Trigger warnings: mentions of bruises, anxiety, and not so great sibling relationships.
100 days until
It was one of those days.
Blue days, as Evan thought of them, because no matter how much he liked or wore the color blue, on those days the color became suffocating. The pit of his stomach and the center of his chest felt cold, but sweat still pooled in the palms of his hands. Everything the teachers said in class went in one ear and out the other without ceremony. All sound was muted, like a scene in a movie where everything was crashing down around the main character and they watched in a silent scream.
But Evan wasn’t the main character. And his world wasn’t crashing down around him. If anything, the color blue just stood out a little more than usual. If anything, he thought he didn’t deserve to be the main character, that it should be someone more interesting like Zoe.
In art class she pinned her hair back with a blue barrette. And she drew blue stars on her blue jeans. And she smiled at a friend who was wearing blue lipstick and had blue hair.
Connor’s knuckles were bruised blue…
“Not important,” Evan told himself, pushing away a weird feeling that bubbled in his stomach and throat, a feeling that was completely green. The green glow of leaves when the afternoon sun shines through them. “Not important.”
Class hadn’t started yet, and Evan was drawing tiny circles in the corner of a page of his sketchbook, a trick he had picked up for managing anxiety, and took periodic breaks to internally complain about how he’ll probably never get used to the feeling of his cast. Zoe got up to talk to her blue friend. Connor was there, and he was drawing something on the table, his sketchbook sitting closed next to him.
And then something amazing happened. Zoe turned away from her blue friend, and walked back to her desk. In that moment, Evan felt a surge of confidence that had been foreign to him all his life. Maybe it was the small pocket of green he felt, or the fact that Connor’s I-could-care-less attitude was fogging up the room as he continued to scribble on the table. He raised hand and waved at Zoe, who in that moment seemed to be looking his way. But she simply returned to her table without giving any sign that she knew Evan existed.
He took in a shuddering breath, the blue mood becoming deeper and suffocating him. Zoe wouldn’t purposely ignore him, right? She was nice, if you said hi to her, she’ll talk to you… right?
Evan decided that she hadn’t seen him, at least for now, to avoid having a full blown panic attack in class. The blue subsided a little bit.
It was only then when Evan realized he was staring down at his shoes and rubbing the hem of his shirt between his thumb and his forefinger, a gesture he had used to calm himself down more than once. He looked up only to find out he was caught in the glare of Connor Murphy.
The green glow of leaves when the afternoon sun shines through them.
Based on everything he’d seen involving the Murphy siblings, he didn’t expect Connor to be protective of his sister at all. They were a tundra. But there Connor was, glaring at Evan, the bruises on his hands becoming more and more apparent.
Evan swallowed nervously and looked away. He figured the less he had to do with Connor Murphy, the better. He hated to admit it, but he was scared of him. He didn’t want to be, he couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to be feared or hated by most of the school. That was actually one of Evan’s worst worries. Not being feared, but hated. He was Evan Hansen, who would be scared of him?
He tried to lock away the blue and the green feelings, tucking them into a smooth box made of oak wood somewhere in his mind. Zoe drew blue stars in her sketchbook.
Whenever I see this opening I always think it looks like Knuckles is turning to Sonic in the hope he might be able to answer some questions he’s having about why he is driving a car with two small children inside
Sonic just gives him a cheesy grin and thumbs up in support and then less than a minute later Knuckles crashes it into a plane
The latest selfie fail was caught on camera and the internet will never forget. Especially, if $200,000 comes crashing down, which happened to Simon Birch’s collection. Watch the viral video below to watch the cascading domino effect that takes place.
(this is a sequel to THIS ‘I think there’s someone in the house’ fic!)
The paramedics hammer on the door, and Neil looks up, teary-eyed, from where his face is pressed into Andrew’s damp hair. He’s feeling for his breath with the back of his hand, waiting moment to moment for Andrew to die in his arms, silently like he does everything else. Urgency keeps stunning Neil all over again, hysterical defibrillators. The EMT’s are calling out through the wall, muffled but calm.
It feels unthinkably wrong, their absolute evenness and ease outside his door when his life is an exposed neck and Andrew’s death is the whirring blade of a saw.
He realizes that he has to get up to let them in, and it seems as impossible as it would be for Andrew to spring up and answer the door himself. He feverishly wants them to crumple the door to splinters and be inside already.
It’s a herculean effort to ease Andrew to the ground, like he’s gritting his teeth and cutting off his own leg. He touches Andrew’s clammy face briefly but he can’t bring himself to try and slap him awake. He props Andrew’s bare feet up on the rim of the bath so the blood will flood towards his head, at least.
He feels untethered to his body when he stands, a helium balloon with its usual weight passed out on the bathroom floor. He falls into the wall immediately, adrenaline neck and neck with exhaustion.
He finds his way to the front door without his mind’s help. His head is in the bathroom with Andrew, and he knows that no matter what happens it’ll be there for a long, long time.
The next time he blinks, a man in uniform is holding his biceps and peering down at him seriously.
“—sir? Sir, are you hurt at all?”
“No,” Neil says, lips numb. “Bathroom. He’s in the bathroom. He’s bleeding to death.”
He turns, easily slipping the paramedic’s grip. There’s a procession of them, hefting a gurney and a couple of kits, and they’ve brought all the cold from outside in on their heels. They’re such a foreign object in their warm, messy apartment — uniformed, official, and precise.
It’s deadly, walking in and seeing Andrew spread out in his boxers, blood oozing through his t-shirt from his loose stitches, pale enough to match the porcelain. Neil’s seen enough corpses to recognize what they look like.
He falls heavily to his knees and puts his head directly to his chest, listening, tears slipping hotly over the bridge of his nose.
“Please,” he slurs. His heartbeat is a tentative thud, a knock from an unexpected guest. “Help him. Now, help him now.”
“We’re going to try our best Sir, but you’ve got to get out of the way,” someone says gently.
He topples backwards onto his hands. It’s a cramped space, and he knows it would be easier if he waited outside, but he also knows he’d rather die than leave them alone with him.
The first guy kneels down and takes Andrew’s pulse, and Neil shakes his head. They’re too slow, time is feeding directly into a wide open drain.
“He needs an IV. He’s two litres down, at least. You’ve got to—“ A petite woman puts a hand on his shoulder and he shrugs her off violently. “No! You have to listen to me.”
“We know what we’re doing,” she says. “Are you an MD?” She eyes him doubtfully, gaze flitting from his scars to where her colleagues are taking vitals and cutting through Andrew’s clothes.
“Yes,” Neil says wildly. “And he needs an IV. Possibly two. Large-bore, normal saline. He’s not getting any oxygen, and he’s been like this for as long as it took you to gather your meager response team.”
She purses her lips, but she’s a professional. He can see her repressing her anger and it infuriates him. He feels like he’s crashing, over and over again, and he’s watching someone daintily pump the breaks.
“He’s right,” one of the EMT’s says distractedly. “We’re gonna need to get some fluids started, he’s in hypovolemic shock, sats below 50.”
“You want to tell me what happened?” one of the men asks.
“No,” Neil says as evenly as he can manage, reaching out to graze Andrew’s cold fingers.
“Did you do these stitches?” the woman asks, pulling at Andrew’s skin to get a better look at them. He suddenly sees how they must look to them, sloppy and angry red. Neil bends her arm away without thinking about it.
“Don’t touch him,” he snaps. He could break her arm and it would make him feel better. He drops her, disoriented by his own violence.
“There’s no need to be antagonistic,” the first man says. “We don’t want to have to remove you.”
“You really don’t,” Neil agrees. “You won’t succeed.”