Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Evan absolutely hates the sound of the alarm that wakes him up every morning, but it’s the only sound that can truly rouse him from the scarily deep sleep he often falls into. Of course, it takes him hours to get there, as he often finds himself lying in bed late at night, contemplating interactions he’s had recently. It almost seems as though his brain has decided that those hours are the best time to play a film of all his most embarrassing moments in his mind. Embarrassing moments, he notes, of which he has much too many. 

And every night, as he lays there, a personal showing of all those humiliating moments playing behind his eyes for him and him alone, he wishes that it would all just stop. That everything would end. Does this mean he’s considering killing himself? Well, he supposes it does, because, really, what does he have to live for, truly? Other than his mom, that is. 

Eventually, inevitably, he will fall asleep, as he does every night, but whether he will spend the night tossing and turning in fitful half-rest or be completely knocked out, his sleep unshakable, is uncertain. 

And when he wakes, well, the feeling, the looming doom and gloom, it doesn’t leave. Every morning, he wakes up and wonders what would happen if one day, he just… didn’t. If anyone would really notice if he just disappeared. It’s not like he has any friends, after all. 

Because, as he knows very well by now, friends and family friends are two very different things. And so every morning, he turns off the invasive blaring of his alarm, gets out of bed, and tries not to think about it. It, of course, being the crushing weight of the belief that he is simply unlovable. Unlikeable, even.

Because who in their right mind could love someone as utterly broken as Evan? Even someone in their wrong mind would think twice, before ultimately deciding he wasn’t worth it. Really, who would even want to be acquaintances with him, let alone friends?

Needless to say, this morning was no different. 

As soon as he is rudely awakened by the noise insistent beep beep beep of his alarm, he turns over, aggressively pressing the button, turning it off. Still half asleep, he rolls out of bed, the thick fog of sleep still hanging over him. He stumbles over to his light switch, flicking it, and, like every morning, immediately regrets it. 

The bright light invades his senses, and his half-lidded eyes rapidly blink as he attempts to get used to this new brightness. It hurts his eyes, so he shuts them, but quickly opens them again as he continues his quest for vision. After too long, he can see, and he slowly gets ready for school, stalling at every step, simply because he can. And because he would rather get poison oak for the third time than go to school, but if his mom can stand being at the hospital almost 24/7, then Evan can stand seven hours in that glorified juvenile prison. 

Finally, after picking half-heartedly at the toast he’s made himself for a few minutes, he gives up on trying to make himself eat it, and, after double-checking that he’s locked the door, gets into his car and heads to school. 

He pulls into the student parking lot, and immediately, he sees him. 

Connor Murphy, leaning against the brick wall of the school, cigarette between two fingers, lazily blowing smoke in the face of the poor freshman who happens to walk by at just the wrong moment. 

Taking his keys out of the ignition, eyes locked on the school’s infamous “bad boy,” Evan grabs his backpack from the seat beside him, and gets out of his car. From this distance, he can’t see Connor very well, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s been studying him quite stalkerishly for the past month or so. Ever since that band concert. 

At first, Evan had been there for Jared, whose trumpet solo in the jazz band’s first song, Orinoco Cocoa, was truly impressive. But then he saw the drummer, who after the first half of their second song, titled Count Bubba’s Revenge, he recognized as Connor Murphy. 

For the rest of the jazz band’s performance, Evan watched him, mesmerized by his easy movement and his mystifying confidence. Even from the audience, Evan knew there was something special about this boy, and he was determined to find out what it was. 

Through the smooth backbeats and effortless fills, Evan watched him. And he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this was wrong, but there was something so intriguing about Connor that he couldn’t stop. 

By now, he knows much more about the drums than someone who’s never even been that close to a kit should. 

Because when Connor’s on the throne, oh boy. He’s - and Evan can’t think of a better word, not for lack of trying - beautiful. From his perfect hair to his shiny combat boots, he’s just so …pretty. 

From behind the kit, Connor looks like he owns the world. 

And so, as he climbs out of his car, Evan allows himself a few seconds to just drink in the sight of Connor, his nonchalant aura, his bored expression. And as Evan walks toward the door, knowing that the bell will ring soon, he keeps his head down, but on the inside, he’s grinning ear to ear. 

Because, for some inane reason, just seeing Connor does that to him. 

