Chapter Text
Despite what many people believe, anxiety attacks and panic attacks are not quite the same thing.
They’re terms often used interchangeably to describe a similar feeling, a similar collection of symptoms. Similar, but not the same. For those people unlucky enough to have experienced both types of attack, the differences can be vast.
Evan Hansen is one of those unlucky people, and he knows this all too well.
Evan thinks panic attacks are made from ocean rips and hurricanes and the feeling of being watched. They come sudden and fierce, and usually with no warning, no trigger. They come with a racing pulse and tunnel vision and cold sweat and the feeling of bile rising in the back of Evan's throat.
Panic attacks are like drowning before even realizing you've hit the water.
Panic attacks are like dying.
And as quickly and unexpectedly as they appear, they're gone, leaving Evan feeling ragged and dazed, like he's been sucker-punched in the gut.
Anxiety attacks, however, almost always begin with an idea.
The barest ghost of a thought.
A thought that Evan supposes most people would brush aside, like an eyelash caught in an eye; a minor irritation, quickly removed and forgotten about. But Evan can't remove the eyelash, the idea. It gets trapped, stuck, and the more Evan tries to brush it aside, the more it prickles and stings, growing and changing, bigger and bigger, infecting everything in its path, until it's so all-consuming that nothing else matters.
For hours. For days. Lingering on and on and on.
Evan honestly couldn’t say which attack is worse.
They both suck.
The stuck-eyelash idea that’s causing Evan’s current three-day-and-counting anxiety attack is about Connor Murphy.
Most thoughts he had were about Connor Murphy, these days.
It’s still fragile, this new thing between them. It’s been four months, and Evan wonders if it should be feeling less delicate, less breakable by now. He wonders if it really is as delicate as it seems to him, or if it’s just his insecurity talking.
Four months ago, Connor had shoved Evan in the hallway, apologized about shoving Evan in the hallway, signed Evan’s cast, found Evan’s letter, misunderstood the part about wanting to be Zoe’s friend, screamed in Evan’s face and bolted, all in the same afternoon.
The following day, Connor had found another of Evan’s letters, crumpled and sticking haphazardly out of his locker. The letter was addressed “Dear Connor Murphy,” and contained a long, rambling explanation of the first letter. Evan had been so sure he’d blown it, so absolutely certain that by trying to explain he’d just made things worse and that Connor would never want to speak to him again.
But Connor had sat at his lunch table that afternoon, just plonked himself down without so much as a “hello”, like he was meant to be there. He didn’t speak a single word to Evan throughout lunch, but right before the bell rang, he’d reached across the table, grabbed Evan’s casted arm, and added ten little numbers underneath the towering letters of his name.
Three months ago, Evan had begun to consider Connor to be his best friend. And it absolutely wasn’t considered normal to spend so much time staring at your best friend’s mouth, or wanting to touch your best friend’s hair, or finding the perfect sequence of words to describe your best friend’s eyes. And Evan didn’t do any of those things, thank you very much, because Connor Murphy was his best friend.
Two months ago, Connor kissed Evan for the first time.
They’d been sitting side-by-side on a swing-set at some dilapidated playground near Evan’s house. Evan couldn’t remember why they’d ended up there. It had been getting dark, and cold, and Evan had started shivering. Connor had lent him his sweatshirt. He’d told him he looked cute in it.
And then Connor had kissed him.
One month ago, Evan had told Connor that he was in love with him.
He hadn’t meant to do it. It had just sort of slipped out.
It was on Connor’s birthday. Connor had had to sit through a celebratory dinner with his family, but came to stay the night at Evan’s the minute he’d been released. They’d been curled up together in Evan’s bed, exchanging sleepy kisses in the dark. Connor had been lazily running his hands through Evan’s hair, with Evan positively melting into every touch. And, unthinking, Evan had shuffled closer, buried his face in Connor’s T-shirt, just for the excuse to breathe him in, and drowsily mumbled, “Happy birthday, love you.”
The hands in his hair had gone still for a moment, then resumed as Connor had whispered, “Fuck, this is the best birthday ever.” And then, after a moment, “Love you too, Evan. Obviously.”
Strangely enough, it’s the fact that Connor’s in love with Evan that’s now causing him so much grief.
Anxiety attacks almost always begin with an idea. An eyelash of a thought. And once the eyelash-thought is there, Evan can’t flick it away.
And the thought, this time, is simply: why?
Why is Connor in love with Evan?
Why? Why Evan? It really doesn’t make very much sense. When he thinks about Connor, sees him in his mind’s eye, all leggy and angular like a Parisian fashion model, with those blazing heterochromatic eyes and wild tangle of hair, he certainly can’t picture an Evan standing by his side. In any regard, let alone as his boyfriend.
He shouldn’t be allowed to even occupy the same space as Connor.
