Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Hi, Connor!”

An awkward smile found its way to Evan’s face as he stared at the closed front door, voice echoing through the empty house. He repeated the phrase to himself, again and again, at varying pitches. “Hi, Connor,” he would start, sounding oddly bored, before he’d clear his throat and give another, much stronger, “Hello, Connor.”

He’d flap his hands and take slow breaths as he began to pace. As much as the two had been hanging out over the last few months of their junior year, Evan still felt the same way when summer came. 

Dr. Sherman vaguely knew of Evan’s friendship with Connor. An understanding, lacking intricacies, of the simple fact they acknowledged each other. All Evan’s therapist knew was the part of Connor that ignored him during school, brushing shoulders aggressively as his most grandiose show of affection.

The version of Connor Murphy that Dr. Sherman didn’t know was currently on Evan’s front porch, knocking.

Evan jumped, his head snapping to the door. He quickly smoothed out his shirt and took slow steps toward the door. You know, so he didn’t look too eager. And with a sloppy fumbling with the door handle, the porch (and by association, Connor) was now present in Evan’s vision.

Evan said his long awaited, oh-so-practiced greeting, with the cheesy grin on his face he couldn’t possibly resist in Connor’s presence. Even to his completely blank expression, Evan could still say it with the same eagerness in his voice.

“Hey, Connor!”

Connor’s blank expression slowly shifted to imply his own joy, with a hint of amusement behind his somewhat smug way of showing it.

Closing the door behind himself, he replies, “I heard you the first twenty times. Chill.”

Evan’s face is unquestionably red, hence his sudden turn to face the living room and rush through this initial interaction as fast as possible.

Connor quickly makes himself comfortable in a rehearsed manner, tossing himself on his same spot on the couch that he found a way to claim. He untied his scruffy boots and threw them across the room, watching as Evan scrambled to look for a remote.

“Are you sitting on it?” He accused, as he lifted a couch cushion, which only led him to groan in frustration.

Connor just shook his head, turning to look at the armrest to his left that he’d found himself leaning against. Sticking a hand through the gap between the armrest and nearest cushion, he pulls out a remote that Evan quickly takes from his hand.

“So,” Connor began, watching as the television turned on and Evan began looking for his usual conversational buffer. A movie he didn’t actually care about, even, but that he could glance over at when he got hesitant. Connor knew of this habit, of course, but he’d always pop the question, “What’re we gonna watch?”

“I don’t know,” Evan swallows, going through Netflix menus to find something tolerable. “Why don’t you pick? I’ll watch anything, really.”

He walks over to Connor, carefully handing the remote to him, feeling the way his hand would brush against his own once he took it. Afterward, he sat down as well—on the other end of the couch, though not far away due to the size of it. 

With two cushions, you could hardly call it a couch. Evan’s mom never did. Well, the only person who would really ever call it a couch was Connor. Evan and his mom got used to calling it their loveseat. As she would always say: “It’s the cuter way of saying small couch. Why wouldn’t you?” 

The size of the couch pushed the two together no matter how hard Evan tried to pull them apart. Connor laughs each time he remembers his first visit to Evan’s home–watching him sit on the floor, heavily breathing, somehow on the other side of the room. Connor resisted bringing it up this time, though he’d never allow Evan to get used to such. This time, he would simply toss a confident arm over his shoulders and move to sit more directly beside Evan.

The movie was on. Something Connor clearly picked to put on in the background and raise the occasional laugh from himself in order to lighten the mood. In that way, they both needed the distraction.

When the noise was first broken it would be consistently jarring. And this time, it was Evan who suddenly allowed words to spill from his psyche. Quickly, as if rushing to grab the words as they spewed from his mouth, he said, “Hey, um, I just… I just have to ask, Connor, are you… are you high?”

“What?”

“I mean, you’re suddenly so happy, and your heart is beating so fast, I swear. I swear I can kinda feel your pulse where your hand is on my shoulder. Unless that's my pulse. Do people have pulses on their shoulders?”

“Evan…”

“Sorry, I don’t know if that was out of line. I know you’ve been trying to… I think, have you? I mean, been trying to get better…”

“Evan.”

“Yes? Shit, sorry. I know that was a lot.”

“It’s fine.”

There was a short pause, and the two of them both turned to look at the television rather than each other. 

