you don't want to go back -”

“I'm fine, Ev,” Connor half growled, frowning at Evan as he unclipped his seatbelt. “Absolutely positively one-hundred-percent fine. I swear. Let's - let's go get food or something.”

Evan swallowed, but nodded. “Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.”

And then he undid his seatbelt and got out of his car, waited for Connor to get out before locking it, and they didn't speak again until they were sat across from each other, Connor with nothing but fries and a mocha in his hands, Evan with a six piece chicken nuggets meal and water.

“Who gets water from McDonald’s?” Connor asked, lip half-quirking up into a sort of smile. “I don't think anyone else I've ever met has gotten water.”

“Well, I do,” Evan said, twisting the cap off. “It's - it's too late for coffee and I don't like the soft drinks they do here so. Water it is.”

“That makes sense,” Connor murmured, before glancing out of the window. He fiddled with the lid of his coffee, his eyes distant and not there, biting his chapped lips over and over again.

“I…” Evan paused, and looked away. There was some kind of stuff the staff hadn't gotten around to cleaning yet on the floor. “I didn't think you’d ever come back here. I thought you'd just. Stay in Vermont.”

“…yeah,” Connor murmured at last, taking a sip of his surely scalding mocha. “That - that was the plan. Staying in Vermont. But uh - stuff happened. So I - I had to move back here.”

‘Stuff happened’. Five years of absence. And ‘just stuff happened’.

Evan would laugh if he didn't feel like throwing up.

“I get you,” Evan assured him. “Uh, I'm in college now - you know the one about an hour away? I’m studying Ecology, so uh. Yeah. That's fun. I’ll probably be a tree surgeon or a park ranger in a few years.”

“That's cool,” Connor said, nodding as he picked at his fries. His hair kept falling in front of his face, and Evan just wanted to brush it aside, tuck it behind his ear, because it had been so long and he just wanted to see Connor. “I have my GED - you know, the Good Enough Diploma? Which is good an’ all, given I’m basically a high school dropout.”

“General Education Diploma,” Evan corrected softly, finally biting into a nugget. “So you could go to college if you want?”

“Yeah, but I - I don't think I have the time to,” Connor said, sighing. “Maybe when life sorts itself out.”

“Or you sort life out,” Evan suggested, and Connor nodded.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “Maybe.”

And then Connor started eating, picking up his carton of fries, still not looking at Evan, still not looking at anything. He didn’t paint his fingernails anymore, but there were long, long scratches on the backs of his hands, faded to white and not as angry as they could have been, but somehow they were enough to scar, what had Connor been up to, there was the book but the book wasn’t enough, it was about that night and not Connor’s life and he needed to know he needed to know was Connor okay is he okay why was he here and not Vermont and not Vermont he needed to know -

“I read your book!” he blurted out, feeling his face flame as Connor dropped his carton of fries. “I - I mean. Your poetry collection. T-The one you sent me. I - I just. Y-Yeah. I like it. I, uh, I have it on me? S-So, uh. Yeah.”

Connor stared at Evan, his mouth slightly agape, eyes wider than they had been all night, which honestly, was something of an accomplishment.

“…aw, shit,” he muttered, his cheeks going pink. “Uh, yeah. Can we, like, just pretend the entire book isn’t a massive love letter to you? Even better, can we just pretend the entire thing just doesn't exist? I - yeah. I'd like it if we did that. No book. None.”

Evan couldn't help but chuckle a little at Connor’s face, but there was that small feeling of wrong churning in his gut.

“It's a good book,” Evan insisted. “I mean, I liked it. L-Like it.”

Connor groaned and covered his face with his palms, then went still for a moment or two.

“A lot of those I wrote for therapy,” he said at last, quiet and small. “Like, your letters - do you still do those? Fuck, those are what got us here, really. Anyway, yeah. Therapy assignments. Some aren't, but uh. Most are.” He uncovered his face a little, just enough to reveal his eye with the brown slice surrounded by blue. “You - you have it on you?”

Evan nodded.

“Can I, uh, see it?” he asked, lowering his hands from his face.