Yes, obviously, they have loads in common. But what drew them together in the first place was the fact that they’re both, well, mentally ill loners. Outcasts.
And Connor’s not going to be that way forever. Evan thinks his whole aesthetic and “fuck the system” outlook will probably make him plenty popular when they start college. And he’s been working so hard on his mental health, too. It’s a big journey, one that might take years. Maybe even Connor’s whole life. But he’s already worked so so hard, and it’s been absolutely incredible watching him heal and grow. Connor is amazing.
And he’s just. Evan. He’s khakis and New Balance sneakers. He’s boiled, unseasoned potatoes. He’s plain toast.
Evan is anxious, stuttering, sweating plain toast.
The idea begins as a simple “Connor is way out of your league.” It soon evolves into “Why does Connor even love you, of all people?”, which is quickly followed by “Maybe he doesn’t.”
Then “Connor is going to leave you.”
And finally.
“Connor should leave you. Connor deserves better.”
And the thought sticks, niggling away at him all of Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday. He crams it down, pastes on a smile, goes to class, holds Connor's hand, laughs at Jared's dumb jokes.
He thinks he's been doing a pretty good job at hiding his three-day anxiety attack, actually.
But then on Friday, Connor's waiting at his locker when he gets to school, arms crossed and wearing an uneasy expression. He's chewing on his bottom lip, his brow furrowed. His eyes narrow, then lock onto Evan as he approaches. He doesn’t look away.
OK, Evan thinks. So I'm about to get dumped. I'm about to get dumped in the middle of the hallway.
Connor speaks before Evan gets a chance.
"You're being weird," he says matter-of-factly, without so much as a greeting. He doesn't pull Evan in for a hug like he normally does.
Evan feels sick.
"...But...I just got here?"
"Not just now," Connor says, giving an impatient sigh. "For days. What's up with you?"
Maybe Connor's got Evan's heart on a yo-yo string, because just as quickly as it had dropped, it leaps, simply at the fact that Connor had noticed that he's not OK.
He truly didn't think anyone had noticed.
Evan manages to shrug halfheartedly, suddenly self-conscious about talking to Connor about this.
And scared.
Because if he talks to Connor about this, Connor will agree that Evan's not enough.
And then Connor will leave.
Connor sighs again, sounding exasperated now.
"Ev. Evan, c'mon. Did I like. Do something, or...?" He's trying hard to sound sarcastic and snarky, but he can't quite mask the insecurity, the fear that creeps into his words.
Evan shakes his head vehemently, because of course Connor didn’t do anything, it’s Evan who’s done something wrong, just by existing in Connor’s life because he has no right. Because Connor deserves better. Connor deserves someone worth loving.
"Evan," Connor's saying. "Evan."
Evan feels tears collecting in his eyes. He blinks them back.
“Evan. Ev.”
"Why do you love me?"
The hallway suddenly seems very quiet, and when Evan hazards a quick glance around, he realizes they're alone. The late bell must have gone.
Evan couldn't care less about being late.
“…I…what?”
Evan can’t look at him.
"I just. I'm me. And you're you. And. And you could have anyone you wanted, and I know you don't think so but you could, you really could, you're wonderful, you're smart and funny and beautiful and I literally just have absolutely no redeeming qualities like at all, I'm an anxious mess and I'm not attractive and everything about me is just so fucking bland and. And I just. Just."
Evan realizes he's been babbling like an idiot, and takes a deep, steadying breath.
"I just. I don't understand why. You deserve better. You should have...someone better.”
He finally musters up enough courage to look at Connor.
He's more than a little taken aback by what he sees.
Connor looks...distressed? Like...really upset, and almost a little angry. His jaw is clenched and his brow's still furrowed and he's sort of shaking his head in disbelief.
"Evan... for fucks sake, Evan, are you shitting me right now?" He sounds so appalled that Evan finds himself having to choke back the automatic sorry bubbling in the back of his throat.
"Evan, you don't actually, seriously think-- you're a fucking idiot, Jesus Christ. You’re a fucking idiot.”
And then Evan’s being yanked forward by his shirt and pulled into a bruising kiss, right there in the middle of the hallway. Connor kisses roughly, determinedly, like he’s got something to prove, and Evan finds himself struggling keep up with Connor’s almost aggressive pace.
It ends like a panic attack. Suddenly. Leaving Evan ragged and dazed.
Connor sort of shoves Evan away from him, muttering, “Shit,” giving a pointed look over Evan’s shoulder.
Evan turns, and his heart sinks to see Mrs Astor, who is stalking towards them, already having begun her lecture from halfway down the hallway, snippily going on about tardiness and disrespect and late bells and disrupting classes.
Evan's never told a teacher to fuck off before.
He doesn't today either, but he thinks it as hard as he can. Childishly, he hopes she's somehow received the message telepathically.