Evan rested his newly tense and raised hands, setting them atop of his thighs, where he’d wipe the accumulated sweat off against his pants. He made the inevitable mistake of speaking again, almost just as desperate and fast, “So, are you? Just… just tell me, I won’t be mad, I just wanna know.”

“I’m not,” Connor replied, his tone a little sharp. He looked noticeably more irritated at the question, but internally, he understood why Evan would ask. He was never enjoyable to be around when he was high–constantly spaced out and impossible to talk to—he knew Evan just didn’t want to have another miserable, meaningless, one-sided chat, where Connor is clearly elsewhere in his own mind. “I’ve been sober all week.”

Evan was his only way out of this mess that was his brain. That is, the only way that wasn’t drugs. Which made Evan happier. In turn, they would talk a lot. Evan didn’t consider himself a prude… of course not. He’s just reasonable. He listened to all the Just Say No lectures he was forced through in his youth. He knew drugs were an unnecessary evil in the world. This thought process led to a cycle. Every time Connor thought about returning back to his habits, he’d shoot Evan a text. And even then, he’d end up high by the end of the conversation every now and again. He’d admit his guilt, to the response of Evan’s disappointment, and each time the double reliance would grow.

He didn't want to admit it, but as time went on, he needed Evan, bad. Connor would lay in bed those nights he wasn’t able to get into contact, a string of messages that felt akin to a plea, left behind in his final waking hours. Every buzz of his phone, as naturally was already a rare sight, was suddenly associated with Evan. He’d groan loudly once he’d see a text from his mom, his eyes breezing past the words. And, of course, not many others texted him at all. On occasion, his dad. A few other people were saved to his phone, though just to fill space now. Like books on a coffee table.

But it’s not as if Evan suddenly becoming a bare necessity to Connor was a surprise. The two oddly drifted together, intertwined by some unholy force. Hell, even on that couch, at that very moment, Connor would find himself slowly drifting toward him. By the midpoint of the film, Connor’s head was in his lap. And by the last quarter, Evan’s fingers hesitantly began to comb through Connor’s tangled hair. 

Connor didn’t mean for all of this to happen. He told himself this reliance could have happened at any time, to anyone, and didn’t have anything to do with Evan. He didn’t think it was true, but those were the words repeated in his mantra of guilt, and ultimately how he slept at night.

The truth of the matter is this; Connor had never fit in, for even a single day of his life. Somewhere between his world and everyone else’s, there was this massive gap. Each new thing his parents found out about him, only served to push them another million worlds apart. It would terrify them to know, Connor would think, that I spend all my time thinking about some guy.

There’s only so many flaws one person can have in the mind of Connor Murphy. The overflow of even just one more burden stayed on his mind. He thought about his parents wanting him to raise a family of his own, to pass down the last name. The only issue with that being what comes with having children of his own. He didn’t want them to be just as flawed and sick as him. Forced into learning from the perspective of a parent just how torturous his own existence dared to be.

Neither Evan nor Connor spoke about their awfully queer friendship outside of the time they spent alone. But even they could see it in the way they would get grossly close every time they got the chance, near constantly ending up in positions like these before quickly dismissing the notion they wanted to be there.

This time it was oddly quiet, almost eerily peaceful. The movie came to its conclusion, Evan still carefully running his hands through Connor’s hair. When the hand was removed, Connor quickly sat up as if in fear the moment would go away. He propped himself up by his palms for a moment when he turned to face Evan, leaning forward before catching himself by grabbing his arms, trying to make it look almost purposeful. As if strongly compelled to, Connor suddenly leaned in to kiss Evan mere seconds later. It was short and awkward, as anyone could have anticipated. But the moment, as it stood on its own, somehow already became an invasive presence in each of their minds. And somehow, that blissful peace stayed in the room for just a few seconds more as Connor pulled back and they stared at each other in bewilderment.

“Fuck.” Like a switch had been flipped, Connor stood in a near instant, shoving himself off the couch.

He repeated the word what must’ve been a hundred times as he scrambled to find his boots, not daring to look over at Evan and see what he could possibly look like at that moment. From afar, Evan could see him push the side of his thumb into his eye, clearly wiping an escaped tear. Connor sloppily tied his boots and stood up straight, facing the wall as he took a deep breath. 