“Of course,” Evan told him, pulling it out of his satchel and passing it over as Connor wiped the salt and grease from his fingers with a napkin. “It, uh. I annotated it a lot though, so uh. Yeah.”

“You annotated it?” Connor asked, surprise evident in his voice as he took the book. “Like, properly annotated it?”

“Kinda?” Evan said as Connor put the book down on the booth table. “I-I underline lines or phrases I liked, a-and anything I wasn't sure of. And anything I thought I understood that was like, a reference to, uh, us? It’s - it's not English Lit annotations with all the terms and stuff.”

“Yeah,” Connor said, his eyes scanning the contents page. “Oh, god, I forgot there were so many. Are the ones with stars your favourites?”

“They're the ones I thought were, uh, more addressed to me,” Evan admitted, feeling his face burn as he looked at his half eaten food, fingers playing with the sleeves of his jacket. “Are they?”

Connor nodded, in vague, mostly-absent way. Like a teacher who didn't have much time for pupils would.

“I mean, really, all are,” he murmured. “But those ones in particular, yeah.”

The book itself wasn't long, nor actually that fancy. It was a slim paperback, easily bent or creased even though Evan tried his best not to do so. The cover was black, ‘to my half-loved boy’ in a mock-handwriting chicken scratch font, a line drawing of pills and their bottle knocked over next to a shattered picture frame. ‘Lawrence Hansen’ was at the bottom, in the same chicken-scratch font as the title.

They're had been a new edition released, one with a new foreword from the editor, but the cover was different. Still black and white, still with that fake handwriting font, but there was ‘New York Times Bestseller’ at the bottom now, and the drawing was different.

Two hands, falling apart or just pulling together. Evan couldn't tell. He wasn't sure if he wanted to tell.

“There, uh, there's been essays about your work,” he said, just for something because he couldn't bear the silence. “Like, a-actual professor essays. I've read a few.”

“I haven't,” Connor said, scanning Evan’s annotations for ‘on my eighteenth birthday’. “My editor does though. Wasn't there one that argued that it was nothing but an extended metaphor for heroin addiction?”

“Yeah.” Evan nodded, remembering that one paper. “From, uh, that Richard Hackenthorpe, r-right? T-The entire argument was based on ‘heroine and her heroin’, and something about recurring motifs in that poem found across the collection? A-And something about how the language you used to describe t-the half-loved boy was similar to feelings of withdrawal. I don't really know. I-It was a dumb paper.”

“It sounds it,” Connor muttered. “‘heroine and her heroin’ isn't even about you. It's about Ch-”

It was as though a spell was cast over him. He froze, still as Sleeping Beauty, gaze held on Evan. Then he swallowed, slowly, and shook his head, breathing out slowly.

“You don’t - forget I said anything,” he muttered, returning back to the book. “I didn't say anything.”

“You didn't say anything,” Evan repeated, smiling at Connor who flashed him a grateful smile.

They sat quietly together for a while, Evan finishing his food as Connor’s went untouched, his mind apparently focusing on Evan’s annotations and underlining, muttering as he went. He kept squinting in places, rubbing his forehead now again. Did he need glasses? He never wore glasses before.

Then Connor turned to the final poem -the titular ‘to my half-loved boy’ - and he froze. And Evan knew why.

It hadn’t been a good day when Evan had read that poem. It wasn’t a good week when he read that poem, for no other reason than the pure, raw fact that he had missed Connor.

And the last poem had been addressed to him. And he had broken down sobbing and screaming in his car on the way home from work because he had read it on his break and his boss had to told him to go home early because he didn’t look well and -

The page was tearstained, with only one barely legible annotation.

‘I hope he’s okay.’

It was Evan’s favourite poem. But he never read it after that day.

“Evan -” Connor began, looking up.

“It’s okay,” Evan told him quickly. “I - It was bad. That day. But it’s a good poem. All of them are.”

Connor nodded, and looked away for a moment. Then he looked back, shaking, gaze focused on Evan for a second more than it should. He swallowed and kept blinking quickly, breaths almost shuddering.

“I…I…” Connor began, before groaning, tugging at his hair. “Evan. I - I have to tell you something, okay? Like. It's a big thing. A really - really big thing, and like - it's okay if you freak out. I'd freak out. So, uh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Evan found himself saying. “I won’t freak out. I promise.”