And yes, this is creepy. Evan’s never even talked to this kid, and he’s got it so bad for him. He knows almost nothing about Connor’s personality, and yet, he knows he’d like whatever traits Connor possesses. But Evan’s observant, and he likes to think that maybe he knows just a few things about Connor that no one else knows. 

Like how Connor bites his lip when he’s nervous, and hums Panic! at the Disco songs when he’s bored. Or how he ties his hair up when he’s concentrating, tongue poking out between his lips. Or how, when he plays, he scowls at his music like it’s personally insulted him. 

And maybe he’s not special in knowing these things, maybe his stalkerish tendencies don’t make him more important, but at least for the moment, Evan’s okay with just watching from the sidelines, viewing his life through a window. 

Before he knows it, his first class, pre-calc, is over. He reluctantly walks up to English, but it turns out that it isn’t that bad, and the few periods before lunch are over in seemingly no time. 

As he walks to the cafeteria, Jared appears beside him. This is not uncommon, so he doesn’t say anything when Jared materializes out of thin air next to him. 

“Hey, Evan, can I ask a favor?” This is normal - Jared doesn’t talk to Evan very often unless it’s to ask something of him or make fun of him. And yet Evan’s stuck around. There must be something very wrong with him, but he doesn’t really want to ponder that at the moment. 

“Y-yeah, I guess,” he stutters, only slightly annoyed with the bespectacled asshole beside him. 

“Well, as you know, there’s a giant band concert coming up. Like, giant. The eighth graders from the middle school are coming and everything!”

“O-okay…?” Evan has no clue where this might be going. 

“And as you know, that means we’re gonna really buckle down and practice, which means we’re gonna have to practice after school.”

“O-okay…” he really wishes Jared would just get to the point. 

“And, um, well, Iwaswonderingifmaybeyouwouldwanttohelpmepractice? Iknowyoudon’tknowanythingaboutbandbutitwouldbereallyhelpfuland …please?” The words come out in a rush, like he was scared to say them, and for the first time in so many years, it feels like Jared’s actually, like, making an effort to be Evan’s friend?

Evan is speechless. But, luckily, after a few seconds, he’s able to swallow the lump in his throat and ignore the voices in his head screaming at each other about whether or not Jared actually cares. “Uh, s-sure, y-yeah. Like, t-today, or…?” He trails off, but Jared knows what he means. 

One of the benefits of being family friends for so long is that Jared knows him, whether he admits it or not. Jared knows his mannerisms, his facial expressions, he can read Evan like a book. Quite frankly, it’s a little scary. This, of course, comes with pros and cons, but normally it isn’t too bad, because Evan knows that Jared doesn’t really want to hurt him, even when he’s hard-core making fun of Evan. Right?

“Really?!” Jared seems genuinely excited, which is new. “Uh, on Monday, if that’s okay.”

“Y-yeah, no prob-problem.” It’s not like he has any previous engagements. It would be quite odd if he did. Nope, he’ll be spending the weekend alone. And tonight, even though it’s Friday and everyone else has plans. And Monday. And Tuesday, and so on and so forth. 

“Cool! See you then!” By now they’ve reached the cafeteria, and they take their normal seats at what has, over the past few years, become their table. 

This is mostly due to the fact that no one wants to sit near them, but Evan likes to think that it’s sort of special. And it’s really nice to have their own little secluded area, because loud crowded spaces are not spaces that Evan particularly enjoys being in. 

Evan’s mind is already going into overdrive, replaying the conversation he’s just had, analyzing every word, gesture, and change of tone. After careful analysis, the thing that stands out to Evan the most is the complete lack of innuendos and/or sex jokes on Jared’s part. Not even one (1) in the entire conversation, which has got to be a new record for him. 

Later, after bio and social studies, Evan can finally go home. As he walks out of the building, he feels relief wash over him. Finally, the weekend has arrived. It’s been a long week, and as he gets back into his car, he sighs, letting all of the little anxieties of the day out. But the day isn’t over yet, and the anxiety is a relentless and vicious cycle. He takes a breath in, and pulls out of the parking lot. 

As he drives home, he thinks about what a strange day this was. His conversation with Jared - what was that? He supposes he’ll learn on Monday. 

He pulls into his driveway, and as he exits his car, he lets his mind wander to Connor. It’s weird that he’s been studying him for the past month or so, right? And it’s weird that he has a crush on a guy he’s never even talked to, right? 