“I’ll email you. Okay?” Connor stepped toward the door, his hand hesitating on the handle as he turned his head down to speak, “Just don’t talk to anyone about this shit.”

“Okay.” Evan released a seemingly long-held breath, his hands clenching his knees helplessly as he similarly stared at the floor. 

“Okay? Christ, that’s all you have to say about this?”

“No, I just… I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry. Gotcha.” Connor scoffed, taking a sudden and sharp turn to face the couch again.

“Yeah, I am, okay? I’m sorry–”

“Come here.”

Evan lifted his head. Slowly, he began to stand. He turned to see Connor with his back against the door, arms crossed defensively, eyes locked onto his.

Connor’s expression somehow turned back to a smile, though now a more cautious, maybe even begrudging, one. He held out his arms to Evan with a simple implication. And when Evan didn't immediately step forward into a hug, he took matters into his own hands and pulled him forward. He hugged him tight, for longer than he had ever before, before pulling away with an almost sad quality to his expression.

“Remember, email. My dad is checking my phone every weekend now, so don’t text anything until I tell you it’s okay,” he explained, holding Evan’s forearms just barely a foot in front of him, keeping him standing close, “You got that?”

Evan nodded, scared to move his mouth at all. He didn’t know what he might say, and he didn’t want to find out the hard way.

“Good, good…” Connor mumbled to himself in faux reassurance as he slowly let go of Evan’s arms, turning to open the door. “I’ll see you.”

When Connor left the room, Evan could just barely feel that shift in temperature. He knew it was all in his head, though, because the majority of Connor’s body was famously cold. The fact brought him great comfort–making it easy to remember–as he recalled it each time they held hands, the chill quickly dispelling the sweat that developed on his hands. Maybe it had more to do with the calm that Connor would inevitably cast upon Evan like a spell. No matter, he was a net-positive to Evan’s mood. In spite of the way his heart would race and his face would grow hotter in his presence, Connor felt like a constant calm.

Evan tidied up the house, erasing all evidence of him having been there. Once each corner Connor dared step foot in had been cleaned, Evan walked into his room and shut the door behind him. With an oddly careful grab of his laptop, Evan walked over to his bed and sat in the middle. Putting the laptop in front of himself as he sat cross legged, he began to type.

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From: [REDACTED]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Placeholder because I don’t know what to call this yet

Dear Connor,

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He took a deep breath. His fingers began to move again.

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From: [REDACTED]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Placeholder because I don’t know what to call this yet

Dear Connor,

You just left but I feel compelled to write anyways. It’s like the second you leave I miss you all over again

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Yeah, no. Backspace, backspace.

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From: [REDACTED]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Placeholder because I don’t know what to call this yet

Dear Connor,

You just left but I feel compelled to write anyways. Because you’re a good friend of mine, and probably only friend of mine. I mean there’s Jared and all but he doesn’t actually care about me or understand why I am the way I am and I think you do and I hope you feel the same but I obviously can’t tell because that’s a deeply personal thing and why would I know how you feel and oh my god I just never stop talking do I

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Evan shut his laptop upon hearing a knock against his doorframe, seeing his mom, Heidi, standing in the doorway, as if she’d been waiting. “Evan…” was all she said, in an oddly skeptical tone, accusatory even.

“Hey...” Evan replied in a similarly skeptical tone, stretching out the word in the same way.

His mom had never noticed him bringing Connor over, so, surely it wasn’t that, right? Those floors were swept to death, mopped even, spotless, perfect, leaving not a trace of his presence, his existence, his—

“I just wanted to say thanks,” she smiled, uncrossing her arms and softening her stance, “I can tell you’re cleaning up around the house. It always smells so nice when I come home. I just… I can’t thank you enough, I don’t even know when I asked you to do all this.”

“I thought you’d like to come back to a clean space after work, you know?” Why am I even lying about something like this?

“Well, thank you, honey, you’re really the best.” Heidi walked over, giving him a kiss on the forehead, before taking a step back. She’s gonna find out.

You know my secret, don’t you? And secretly, even if you say you’ll love me no matter what, you’d spite me for it.

But by then, she was gone. The room was empty, the door was shut, and the laptop suddenly felt heavier as he placed it on his lap. He opened it up, and began to chip at his godforsaken email again.