He didn’t look at Evan. Rather, he stared at the table, nodding to himself, breathing, in-two-three, out-two-three. In-two-three, out-two-three. Slowly, with his hands still shaking, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, an off-brand smartphone just like Evan had. He unlocked it, biting his lip as he looked at Evan.

“I - so - look, I... okay,” he sighed, only to glance down at his phone and smile a little, as though everything was okay. “This - This is Zinnia.”

And he showed Evan his background. It was a baby, next to a dog Evan could recognise as Eva, smiling vaguely at the camera, pale brown wisps of curls hidden under a pale grey-blue hat, dressed in a blue-and-white striped onesie with seashells embroidered on the front.

Evan swallowed, feeling himself tremble, red-white-hot-cold spreading from the back of his neck. “She’s cute,” he whispered, throat hurting. “Is she -”

“She - she’s my daughter, Evan.”

There are moments in life in which it feels like the Earth shifts beneath you. Like a parent’s divorce, or a friend running away, or almost killing yourself because it’s just easier.

The air felt like starch in his lungs. His skin itched as he clenched his fists, fingernails he was trying to grow almost stabbing into his palms.

“She’s just over a year old,” Connor continued, his voice quiet and not still, as if Evan wasn’t still and silent before him. “Her birthday is the fifth of November, and she was born almost ten weeks premature so she had to stay in hospital for a long time. She’s the best part of my life, Ev, and she’s why I had to come back.”

“Oh,” Evan said, his voice small. “Oh.” And then, still small, still curled up inside himself; “But aren’t you -”

“Gay and asexual, yeah,” Connor sighed, locking his phone again and sliding it back in his pocket. He sighed, covering his face with his hands. “It’s. It’s just a - just a long story, Ev. All that really matters now is that Zinnia exists. That’s - that’s not going to change.”

Connor was a father.

Connor Murphy was a father.

Connor Murphy was a queer mentally-ill twenty-three-year-old published poet and a father.

A lot can happen in five years.

A lot happened.

“We shouldn't do this tonight,” Evan found himself saying. Was he? Yes, that was his voice. He shook his head, once, twice, blinking at Connor, who was biting his lip as he gazed at Evan.

Did he always do that? Or was that new too?

“No,” he agreed, “we shouldn't.”

“Are you free tomorrow?” Evan asked, and Connor snorted, which made him feel a little better.

“I'm always free. I'm unemployed.”

“I’ll pick you up then,” Evan told him. He hoped he was smiling at. “And we can go to the café we were at earlier and just talk.”

“It’ll be easier if I walk,” Connor said. “I mean, if I bring Zinnia - can I bring Zinnia? And Eva too, i-if that café is dog friendly.”

“I’m not going to stop you from bringing your own daughter,” Evan said, frowning. He was coming back to himself now. “And it’ll be fine if we stay outside. There’s awning if it rains or gets too windy. Where is she tonight?”

“Mom and Zoe are looking after her,” Connor said, scrunching his nose up. “Mom thought I needed some time away from her, so I was sorta forced into going out. Are we, uh, gonna go?”

“If you’re finished,” Evan said, ignoring how his chest hurt at the mention of Zoe.

“I wasn’t that hungry to begin with,” Connor murmured, standing up from the booth. “Do you, uh, not talk to Zoe? I thought you would have done, but when I asked Zoe about you, she just…got really pissed off.”

Breathe, Evan reminded himself as he stood, collecting the tray and picking it up. He doesn’t know.

“You’re, uh, b-better off asking Zoe about that,” he muttered, not looking up as he walking to the bin to dispose of everything. “It g-got, uh. It got messy. Senior year. After you left. It’s - I s-shouldn’t say anything.”

“I thought you both went to that college that’s just an hour away though?” Connor asked, holding the door for Evan.

They did, and Evan made every effort to avoid her. They had made eye contact once, in their first year, where they shared a music elective together, and she had turned away, scowling, before making conversation with the TA. Evan had dropped that elective and took up one about wildlife conservation that he could at least claim was relevant to his Ecology major.