But then, why does it feel so …normal? He unlocks the front door and sets down his bag. Why does it feel so right? Even though it’s so clearly wrong?

Tired of attempting to use his slightly broken moral compass, Evan plops down onto his bed, long limbs spread, shoes still on his feet. And he allows himself to just think about Connor. 

The way his hair falls perfectly on his shoulders, effortlessly shiny. Evan regularly has a strange and intense urge to run his fingers through it - he wonders if it’s as soft as it looks. His piercing blue eyes, and the death stare that accompanies them. If looks could kill, well, Connor would be on trial for genocide. And his nails, the way you can tell he actually just uses a sharpie to “paint” them, but somehow it still looks cool. 

And Connor, well. Evan doesn’t think Connor even knows he exists. 

Chapter Text

Let it be known that Connor deeply regrets agreeing to practice after school with Rude Glasses Kid. Kleinman has made too many jokes about Connor banging and hitting on the drums to be even slightly tolerable. And by too many he, of course, means any at all. 

Practicing after school also means that he has to be there, and he knows if he just skips and comes back to school in time, he’ll forget. And he won’t be back in time. Meaning he actually has to be at school today. 

He gets a lot of weird looks as he walks into bio Monday morning. He knows this is because he’s never there - literally, he doesn’t think he’s even been in this classroom once this year - but he still takes it personally. He shoots a couple of glares at the people around him, and they quickly look away and ignore him for the rest of class. 

He gets through the rest of the day just fine, but when he walks into the band room at the end of the day, time stops. 

“H-hey, C-c-connor, r-right?”

Why the fuck is Small Tree Boy here? And since fucking when did he have a broken arm? And when is fucking Kleinman getting here? Connor can’t deal with this right now. He turns around and leaves the room, leaving Hansen stuttering behind him. 

He only gets about five steps before bumping directly into Kleinman. 

“Dude, what the hell? Watch out - oh, hi, Connor.” Connor watches as Kleinman’s facial expressions do a complete and rather impressive 180°. 

“Sorry, I guess.” He really does not want to deal with this kid right now. 

“Yeah, you should b- hey, why are you walking away from the band room? We’re supposed to practice there right now, remember?”

Connor sighs. “Yeah, I’m aware. But, uh, why is your bestie, Skinny Tree Boy, in there?”

“Who, Evan? Um, yeah, I asked him to help us practice? Is that cool, or…?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” Kleinman is acting weird - he usually never asks if something is okay. “But why do we need him to help? I’m assuming he knows absolutely nothing about band, right?”

“Yeah, but I just thought he could, like, help …count or something? I don’t know!”

“Then why’d you invite him?” Right now, Connor really wishes he had somewhere else to be. That he didn’t have time for this bullshit, but, unfortunately, he has all the time in the world. Goddamn good fucking planning. 

“Oh, uh, because - don’t tell him this, okay? - because my moms asked me to reach out to him more, I guess? We’re just, like, family friends, you know.”

Okay, what the fuck. Connor isn’t really in a position to judge other people and their friends, but, like, what the actual fuck is wrong with Kleinman today? 

“Okay, I guess. Well, your family friend is waiting for us by himself in there,” he gestures lamely toward the band room door, “so, do you, like, wanna go in? Or just stand here doing nothing?”

Jared nods and starts toward the band room. “Oh, but we were having ever so much fun, darling!” he says, just a bit louder than necessary, ensuring that Hansen hears. Connor follows him, and just as he is walking in, Kleinman turns back around and gives him a comical wink. 

Hansen, for his part, doesn’t say anything, just waits for Kleinman to tell him what to do. 

Here’s the thing: Connor knows, for a fact, that Kleinman has no idea what Hansen is going to do, and, obviously, neither does Hansen. So, of course, Connor just sits back, waiting for the show to start. 

And he doesn’t have to wait long. 

“Jesus, Evanescence, what the fuck happened to you? Finger yourself too hard or something?”

“W-what?” Hansen’s cheeks turn a truly concerning shade of red at a truly alarming speed. 

“Your arm, dumbass,” Kleinman says with a smirk, but the word somehow holds no malice. 

“W-what about it? O-oh, you mean the c-cast? I f-fell out of a t-tree.” Hansen shrugs, face still tomato-red. 