He throws one last glance in Connor's direction, who's rolling his eyes and already mouthing off, going, it’s five goddamn minutes, Bertha, chill.
Evan quietly slips away to class.
Evan doesn't hear from Connor all morning. They don't have any classes together until the afternoon, but usually Connor will send Evan a text or three, sometimes between classes, sometimes not. Evan's not sure how he never gets caught doing that. One time, Connor had sent Evan an inexplicable row of alien emojis during second period, and Evan had been too afraid of getting into trouble to take his phone out of his pocket to look. Connor, not enjoying being ignored, had then continued to text Evan every five seconds for the entirety of the lesson. The constant buzzing of Evan's phone in his pocket had made his leg go numb. He'd ended up with 48 unread messages in under an hour, and he's never forgiven Connor for it.
But this morning, he gets nothing.
He still feels sick.
His head swims as he tries to piece together every little detail of everything that Connor had said and done that morning, almost in a frenzy as he tries to analyze what it all means, what’s going to happen next.
No possible outcome Evan comes up with is particularly positive.
At lunch, Connor’s not there. Evan thinks he might puke.
It takes him over ten minutes to formulate a three-word text message.
Evan: ur not here??
It feels like Connor types for a million years. Evan stares at his phone, at those little blinking dots, until his vision blurs.
Connor: yeah went home, srry. had some shit to think abt x
Evan tries to focus on the little x and not on what “shit to think abt” could mean. He types out a response (evrything ok? r u mad at me?? im sorry, I fucked up ) then deletes it, then types another (just forget everything i said ok I was just being stupid lets just forget the whole thing), and deletes it, then tries again (i know u deserve better and u should have better but i wish i hadn’t said anythng so just please dont leave me please.)
He deletes that, too.
Evan: ok x
The rest of the school day goes extremely, extremely slowly.
Evan doesn’t hear from Connor again until almost midnight.
His evening has been…complete shit, if he’s honest. His conversation with Connor; the angry, desperate kiss, sneaking away and leaving Connor to deal with Mrs Astor, Connor’s absence at lunch – it’s all only heightened his anxiety attack, turned the volume up to 100. He feels restless and exhausted all at the same time, and the silence of his empty house makes his skin crawl. The TV makes it worse, grates on his nerves like it’s purposely trying to irritate him. Evan finds himself drifting aimlessly from room to room like a ghost.
He doesn’t use the money on the counter to order pizza, but what else is new?
At 11:15, Evan decides to say fuck it, and goes to bed.
At 11:23, Evan bites his cuticle too hard, and it wells with blood. He feels it rather than seeing it; his eyes are fixed on his bedroom ceiling.
At 11:33, Evan replays the entire morning’s events in his mind for the tenth time in the past ten minutes.
At 11:49, Evan’s phone buzzes.
Connor: im outside
Evan takes the stairs two at a time and screeches to a halt at the front door. His hands are shaking badly, and it takes him way too long to unlock it.
Evan flings the door open, and Connor’s standing there, in the warm glow of the porch light, picking absentmindedly at something in his left hand. He jumps a little as the door opens, then offers Evan a shy, half-smile.
Something about him looks strangely vulnerable, standing at Evan’s front door at almost-midnight, in sweats and an oversized hoodie. Despite his height he looks…kind of small.
“Hi,” Connor says.
“Hi,” Evan echoes.
There’s an agonizing silence. Connor coughs, and his eyes flit down to his hands, where he’s flipping a folded square of paper back and forth in his palms.
“So,” says Connor, without looking up, “This took me all afternoon. Once I started thinking I couldn’t stop.” He pauses, licks his lips. “Bet you know what that’s like,” he adds, teasingly.
“Yeah,” responds Evan, vaguely, but he’s not entirely sure what he’s just agreed with. His eyes are drawn to the little square of white, flip-flip-flipping between Connor’s fingers.
“You, um. You wanted to know why. Why I’m in love with you.” Connor’s voice becomes resolute; sure. “I’m not sure exactly what I did to make you second-guess—”
Evan opens his mouth to protest this, and Connor snaps “No, shut up,” and he quickly shuts it. Connor winces a little, like he’s kicking himself speaking to Evan so harshly, but he keeps going
.
“I’m not sure why you…where all this has come from, exactly. But um. Anyway. I wanna fix it, so.”
Connor presses the square of paper into Evan’s hands.
Closes the gap between them to press the gentlest kiss to Evan’s lips.
Takes a little, stumbling step backwards.
“Don’t read it till I’m gone, OK? I have to go. I’m like. Under house arrest. I shouldn’t even be here. So. Bye.”
And with that, he’s gone, taking long strides down Evan’s street alone in the dark, wrapping both arms around his torso to fight off the cold.
Evan realizes he’s walked all the way here. At midnight, in the cold, while grounded.
Evan stares at the paper in his hands, dumbfounded, and pads back inside and up the stairs in a daze.