He still saw Zoe. No doubt she saw him. But they didn’t speak. They never spoke.

"And if my brother is dead in a ditch somewhere, then you're the one who killed him, Evan Robin Hansen. I don't care if he was murdered. You fucking killed him.”

High school isn’t good for anyone, Evan decided as he unlocked his car. Especially senior year.

“Am I okay to call Zoe?” Connor asked as Evan started to drive. “I just - Zinnia.”

“Go ahead,” Evan told him. “I’ll, uh. Need directions to your house though.”

“Of course,” Connor muttered, but he was already pressing his phone to his ear. “Just keep driving until you reach, y’know, the richer part of town, then my street is Lincoln Street - oh. Hey, Zo, I’m checking in on Zinny. Is she - never mind, I can hear her. Has she been like that all evening?”

Lincoln Street. Right. Evan could manage Lincoln Street.

“Not too long then. What? Oh, easy. I cope because half my medication has insomnia listed as a side effect - no, I’m not kidding, you can check them for yourself. Anyway, I’m heading back now - it’s almost midnight, yes this counts as a night out. I should be ten minutes.”

Evan had no fucking idea where Lincoln Street was.

“If she keeps crying, then give her the seahorse toy - have you changed her?” A pause, then a long sigh. “She doesn’t exactly have regular bowel movements, Zoe. She can’t control her shits.”

Was it past his street? Well, they were going to his street now.

“She’s only just a year old. Is Mom still up? Give her to Mom if you want a break. I know it’s hard work, Zo. I’ve done it by myself for a long time. She’s probably just upset and cranky that I’m not there. We’ve not spent that much time apart - no, it comes with being a single father, Zoe.”

Madison Street. James Madison. They tended to group street names together, he remembered that. Mostly because he lived on Princess Street and the surrounding streets were every other member of monarchy.

“Yeah, no, Zoe, it’s okay. It’s okay. I won’t be that long. Just stick Friends on or something if she doesn’t need changing - yeah, I know, it’s odd. She likes the laugh track. Yes, that’s odder. She’s my kid, did you expect her to be normal?”

Washington, Coolridge, Jefferson, Roosevelt - Lincoln Street.

“See? I mean. She was premature like me, but I’m hoping that’s where the inheritance stops, you feel me? Zoe, she’s a baby, you can’t judge her hair yet - yes, I grew in blond. You were blonder in your baby days as well. We have pictures, Zoe Andrea. Don’t make me dig them out.”

Zoe’s middle name was Andrea. Who knew?

“Which house is it?” Evan asked, slowing his car down, and Connor jumped, blinking as he peered around like a meerkat.

“Jesus, you got here quick. Right outside my house too,” he said, before returning to his phone. “See you in, like, less than a minute.” And he hung up.

Well. Fake it ‘till you make it, Evan guessed. Even if next time he should use a map.

“Is there a shortcut here I didn’t know about?” Connor asked, frowning. “I took a lot of drives in high school, but I guess there’s something new to be found everywhere.”

He didn’t move to get out the car. Maybe he was remembering the last time they were together like this.

“What time are we going to meet up tomorrow?” Evan asked him, his voice quieter than he'd thought it’d be.

“Lunch?” Connor suggested, tugging at his hair. “At that café we were at earlier? Uh, I don’t have facebook anymore, so you’ll need my phone number -”

“Oh, yeah, uh, one second -”

Evan pulled his own phone out, handing it to Connor after unlocking it, waiting for him to put in his number, watching as Connor texted himself before handing it back.

They just stared at each for a moment more.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Evan said. His voice was thick, and he had to swallow.

“Yeah,” Connor said. “Uh. Good night, Evan.”

“Good night, Connor,” Evan said, watching as Connor left his car and walked up to the front door, knocking like he was a guest and not like he lived there, waiting for Connor to disappear into the yellow glow of the house and be shut off from the rest of the world.

Then he drove home, not sure of himself or anything.

The last time he and Connor were out like this - the only other time - Evan had been dropped off first, near midnight and he came home to a crying mother who had hugged him like she never wanted to let go and grounded him for several months and made him hot chocolate afterwards.

