Chapter Text
Connor turns the faucet, water runs loudly.
Sometimes it's the littlest things that set him off.
They could be pretending to have a regular, normal, ordinary family dinner and then something would be said that’ll make him feel like he got syringed with a vicious feeling to bite.
Sometimes things just seem so frail and delicate around him. He feels like someday he'll find he has some random allergy to orange juice and then he'd grow, and grow, and grow like Alice in Wonderland until his legs break through the windows, elbows topple the stupid China cabinets, hands punch holes through the walls, and his head would pierce the ceiling---if that should ever happen, atleast the view would be nice.
And then he gets the feeling that if his sister had magic like Harry Potter he would have ballooned like Aunt Marge a long time ago and just been whisked away.
Essentially, his thoughts always revolve around the idea that if he doesn't take his own life, some divine intervention will intercede and take him out. At times it's a comforting sort of daydream---realistically, he knows it's a deed he will have to fulfill on his own.
It doesn't really matter how to him. He justs wants it to be quick and efficient.
A wild knock shatters his thoughts. Connor hits the door to stop that pounding noise---also to show he's still alive, God knows why anyone would want that--- “The bathroom is goddamn occupied!”
“I know that, jerk. I'm just---” Zoe’s voice trails away as she obviously fishes for an excuse, “The water was running for a while…” she finishes lamely. She and Connor are the only ones in the house as their parents have gone. Of course now it’s Zoe’s duty to check to see if Connor is still breathing.
Honestly, they always do this. He can fucking be reading a book on his bed and they'll think he's reading the Communist Manifesto of Suicidal People. Or he'll just be drawing and then they'll peer over his shoulder as if he were plotting his own death in writing.
All of them play the Suicide Police in the house, all of them ready to sound the sirens and “save” him. But none of them are willing to just be his family again and help him get the help he actually needs. Instead they keep on handcuffing him to living a life he doesn’t even want to have anymore.
With each effort he makes to end it all, his family just intensifies their efforts to counter him especially after that really close call with the razors---he swears it felt as if the glory of the sun had outright beamed up his sorry soul and made him feel nothing---it was beautiful, yet they dragged him back into the living.
Something explosive and painful erupts in him when he thinks upon how he had been so close to getting what he and everyone else wanted and yet he keeps getting pulled back to the same destruction and turmoil his presence brings. Wash. Rinse. And Repeat. No one else, except him, seems to care that they are destined to repeat the same tragedy over and over till he is gone.
Instead, they have made his room like a goddamn high surveillance prison. They’ve taken away his door, any sharp objects, any rope-like objects, anything lethal---they have even taken his art supplies, some books, and anything he remotely liked from his walls and boxed them up. Saving them for a better Connor, a healthier Connor, a trusted Connor. That Connor will never be able to reopen those boxes and start anew if he is to get his way.
There was a time when he had wanted help. He didn’t know where to get it but he knew it had to be given to him in some professional capacity with the inclusion of meds. Fuck, he had wanted that help so bad. He had wanted literally anything to give him a light, something to hold on to, so he can see that they still care for him---if they could seek out that help for him wouldn’t that mean they truly want to see him get better? Guess not. Now, he doesn’t want any of that---it’s too late for him.
In his peripheral vision he catches shadows moving faintly beneath the door. His simmering anger since this morning is stretching thin like elastic, it's beginning to snap,“Are you still out there?! God forbid I wash my hands without someone’s help!” Connor hits the door again, “Leave me alone!”
Zoe doesn't respond but he knows she's still out there because they are still smarting from his most recent attempt a handful of months ago. Even the bathroom is not enough to guarantee some modicum of privacy after all this time.
He feels something in him snap. God, he's tired of this shit. Connor whips the door open, a bark ready between his teeth, but the hall is empty.
Faintly, the sounds of a guitar being tuned sound from Zoe’s door. The plucking of the notes buoying up and down to their respective sounds don’t do anything for the dizzying anger making him see red.