He sits on the edge of his bed, and unfolds the square of paper.
It’s an unsealed envelope. On the back, Connor’s chicken-scratch handwriting declares: You’re a fucking idiot ❤
Despite Evan’s racing pulse, he can’t help the tiny breath of a laugh that escapes him.
He carefully removes a single sheet of paper from the envelope. A taunting voice in his head is still insisting it’s a breakup letter. Evan pushes a lungful of air forcefully out of his nose, whispers “Shut. Up.” to himself in the empty room, then looks down at the sheet of paper.
There’s no introduction, no explanation, no “Dear Evan”, just what seems to be a random assortment of words. It’s typed, all aligned to one side, in one big, long column. The font is very small. Evan stares, trying to make sense of what he’s looking at.
It’s a list.
Evan scans the page frantically, as though looking for a punchline. Because it can’t be. It can’t be what Evan thinks it is.
But it is.
It’s a list.
Connor has spent all afternoon writing a list of all the reasons he loves Evan.
Evan’s breathing doesn’t sound right, and it doesn’t quite feel right, either. His finds his eyes flitting across the page as he urgently tries to soak it all in, but soon realizes that the words aren’t in any real sense of order. There are physical features and personality traits and hobbies and interests and odd little habits, all chaotically mixed in together. Sometimes Connor’s added little notes, little specifications or explanations in parentheses, and sometimes he hasn’t. The whole thing is kind of a jumbled mess.
It’s…wonderful.
Shaking, Evan starts over, reading it properly, in order from the top of the page.
The first thing on the list is:
sincerity
Evan already feels like he might cry. He’s one word in, and he might cry.
It’s closely followed by:
dimples when smiling
intelligence
emotional intelligence
This is...astounding, to Evan. He’s always considered himself sort of socially stunted. But Connor loves him for his emotional intelligence.
This list continues.
laugh (cute af)
hands
hair (s o f t)
skin (even MORE SOFT wtf how is that possible)
Evan laughs incredulously at this, because what, no way.
His own laugh sounds weak and breathless and not quite right in the ringing silence.
blush (goes up to ears. cute.)
jawline (!!!! SOFT!!!!)
interest in trees
funny!
knobbly knees
good kisser
nose
eyes (expressive)
kind
cares so much. about EVERYONE
throat-noise when receiving hickey ("hnngmmmg" ?? idk but it's like. porn.)
Evan feels his cheeks heat, and an involuntary, flustered sound peeps past his lips.
He realizes that Connor’s spelling of said sound is actually pretty accurate.
Jesus Christ, Connor.
bites lip when thinking (hot)
bites MY lip when making out (even more hot)
Evan can’t hold back his giggles at this point. He knows he must be blushing furiously, and can’t help but wonder if it’s gone all the way to his ears like Connor says it does.
considerate
selfless
eyelashes
smells really good
shoulders (+ shoulder freckles)
park ranger uniform (!!!)
integrity
Evan lets out a shaky breath as he reaches the end of the page, completely overwhelmed with emotion. His face still feels hot, and he’s sure his bottom lip is trembling. He clenches his jaw and swallows hard, trying to get himself together. Carefully, he goes to folds the sheet of paper in half so he can slide it back into the envelope. And it’s only then that he notices.
And lets out a choked, raspy sob, then another.
And another.
Because the list is double sided.
It goes on and on, naming detail after detail after detail.
Some of the things on the list make him break, once again, into teary laughter; near the top of the page, Connor's typed likes cats and dogs equally. Other things make him run his fingers over the paper in quiet astonishment, because they're things Connor's never really said (about halfway down: always growing and changing - not static? Idk but it's cool).
Evan's crying openly by the time he reaches the end, his face a mess of tears and sweat. He’s been so focused on the list he’s not bothered to wipe them away.
The last three lines read:
you see me
you see me but haven't run away
And finally.
I just DO.
Something about the punctuation, that little dot, gives it such weight, such a sense of finality. Like reaching a destination after walking for days and days. Evan stares at the little dot for a long time.
It takes Evan an even longer time to stop crying.
Once he’s finally calmed himself down, he peels himself off his bed, refolds the list with painstaking care, and slides it into the little box on his bedside table where he keeps his medication. He wants to keep it safe, keep it close.
He looks at his face in the mirror, and he looks weird, because he can’t stop smiling, but his eyes are bloodshot and still swimming with unshed tears, and his nose is red and raw.
But it doesn’t matter, because Connor loves him.
With a resolute nod to himself, Evan pulls on a pair of socks, then sneakers.
It’s well past midnight now, and it’s freezing outside, and Connor’s under house arrest.
But Evan isn’t.
Evan’s legs aren’t as long as Connor’s, but he thinks he could probably make it to Connor’s in twenty minutes if he runs.
He’ll try and compose his own list in his head on the way.