The home he went to this time was quiet, and dark, his mom asleep in her room. He left his keys on his counter like he always did when he came to visit, left his jacket on the back of a chair like he always did, and he plugged his phone into charge like he did.

Then, just before he went to sleep, he messaged Jared.

‘Connor Murphy has a kid now’

In hindsight, that was a mistake, because when he woke up in the morning, there was a slew of texts from Jared, probably written half-drunk but it was always hard to tell with Jared.

‘wait wat’
‘connor murphy’
‘as in ur pysco friend who went missing?????’
‘hes back????????’
‘with a kid???????????’
‘i thought he was gay tho’
‘is he??????’
‘u went straight to sleep didnt u’
‘little shit’
‘i want anwsers when u wake up’

And then just more text from him at about 2 AM.

‘so like. whats its name’

At least he didn’t ask if it had six toes. Maybe that was more a High School Jared thing.

‘Her name is Zinnia, yes he is gay (and asexual), yes as in the one who went missing, and yes, he’s back. I met him last night when I doing my open mike night gig, and we talked for a bit’

‘:0’ was Jared’s first reply, followed by a barrage of texts demanding for more information. Time passed easily between answering his texts, eventually ending up on a conversation over whether or not High School Musical should be classed as a Hollywood Musical or not.

(It shouldn’t. It really, really shouldn’t.)

At half past eleven, Evan drove to the Huggamug Café, and waited alone under the awning, half-freezing with a mocha in his hands, because even now his anxiety would scream at always be early, always be early, never late, wait is this the right place or is it wrong place, no they did say HuggaMug Café, they had nowhere else to meet apart from A la Mode but Connor didn’t say that or did he was it the right place or not right or not right or not -

Lunch was an awfully vague and unhelpful time to agree to meet.

‘What time did we say again?’ he sent to Connor.

Connor’s reply came quicker than Evan thought it would.

‘i was just about to set off. eva doesn’t like her harness so that took a while. should be about ten minutes? not too long’

‘Okay - see you soon!’ He sent with shaking hands, and then put his phone face down on the table and hid his head in the same shaking hands.

Evan was better. He really was.He just...just wasn’t good some days.

It was fifteen minutes before he saw Connor. He didn’t seem to look any better than he did yesterday, still bundled in layers of clothes, like he wanted to hide away from the rest of the world. In his hands, he held a neon yellow lead for Eva, who was half-scurrying half-trotting ahead of him, sniffing every other post, stopping at every other person like she wanted attention from all of them. She actually looked a lot better than from Evan could remember of her from five years ago - perkier, definitely, her long coat silkier and less matted.

That wasn’t what caught Evan’s attention the most.

What caught his attention the most was the fact that Connor was carrying his daughter in a babybjörn strapped to his chest.

“Before you ask,” Connor said as he approached Evan, “the baby carrier was cheaper and smaller than a pram, and my apartment was tiny. As in, the living room and kitchen were joined together and even then it was the nursery. So, uh. Yeah. That’s why.”

“I never said anything,” Evan told him as Connor looked around, eventually spotting the lone highchair the café left outside.

“Hold Eva for me,” he murmured, passing Evan the lead before going to the chair and dragging it over to the table, lifting Zinnia out of the carrier and placing her in the high chair before sitting down himself.

Maybe it was because it had been a while since Evan had seen a baby as close as this, but Zinnia seemed… small. Very small. Not a year old, that’s for sure. Much like her dad - and Evan just couldn’t wrap his head around that, Connor Murphy was a dad, he was a father - she was in layers and layers, all blue and white and grey, but she was just so tiny.

“Zinnia,” Connor said, “this is Evan. My friend. Evan, this is Zinnia.”

“It’s very nice to meet you Zinnia,” Evan said, and Zinnia didn’t reply. She just stared at him in that vaguely threatening way all babies did, not making any noise. Eva, however, chose that moment to leap onto Evan’s lap, back paws digging into Evan’s thighs as she stood, panting in his face as she tried to lick him.