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From: [email protected]

To: [REDACTED] 

Subject: Just a whole lot of words. Sorry.

Dear Connor,

You just left, but I feel compelled to write anyway. There’s a certain quality about you that makes me want to talk. It feels as if I have a thousand things to talk about at any given time, but the words just don’t want to come out when I’m face-to-face with you. Like how I’m talking right now. But this is stuff I couldn’t say to you in person if I was prompted to.

I guess that’s the great thing about the internet, right? I can just write all this shit down, and maybe you’ll read it, or maybe you won’t, and it won’t really make a difference. Like right now you could have the most disgusted look on your face ever, and I just wouldn’t see it. But when I see you, every word I say feels like I’m saying it on a stage where the only person in the audience is a person I deeply care about and am concerned with whether or not they’ll like me. And I’m aware that’s a run-on sentence and I can’t fix it because I’m unsure how to re-word the very thoughts in my head. And I hope that’s okay because this will probably become a trend if we have to email more. Because in an email, I can just write out everything at once. Proofreading my own brain just makes me cringe, so I don’t. Sorry.

I hope you sleep well. And if you see this the following morning or whenever I hope you slept well on this day.

Sincerely,

Evan Hansen

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SENT: 7:02 PM, 6/9/15

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From: [REDACTED]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Just a whole lot of words. Sorry.

Evan,

Here’s me emailing you like I said I would. I hope you’re not mad at me for today. It was all a spur of the moment thing.

And if you don’t hate me yet, we can go do something fun tomorrow. Your pick.

Also for the record I did read what you wrote. Supposedly.

See you,

Connor

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SENT: 12:02 AM, 6/10/15

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Relief befell Evan the morning he received this email. He took his breakfast of scrambled eggs back to his room and sat down at his desk, opening the laptop to a new email from Connor. He smiled, though he tried to hold that back, and all the tension in his body froze before it all melted from his lowering shoulders. Evan hadn’t slept that night, too busy being enshrouded in his own thoughts to close his eyes for even a minute.

Behind Evan’s eyelids lived a sick fantasy, one of love, of coming home. It was freakishly domestic, a long winded story of returning from some unnamed repetitive job to Connor’s rare eagerness. 

It would start at the door, a freshly stained smooth wood that he would knock on. Connor would be behind the door, flour on his right cheek. He’d lead Evan into the kitchen and offer him a freshly baked cookie. The smell, though imaginary, was imprinted into his mind. Connor would sit on the counter and watch as Evan took a bite and smiled knowingly.

Afterward, they’d go back to their shared room. A large bed, two nightstands on either side of it, the lighting soft and dim. As Evan was backed up against the bed by Connor, he’d stop as the back of his legs met the mattress, hands on Connor’s chest. Before they could move any further, Evan would put a hand to the back of Connor’s head and pull it closer to himself. Evan would kiss the side of his face until all the flour was nearly all gone, before leaning back and sitting on the edge of the bed. Just after then, the only spoken words of the fantasy would be muttered by Connor, heard vividly in his voice.

“Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Then he’d open his eyes again, and the fantasy would go away. The details built themselves each time his eyes couldn’t stay open throughout the night. He didn’t understand the basis of any of these thoughts. It was some sort of juxtaposition—he’d assumed—between wanting a normal life and needing Connor in it. Connor played the role of his housewife, essentially. It was jarring when compared to their actual relationship.

The addition of this fantasy to his mind was new, surely, if not just one of the things you forget after you’ve slept it off. It compelled him to write Connor again, his sleepy mind’s filter null as his hands moved to his keyboard.

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From: [email protected]

To: [REDACTED] 

Subject: (no subject)

We need to talk about something please not over email though it’s something i cant talk about sorry just please get back to me when you can 

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SENT: 9:56 AM, 6/10/15

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He sent it. No subject line, no punctuation, no further context, no sign off. Just a simple message to get the point across. It came off as desperate, of course, but Evan had no clue. To him, this was his most normal action of today. Simply requesting to talk to his friend.

He’d blink again, much longer now, and would lean back in his chair as drowsiness slowly took him over and the fantasy replayed. It was slower now, as if to account for his relaxation. Evan ultimately felt no need to rush it now. He took in every detail, as he tended to do, and would wake up three hours later to his room. 