He nearly throws himself down the stairs to stop himself from doing something he’ll regret. On the way out the door he grabs his bag.
***
He doesn't know why he's here.
The room is awfully quiet except for the soft breaths of Evan Hansen and the beeps that monitor his beating heart. The boy’s arm is in a cast, it is blank, and rises and falls gently.
This is all kinds of wrong. Connor Murphy knows he shouldn't be sitting next to the comatose boy he barely knows (and has been dreaming about)---but he is.
Connor even picked up a pretty green leaf on the way there like a moron because the thought of getting flowers stressed him out way too fucking much for their implications.
If he did hypothetically get flowers, then Evan’s family would wonder who brought him them and then assume it was Kleinman, but then they would find out it wasn't, and then they'd casually ask who had been visiting Evan, and then the receptionist would describe some thin, dark-clothed kid with long hair visiting him like some pot-smelling grim reaper and…
The leaf is safer although he felt idiotic placing the damn thing besides the colorful bouquet that reads: “Love, from Mom” on a yellow paper-cutout.
Connor reaches towards his bag on the floor and pulls out a thin blue book. It's one of his favorites: The Little Prince. On the way to make his impromptu visit he stopped by the library to pick it up. He already has a copy but that was boxed up since all the things he holds dear pose a threat to his life apparently.
Anyways, he is not here to think about that. The anger from this morning has muted to a dull buzz. It’s still there, it never really leaves, but he is as fine as he can be now.
Feeling for all the world like the people out in the halls and the rooms next door and the buildings across the street have swiveled their eyes to stare at him, he cracks the book open to the first page, clears his throat, and reads:
“Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book…”
***
It's late by the time he gets home, he lights up a cigarette and sits in his car in the dark for a bit. He read that book soft and slow, he had forgotten how much he enjoyed it and found that he actually had a pleasant time reading it aloud.
Occasionally his eyes would flit to Evan’s sleeping face during the parts where a particular line flowed lovely or he felt a smile crack at his cheeks. Each time he felt a pang of disappointment when his eyes didn't meet Evan’s own. However, the sleeping boy had a quality of peace not unlike the feeling he gets when he dreams of him; so, Connor found it easy to relax in the chair and read unselfconsciously and even comfortably.
It is not until now where Connor remembers the latest dream. He vaguely recalls a lot was said about trees. At first, there was snow on the floor with these really tall trees surrounding them, and then they were by the Rockies or some equally as impressive mountain range.
Connor blushes when he remembers offering to be friends with Evan. The boy had looked so small and sad. But that wasn't all it, Connor would be lying if he didn't admit that a little part of him also felt a little small and sad at that moment. He truly wished for his offer of friendship to be accepted---accepted especially from the boy who’s smiles make Connor’s heart go soaring atop a warm wind.
A sweet feeling lingers in him and he holds it close as he enters the house. There is the sound of the TV playing some movie or something, the rest of the house is dark.
He is in the kitchen picking at leftovers from the dinner he missed when his mother walks into the room.
Great, just what he wanted.
She turns on all the lights and he pretends to be really engrossed in his too-soft yet too-something gluten-free pasta. He hears her put a kettle of water to boil---probably for one of her spiritually healing or fat-trimming teas--- she slides into the chair across from him obviously cautious.
“Where were you today?” She tries for sounding bright and interested. It falls a little flat.
“Out.” The soft feeling shrivels up far too fast and Connor spares a pang of grief before settling back into how he normally feels: awful. The lights are too bright and he wants to get up and turn out the lights but the switch is too far.
“Honey, I wanted to talk to you.” When he doesn’t say anything she continues, “Since you still have some weeks before school starts. We---I think it would be a good idea for you to start looking at where you want to apply and start your applications---”
Connor fades out of the one-way conversation. His family doesn't realize that most of the time they talk to him they are actually just talking at him. Like some mannequin that can’t hear and doesn't care to listen.