“Woah, woah, hey there, uh, nice to see you too,” Evan said, craning his head this way and that, trying had to avoid her tongue and failing. Maybe he really was a cat person after all. “Uh, it’s nice to know you’re still alive and all, but I don’t really want dog, uh, saliva all over me so -”

“Eva, down,” Connor said, amusement evident in his tone as the chihuahua-mix hopped down from Evan, laying down underneath the table, ears still pricked. “Yeah, uh, the vet said she was only a year old when I took her, so she’s six-ish, seven-ish now? And chihuahuas on their own live to about 20 years, so she’s got a lot of life in her yet.”

Evan nodded, sipping at his mocha. “Do you want a drink or anything? I’ll pay for you.”

Connor shook his head. “I think we’re better off just talking to begin with,” he murmured, but fell silent, gaze down on the table, lips moving inaudibly, as if rehearsing lines.

A moment passed. Down the street, a busker was singing ‘Hey Soul Sister’.

“So, uh, Zinnia,” Connor started, still not quite looking at Evan. “She’s uh. You might have. She’s - she’s small for her age. And she’s not, uh, you know. Acting like a one year old. Well, uh. There’s a good reason for that, and - and ”

He groaned, hitting the side of his head as he collapsed forward onto his elbows, face hidden.

“For fuck’s sake, why is this so hard?” he asked, voice caught. “It shouldn’t. Fuck, I’ve told my Mom all of this, you shouldn’t be worse than her. You’re - you’re my friend.”

“Start at the beginning,” Evan suggested. “Start from where you left.”

For a moment, all Connor did was look at Evan. Then, he looked at Zinnia, who, Evan realised, had bright, bright blue eyes. Just like Connor.

“Okay,” he said, slowly, like he was saying the word for the first time. “Okay.”

And then he started to talk.

He talked about the day he left, how the first thing he did was to go to the park to pick up Eva after leaving at midnight before wiping all of his social media and changing his sim card so they couldn’t call him. How he went to a stylist to become a different person, with hair short and blond and he didn’t recognise himself.

He told Evan about how the drive to Vermont didn’t feel as lonely as mental wards did. How he slept in his car and motels, how it took him ages to write a letter to Evan just to let him know that Connor was okay. How he had debated sending a Christmas card to his family but chose not to. How he avoid watching the news until he was sure that wouldn’t be on there anymore.

He talked about how hard it was to keep a hold of Eva, how small and slippery she actually was, how sometimes he’d stay in the same town for days because he lost her, checking every shelter he could before finding her again. About how he eventually settled down in one of those towns, because he was so tired of travelling, of driving, of never just stopping. How small his first apartment was compared to the rent.

About how some nights, he thought it might end it all, only for Eva to curl up on his lap and fall asleep. How it occurred to him that if he died, he might not see Evan again. Or Zoe. Or anyone.

“It was just - little things that kept me going,” he said, looking at Evan for a moment, eyes watering and bright and blinking. “I mean, that’s how you survive, isn’t it? You just - find little reasons to survive, and you go from one to the other until you find your big reason.”

He talked about finding a therapist, how it took five different tries before he found one he liked and could work with, that was actually good for him. How his first visit to a psychiatrist ended up explaining so much and how many medications he had to take before finding the right combination that was perfect, would never be perfect, but made him better.

How all those visits ate at his savings until he was he left with only two thousand dollars and an eviction notice.

And then he started to talk about Zinnia’s mom.

“I met her because I was looking for a drug dealer,” he explained, now cradling Zinnia close to his chest with one arm. “I - I know, not the best reason, but old habits die hard and I was - I was better, but not okay, and I - I just needed a high. She saw me, and offered to take to a drug dealer. Except, well. He sold heroin. Not pot. I didn’t even realise it was heroin because she called it something weird like skunk or skag. But she was so nice and bought me some and it - I had to try it, you know?”

“You - you were a heroin addict?” Evan asked, his throat tight and dry and that feeling of bad spreading throughout his body, but Connor was shaking his head.

“Oh, god, no. I hated it. Absolutely hated it. I threw up and felt so dizzy I thought I was dying,” he said. “It - It wasn’t instant addicted feeling that they all say it has. I just didn’t feel good at all. So I never took again. She did though - I swear, she was always high in some form or another. But that first time - after I threw up all over the place, we ended up talking and she was just - nice. Like you were. She offered me a place to stay, in exchange for… for ‘se-services’.”