“What?!? You, Evan Hansen, fucking tree nerd extraordinaire, fall out of a tree?? You climb those fuckers all the time, don’t you? Here I was, little old me, thinking you had tons of experience with climbing. Does this mean you’re, like, a climbing virgin at best?”

Connor decides that just standing there probably isn’t doing any good, so, naturally, he had to butt in: “What the fuck does that even mean, Kleinman? And why the fuck are we still talking about this? Aren’t we supposed to be practicing or something?” 

A valiant effort, but alas, he is ignored. 

“Dude, you’re, like, an acorn! Yes! That’s it - an acorn!” Kleinman exclaims, looking unnaturally excited. He walks over to the trumpet cabinet and grabs his instrument, all while chatting excited at Hansen. 

Feeling helpless, Connor walks over to the kit, pulls off the cover, and folds it up. As Kleinman unpacks his trumpet and Hansen watches the process, he grabs his sticks from the percussion cabinet, and sits down. Finally, it seems, Kleinman has calmed down. 

He watches as, once his trumpet is all set, Kleinman awkwardly mutters something to Hansen, who walks over to a cupboard and grabs a mute. 

Connor has no idea what the fuck Kleinman is going to do with it, seeing as none of the songs that they’re playing require a mute, but he’s perfectly content to just watch the show - free entertainment, although he wishes there were snacks. 

Hansen hands Kleinman the mute, the latter takes it, and, although it would, admittedly, sound quite a bit better on trombone, makes the wah, wah, wahhh sound effect. And Hansen, miraculously, laughs. Like, all the way. A full, loud, astonishingly real laugh. 

Connor is perplexed. It wasn’t even that funny. Or was there, like, an inside joke that he was missing? He doesn’t have very long to be perplexed, though, because Hansen cuts himself off, eyes wide, hand flying to cover his mouth. 

“S-sorry,” he stutters, head down, and Connor doesn’t know who he’s talking to, but luckily, Kleinman answers before he can. 

“Wow, Evangeline, never took you for the loud, open-mouthed kind of guy.” Hansen’s eyes are now so wide, Connor’s not sure how they don’t just fall out. 

The blush from earlier finds its way back onto Hansen’s features, and he makes a few confused yet noncommittal noises before hesitantly saying, “I-I don’t r-really kn-know what you m-mean…?”

“Kleinman, stop harassing the poor child and let’s practice, okay?” Connor feels a bit obligated to save Hansen from whatever the fuck is going on in Kleinman’s fucking cesspool of a brain. “Let’s run I Want You Back, yeah?”

“Fucking- sure, why not?” 

After the first few bars, Connor settles into the song, letting the rhythm carry him through it. And even though his wrist always hurts after this one, and he sometimes slows down a little bit toward the end, he feels like he’s doing pretty well this time. 

The song ends, and Connor allows a small sliver of pride to seep into his soul. And he thinks that maybe the good feeling will actually last this time. 

Until he notices Hansen. 

He realizes the boy has been staring at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed since the song began. But he can’t, for the life of him, figure out why. 

“Are- are you good, Hansen?”

When Connor looks at him, he jumps, like he’s surprised that Connor noticed his …ogling. 

“W-what? O-oh, yeah, I-I’m good!”

Connor is not convinced. “Okay….” He’s confused - what the fuck? - but decides not to dwell on it as they move on to You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To. 

As he plays the opening bars, he feels Hansen’s eyes, white-hot on his back, but decides not to comment, mainly because he’s the middle of a piece, and he sure as hell isn’t going to stop just because someone can’t take their eyes off him. 

This piece is probably the hardest he’s ever played, so he turns his attention back to getting the rhythm right, almost missing it when Jared fracks a note so badly he misses the next three, momentarily freaking out behind his music stand. 

When the song is over, and they’ve played their final notes, Connor gives Jared a look, letting him know that he did not miss the slip-up. He then turns to Hansen, raising his eyebrows when he sees that the boy is still staring, the only change being the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks. 

“Like what you see, Hansen?” he asks, unable to hide the amusement in his voice. 

“I- what? Huh?” Hansen squeaks, jumping slightly, surprised by Connor’s sudden boldness. 

Not wanting to be left out, Kleinman clearly feels the need to butt in, with a simple “he asked you a question, Acorn,” and Connor doesn’t miss the slight bitterness in his voice as he says it, so matter-of-factly. It’s almost as if he’s trying to hide the near-jealousy in his voice.

And Hansen high-tails it the fuck out of there.