Remnants of egg lay dormant on the floor beneath Evan feet, ants already having gathered in a uniform pile overtop. He’d knocked over his plate of scrambled eggs just before he fell into that deep sleep, the evidence of such just beneath him. Disgusted, he quickly snapped out of his tiredness and went to get a broom. Into a dustpan lie the eggs and ants he hastily swept up, to which he dumped out in the trash as quickly as possible. On his way to the trash can in his kitchen, Evan caught sight of the time just off the oven display. He was awfully humiliated by how much he’d slept during the day, a ripe 10:00am on the clock, but pushed the guilt down. It’s summer, after all. What’s there to be awake for?

Shit.

In his haze, Evan completely forgot about his summer gig. Sure, Ellison was just down the street, and he wouldn’t be severely late… but this looks terrible on his record. Do they keep track of that? Of course they do. 10:15, that was when his first shift… if you can even call it that… began.

He was working as an apprentice park ranger at Ellison State Park. The reason he even landed this opportunity, he insisted, was because he was so pitiful that the park rangers figured he had nothing else to do over the summer. It’s partially true, of course, as he’s spent every summer alone until this year. The one year he actually has responsibilities.

Evan ran back into his room to get changed, doing so as fast as possible before essentially flying out the front door. He ran to the park—that is—for about two minutes before he became short on breath and had to begrudgingly jog the rest of the way. It was his first day, so no one was too mad. They held in their irritation as well as they could and simply nudged him along with one of the park rangers.

As Evan walked through the park, his eyes followed the swaying leaves. All these trees he passed were incredibly tall, and he felt himself zoning out as his eyes trailed up the tall trunks. A few had placards—defining the species of each unique tree. Evan ran his hand across the placards, feeling the raised text imprint against his fingers, marveling at the tree behind it.

It wasn’t easy, but it had to be done. Try to forget it all for a few hours. About Connor. Because he’ll be damned if he’s caught pondering on the job.

***

Connor was at home, laying on his back as he stared at the ceiling. He hadn’t gotten out of bed yet, laying around until noon came. It didn’t concern anyone—he figured such would be the case. Connor wasn’t bothered by no one coming to check up on him. All he was worried about was that fated potential email waiting for him on his unchecked laptop. That was what pushed him to get out of his bed for the first time that day, after all.

He stood, his legs somewhat unstable. With a calculated stumble, he found himself on the floor. Connor laid, head peering under his bed. And right where he left it, he found his laptop. He reached an arm under his bed and slid it toward himself, pulling with his fingertips and catching it under his palm. Connor pulled it into the light, lifting it and placing it atop the sheets of his unmade bed. He got up on his knees, eye level with where the screen would be.

Lifting the screen, his finger immediately landed on the trackpad. He didn’t care to shut it off, which would explain the terrible battery life of the thing. He opened up his email, reading the first unopened message.

Huh. Evan wants to talk. About what? Hopefully not about that kiss. The thought of confronting why the hell Connor did that was terrifying. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. 

Connor can make it up. Like he always did—a knock on the door, a half-assed apology, anything but an explanation. He could see it in Evan’s face. The way his silent frustration tilted his smile. 

“Fuck.” Connor groaned, putting his head down on top of the keyboard. This was miserable. He was dreading the next time he’d see Evan. And yet? He kind of liked that.

That nauseating feeling in his heart became something Connor associated with Evan. That heavy churn, the one that convinced him he’d throw up on Evan’s shoes, was liberating. He felt it when he knew he was doing something bad; the same way a little kid did when they went against their parents’ will. But what it meant for Connor was that magnetic tension the pair had. Well, at least to him. He was pretty confident Evan didn’t think anything of their relationship.

Until that damn email.

What could he possibly want to talk about? Better question, which part? Maybe it was some spiel about taking some distance from each other. But at the same time, it could be a desperate confession he’d held as tight as Connor’s own. Connor knew about Schrödinger. Maybe if he never opened that email, that conversation, he’d get to live in that nauseating state just a little while longer.

So he ignored it. No response, nothing. But Connor knew what time Evan’s mom would be out of the house. Connor knew he’d be back on that doorstep in record time. But for a moment, he could live in the delusions he constructed for himself. Connor knew the plan was flawed, even when he thought he could keep up the silence for a little. It wouldn’t matter, though. Because he couldn’t.