“---have all this free time with summer and we think it would lessen the stress from schoolwork if you start your college apps a little bit ahead? Of course we’ll pay for all the schools you'd like to try for and---”
Not only do they not realize they speak meaningless things to a hollow mannequin, they make plans for a thing that is going nowhere. Connor doesn't have any plans for the long-run, this fucker is going nowhere.
He vaguely registers the scream of the kettle and the earthy smell of his mother’s tea as she tips the steaming pot into a mug from the Apple Orchard they used to visit a long time ago.
A new voice draws him back into consciousness, “Did you hear your mother?” it’s Larry.
Connor's eyes stay fixated on the mug, it's big and childish, and must be hot to touch.
“Did you listen to anything she said at all? She asked if you will try to at least start looking at college applications?” Larry’s voice grows hard with heat.
Connor automatically brings the cold food to his mouth, only a couple more scoops and he’s done, “I'll think about it.” He really won't.
“Senior year is starting soon and then before you know it it'll be over. You need to prepare for afterwards.”
“I said I'll think about it.” He really really won't. He'll be busy not thinking about it, “As you said, I have the whole summer to do all that thinking.” He thinks he sounds reasonable
Apparently not, “Listen Connor---Look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you.” Larry demands, “We can't keep letting you leave to waste away the day doing God knows what when you can be doing something productive. Take today, you just got back at 10 and missed dinner probably getting high somewhere. That's unacceptable.”
“You should know I wasn't doing that...I was doing something else.” It's now when he meets Larry’s eyes that he realizes that it's oddly quiet. They paused the movie. Zoe is probably brooding on the couch staring at a frozen image and listening.
“That doesn't sound very convincing.” Of course it doesn't because they can't picture him doing literally anything else. “Care to share?”
Damn it. He doesn't think it's a good idea, and it feels all sorts of wrong, but he needs to distract his parents so he says, “I was visiting a friend.”
“A friend!” His mother nearly knocks her mug over in shock.
“What friend?” Larry sounds skeptical and the worry lines of his forehead have dropped downward in confusion.
This is where Zoe hears her stage que apparently as she says, “Connor doesn't have any friends.” He turns around and glares at her.
He finishes his plate and cringes at the cold pasta, “He’s in a coma. I wanted to see how he was doing.”
His mother covers her mouth, “Poor thing! Which friend, honey? What's his name?” As an afterthought she adds, “You should have texted us where you were.” She was aiming for stern but the delight in her eyes weakens it.
“His name is Evan Hansen.” He crosses his arms, “He likes trees. He told me they talk to each other using fungi.” The latter he adds for the hell of it---it’s not like they’re going to fact check it.
Then like reaching Nirvana---or some equally divine shit--- his mother, positively floating with delight, begins making plans for such things as preparing a get-well basket, a bouquet, visiting Evan’s family (God-forbid). Larry just kind of listens to her shell-shocked---he looks kind of like when Connor came out: constipated. It’d be kind of funny if Connor weren't so tired.
Zoe pipes up, “Never heard of him.”
“Do you know everyone in the goddamn school?” He snaps.
“Connor,” his mother warns, “Oh honey, this is wonderful! Not that your friend is in a coma of course but... Why didn't you tell us sooner?”
Because they aren't really friends. Connor just found the poor guy, saved his life, and has been having vivid dreams about him where they talk---God, he’s such a creep. Connor shrugs, “I dunno. Can I go to sleep now?”
“We'll talk more in the morning.” Larry says and leaves the room.
His mother draws near and pats his cheek, she says, “Of course! You must be tired, go to bed sweetheart.”
As he leaves, Zoe only gives him a skeptical look but she holds her tongue.
That was so easy. Connor can still feel the kind touch of his mother’s hand on his cheek, it has been so long since she has looked at him so delightedly and hell even given him a motherly touch like that. He thinks he should feel kind of bad about using Evan like this, but he doesn't.
If he feels anything at this moment, he feels a deep sadness over the friendship with Evan not being real and only a dream.
Regardless, he sleeps and pretends to only half-sort-of-wish for another dream with him.