He wasn’t looking at Evan. He was trembling, smiling and not, breaths uneven.

“S-Services?” Evan hoped against hope it wasn’t what he thought it was. He hoped.

“I, uh. It - It wasn’t drug related, but uh. She - Ev. Don’t - don’t make me talk about it. You - You’re not dumb.”

“Connor - Connor that’s -” Awful. Horrible. A hundred other words for bad. He just wanted to hold Connor in that moment, and never let him go.

“I know what it is, Evan,” Connor said, laughing, shaking wiping at stray tears with his sleeve. “T-Trust me, I know what it is. I’ve scanned Vermont law so many times, I can recite by heart. A-And there’s no point going after her with the law for it, she - she’s too fucked in the head to know what it was. She’s too nice to know what she was doing. L-Like I said, basically always high.”

Evan reached across the table, and placed his hand over Connor’s. It was all he could think to do.

“Thank you,” Connor said, like he had done more than he had, before taking a deep breath. “Uh, she - that’s how it was, for a while. Turns out she’s like, the most Catholic person ever. Like, probably as Catholic as the pope. I’m - I’m not sure why she isn’t a nun, if I’m honest. A-Anyway, after a year or so of this, I manage to save up enough that I didn’t need her around, so I moved out, and I thought, y’know, that’d be the last I’d see of her, but she called me up a month later and… she was pregnant. With Zinnia. So I had to let her back in.”

“You didn’t,” Evan told him, but Connor was still shaking his head.

“I did. Evan, believe me, I did. She - I offered to pay for an abortion, but she refused. Said you get excommunicated or something for abortions and religion was all she had,” he told him. Zinnia squirmed in his grasp, making noises like she was going to cry, but he shushed her, taking his hand from under Evan’s and placing around her.

“So we - we started hanging out again, and she took more heroin and I took parenting classes, because… even then, I think I knew that I’d end up with the baby. One time, she just broke down crying in front me, made me promise to look after her. But that - that’s not important. Like I said, Zinnia end up being born early but… she was born… she was addicted to heroin when she was, and me and Chloe kept arguing during the entire time she born - I was asked to leave the room because we were that bad - and she was just there, already with a shittier start to live than either me or her mom.” Connor paused for a moment, looked down at his daughter. In-two-three, out-two-three. In-two-three, out-two-three.

“You can stop here if you want,” Evan said.

“I’m almost done,” Connor said, like he was promising himself that. “I’m almost done. So Zinnia was born addicted to heroin, so she had to be weaned off it, and there - a doctor actually sat me down as said she might not make it. And she did, she did, and I’m so happy for that, and that’s when I decided to sue for custody - which was an actual piss take of a thing to do. Turns out in Vermont, if you’re not married, whoever the father is doesn’t go down on the birth certificate until you file for it, so that took a while, then I had to wait for all the courts and stuff, and for Zinnia and Chloe to get better - she’s still in rehab, I think, Chloe, but there’s more wrong with her than just drugs - but I got there. I got her. And...and then I sent a poem off to this competition because the entry fee was fifty bucks compared to thousands of prize money, and someone liked it enough to contact me for more and I got published and - and that’s been the past five years.” And then, Connor blinked, and shook his head, looking around as though he had just woken up.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

And then Evan stood up, went to Connor, and he did the only thing he could think to do.

He hugged him.

Connor was cold, and trembling, and smelt of cigarettes and lavender, and Eva was sniffing around Evan’s leg, and Zinnia was squirming in Connor’s embrace, and he thought about letting go, but then Connor hugged him, and he was so thin and here and alive and -

“You’re alive,” Evan murmured, closing his eyes. Was he crying? “You’re alive. That’s all that matters. That’s all I wanted. For you to still be here.”

“Evan,” Connor murmured, pressing his face into Evan’s shoulder. “God, Evan, I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Evan told him. He was crying, tears running down his cheek. “I never stopped missing you.”

He pulled away and smiled at Connor, like it was all he had wanted to do.

