High Anxiety - Dear Evan Hansen

Are There Trees in Santa Fe?

So I'm trash. Have a Newsies AU because I felt like it needed to happen for reasons that are hopefully pretty obvious. Please tolerate my sad attempts to type in the accent.

"Who's singin'?" Connor groaned, mumbling into his pillow, which, to be accurate, was the crook of his arm.

"Jack."

"Figures." Connor rubbed sand from his eyes and propped up on his elbows, spitting gummed-up morning breath over the edge of the fire escape.

"He's talkin' 'bout leavin' again." Connor squinted at his friend in the pre-dawn light. Evan was standing against the rail, his eyes cast upwards to the source of the faint melody. Shadows fell in a grid pattern against his face, filtering spots of fading starlight through the iron grates above them.

"The guys say he's done that since he got out here. The streets do things to kids, but he's always 'ad his head in the clouds. I'm 'bout ready to shove it 'tween his legs." Connor sat himself up with a grunt, falling into a sitting position against the smoked brick building. Ragged clay scraped his shoulders through his shirt, which used to be black. Eventually, everything faded to the same filthy gray. Evan sighed and let his head fall down against his chest. His thin arms were gathering soot-stained color from where they were crossed on the black steel.

"And Crutchie?"

"Not much left in 'im, and he knows it. Everybody knows it." A loud clang and two panicked shouts rang above them. "Listen, there he goes fallin' down tha' ladder agian. Jack tryin' to convince him that goin' west will keep him from dyin'?"

"Yep." Evan knelt down, laying his chin on his arms. His eyes were misty against the washed-out morning sky. The stripes on his rumpled blue shirt had long faded and the collar was popped up halfway. His hair lay lank with weeks of dust. A smudge of dirt was scraped against his cheek. Connor glanced down at his fingernails, black with grime, and reveled in the dark satisfaction that hey, at least they all looked like they'd been run over by a horse. Or a train. Or just by life.

"They all say that. All the pinin' dreamer types. Say there's some magical promised land or some such. Big load o' dirt."

"You talk so big, Connor." Evan fell the rest of the way to sitting. He let his feet swing over the side of the fire escape, a support rail between his legs. His half-tied shoelaces danced back and forth. "Sometimes I forget I been out here longer than you have."

"Hey, the streets is a state o' mind. I was practic'lly born into it. My folks were none too nurturin' emotion'lly, you know tha'. I'm out here by choice, an' tha' means I gotta own it. No dreamin' for this boy. I'll earn what I hafta earn. That's life? That's life. My dame o' a sister on the other hand..."

"I seen Zoe around. She's nicer 'an most."

"Yeah, only 'cause she don't know you know me. I'm a disgrace to the family name. An' disgrace 'em I will. The Murphys can go sit wi' their polished buttons an' their fancy dolls an' get gussied-up for high class comp'ny. I don' want a dime o' it. Much betta to be sittin' here on a well-an'-good street with good, honest boys just tryin' to make a livin'. Least we's got nothin' to hide here. No secrets when you's gotta work for pennies." Evan was pressing his forehead against the bar in his lap, wrapping his arms around it like it was a lifeline, the last branch between him and falling out of some proverbial tree. Which, considering they were towering over a Manhattan alleyway, it almost was. His knuckles were white on the metal. "Y'alright?"

"Yeah."

"You don' look alright." Connor shifted his weight, sitting up further. He crossed his legs and rested his wrists on them, poking a finger through the gridiron they called a floor. And a bed. His hair fell across his eyes. It was getting long. Long enough some of the guys were starting to tease him, saying he should put curlers in it and wear it like a lady. He wasn't going to cut it.

"You got me thinkin' 'bout family. Not the bes' thing for me to think about. Can I 'elp it if mine wasn' all tha' secure?"

"You never tol' me 'bout your family."

"Don' like tellin' folks." Evan hadn't moved from his death-grip on the bar. His eyes were hidden behind his arms, but his head angled down, so he was always staring at the street, where a tomcat was chasing some stray rats between the rain barrels.

Connor crawled over to him, sitting side-by side on the edge. He let his feet kick in time with Evan's, hanging more than a few inches closer to the faraway concrete. Their legs knocked together. Evan took a deep breath.

"My dad 'ad all the money. He had a good job an' gave us a good house an' good clothes an' good food. My mom an' I didn' need worry 'bout anythin'. For years I go' to be an actual kid. My mom was happy. I was happy. Life was good." Evan buried himself further into his support beam, leaning into it with his shoulder and creeping closer to the edge of the platform. Connor couldn't see him crying, but he could hear the tears in his voice. "The--then he up an' left. Ran off one mornin' an' took the money with 'im. My mom never said why he went. I think he found some pretty doll to take as mistress or somethin' like tha'. It doesn' matter anymore. He left an' my mom an' I were left withou' all the nice things we got used to. We was alone an' no better than the dirt we was left to eat."

"Hey--" Connor lay a hand on Evan's arm.

"No, I started. I'mma finish." Evan took a shivering breath and lifted his head. His jaw was slack. Shiny tracks traced their way through the grime on his face. His eyes gleamed like prized, polished china. Connor smiled to himself at that thought. He'd shattered the precious cups his mother had locked away in a chest. That was the day before he booked it out here. "My mom wen' to work at a textile mill. It wasn' much, but it was better'n dirt. An'--" Evan's lips curled together, biting back a sob. He breathed hard through his nose. Connor tightened his grip on his shoulder. "An' one day she never came home. There was a tiny line in the pape tha' day. Acciden' a' the mill. They didn' even know 'er name. I did. Pretty much the on'y person 'round anymore who does. It was a good name, too. Heidi. Heidi Hansen."

Evan finally relaxed his grip on the railing, pulling away and sitting more firmly next to Connor. He lay his still damp cheek on the taller boy's shoulder.

"...I didn' know." Evan gave a weak smile.

"You couldn'a if I didn' tell ya'." He sniffed. "I waited two weeks 'fore Snyder came with his goons. I didn' know what the refuge was, but I sure as hell knew I didn' wanna be there. I ran. I ended up 'ere. Not a mom an' dad, but a family in it's own right, ain't it?" His smile grew. "An', yeah, I miss 'em, but I'd rather be here 'n tha' refuge, y'know? Friends an' brothers an' all that's pretty good right 'bout now."

Whatever Connor might've said was cut off by a work bell and Jack's rousing call down to them. Routine was a small comfort. No breath of fresh air, but it stopped Connor from having to say anything. How do you respond to your friend telling you their life story when you're pretty sure it makes you the only other person on the smoggy wreck of the planet to know it?

Connor wrapped his arms around Evan in a short hug. Hopefully it would say what his mouth couldn't. Evan hugged back, warm and firm. Connor could feel how tired they both were. It spread tight between them like a toothache. So tired and the workday hadn't even started. Different kind of tired, though.

Jack yelled again, and the streets were waking up, the bustle of boys getting ready to do their jobs.

Connor stood and helped Evan up. Evan bent right back down to tie his shoes. Connor smirked and fixed Evan's collar, before checking his own and tucking in his shirt. He straightened his vest and glanced at Evan fixing his buttons and combing his hair with his fingers. They might've been walking, shouting piles of sweat, dirt, and rags, but they could at least try to look like they cared. Connor tied his hair off his face and stuffed it into his cap, sending one last glance to Evan before they raced down the rickety iron stairs.

Ain't it a fine life?