“I brought you things,” he said. “Every year, on your birthday. I’d buy you a card and a present and… and I’d write you a letter, just so you’d know how everything was. I’ll bring them next time.”

Connor blinked twice, shaking his head, peering up at Evan as though he didn’t quite believe he was real.

“There’s… there’s a next time?” And his voice sounded like he wasn’t quite sure if he existed. As if he was too scared to believe in what Evan was saying.

“I mean. I want there to be a next time,” Evan told him, his voice catching, and all of sudden he was aware of the fact they were in public, they were on a street, they weren’t sat in Connor’s car outside Evan’s house at midnight.

“I do too.” Maybe Connor was aware of that fact too. Zinnia kept squirming in his lap, and Eva was turning restless too, whining and tugging.

“I want there to keep being next times,” Evan said. He still hadn’t let go. “I still haven’t told you what happened after you left.”

“You could tell me now.” And there was a desperate edge to Connor’s voice, like he wanted to Evan to stay, and Evan did, he wanted to stay so bad, he never wanted Connor out of his sight again but -

But he promised his mom he’d be back by half one. He promised his roommate at college that he’d be back before six. He promised his professor that he’d do an extra-credit essay on all of the tree variations across the New England area and have it to him as soon as possible.

He promised a lot of people a lot of things, and he had only promised Connor that they would meet for lunch to talk.

“I need to get back to college,” he said quietly. His hands found Connor’s, brushed over the scars on the backs. “I think you need to get home for Zinnia.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Connor’s fingers slid between Evan’s, and squeezed them tight.

“I don’t,” Evan told him. “But come back here on Saturday. We can sit together and talk, and hang out again. If you.”

Connor nodded, biting his lip, but smiling. Not a full smile, but a smile.

“Are you going to sing again?” he asked, voice raspy. “You - You have a nice voice.”

“I always sing,” Evan reassured him, smiling now, smiling properly. “Maybe you could read some poetry?”

And Connor laughed at that, not a bad or unstable laugh, and maybe it was a bit too loud, but it was a laugh, and Evan just - just loved how it sounded.

“Maybe some day,” Connor said at last, still chuckling. “But, like, not right now. Let me settle down a bit first.”

“Of course,” Evan said. “Of course.”

Connor’s hands were so warm, and rough, and kept trembling, and they were alive.

“The last time we said goodbye you kissed me,” Evan murmured, and Connor didn’t laugh at him. He kept smiling that not-full smile.

“I did,” he said. “But I wasn’t going to be good to you then.”

Evan nodded, burying his head almost into his chest.

“Do you - uh, d-do you, d-do you think we could -”

“Of course we can,” Connor said, and they did.

It wasn’t a perfect kiss. But neither was Evan’s first.

It was chapped, and warm, and a little not okay, and nice. And it smelt of cigarette smoke and lavender, and it tasted a little of mint gum, and Evan would have given anything to have stayed in that moment.

They had to part though, but even when they did, Evan kept a hold of Connor.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” he promised. “And I’ll text you whenever.”

“I’ll text you too,” Connor echoed, and then they let go, and promised each other they would see each other again, and Evan watched as Connor put Zinnia back in her carrier and wrapped Eva’s lead around his hand several times and they maybe didn’t kiss again, but Connor walked with Evan to his car, and maybe they held hands, and he made Evan promise to drive home safely as Evan got into his car, which he did.And then he drove home, not quite feeling like himself, but maybe a little better.

And when he got home, he went to his room and sat on his bed, and he reached into his abandoned satchel from the night before, and pulled out a book of poems. And he turned to the last tearstained page.

---

To my half loved boy -
I'm sorry this is the way we turned out,
alone and not together,
facing challenges we never knew existed
and could never begin to imagine.
To my half loved boy -
Sometimes I wonder if you've
disappeared
And if you're in a better place
and then I ask myself why I thought that.
To my half loved boy -
There are more of these letters
than you will ever know about
All of them are in my head,
not good enough for you to hear
because I never say ‘sorry’ to you in them
To my half loved boy -
Please, promise me this:
Love the world for what it can give you, not for what it has.