Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13784883.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Dear_Evan_Hansen_-_Pasek_&_Paul/Levenson
  Relationship:
      Evan_Hansen/Connor_Murphy
  Character:
      Evan_Hansen, Connor_Murphy_(Dear_Evan_Hansen)
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Hand_Jobs, Hair-pulling, Freckles, Fluff_and_Smut, listen
      they're_dumb_teenagers_that_like_each_other, connor_has_freckles_and_evan
      is_obsessed, this_is_entirely_mike_faist's_fault, i_am_so_angry_this
      musical_has_ruined_my_life, and_naturally_my_favourite_character_is_the
      one_that_DIES, so_here_i_am, WRITING_SMUT_AT_2_PM_ON_A_SATURDAY, BECAUSE
      OF_CONNOR_FUCKING_MURPHY, anyways_i_hope_you_like_this, I_hate_myself
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-24 Words: 3491
****** like stardust on his skin ******
by AnonymousSinner
Summary
     They’d sat face to face over disappointing plates of spaghetti, and
     they hadn’t spoken. At first, Evan had felt super weirded out about
     it, but then he noticed the tired bags under Connor’s eyes, and,
     well. He knew what it’s like to need a moment of silence. And he
     didn’t really mind, after that, because the sunlight had filtered in
     through that one awkwardly placed window and part of Connor’s face
     was suddenly bathed in a soft golden glow, and Evan remembers being
     unable to look away from the soft shine of his hair and the freckles
     that suddenly stood out much more clearly against pale white skin.
     “You’re staring, Hansen.”
      
     Or, the one where i project my feelings about freckles and connor
     murphy in general onto evan hansen and it's very gay
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Is it weird that he can’t pinpoint when it became a thing?
Like, not that he really knows how stuff like this works, but in all those
cheesy romance films he’s watched with his mum there’s always some kind of
defining moment. A moment where time stops, where the conventionally attractive
white man stares into the dead eyes of a conventionally attractive white woman
pretending to be in love with him, where they pull each other close and make
some sort of everlasting promise to each other that one of them will inevitably
break, leading to heartbreak and arguments and a potential angsty sex scene.
The point is, there’s always a moment, right? And for Evan, there’s not. He
didn’t have Connor stare dreamily into his eyes, because eye contact is a thing
Evan avoids like the plague, and he didn’t have heartbreak and arguments and he
most certainly did not have any angsty sex.
What Evan has is a collection of moments, moments he’s carefully combed through
and catalogued, moments that didn’t stand out until long after they’d passed.
He can’t pinpoint the exact second everything changed, because really, it was a
product of many, many seconds, and many, many google searches and Facebook
stalking sessions.
Although, he may be able to pinpoint the first moment.
“ –and then you can tell everyone that I’m crazy! Right?!”
“What? N-no, I-”
“Fuck you!”
“Why would I – hey, wait! Stop!”
He’d grabbed his arm without thinking, almost like a reflex. Long hair almost
hit his face as Connor whirled around, eyes wide and furious, and Evan had been
so scared he can’t even remember what he’d said to him. Panicked explanations
of therapy assignments and bad timing and how Zoe
totallywasn’tthatZoebutsomeotherZoeinhisphysicsclasswhowasniceandpleasegivetheletterbackIwasn’ttryingtomakefunofyouoranythingIdidn’tevenknowyouwereherepleaseI’msorry.Connor
had glared at him in silence, searching his face for any sign of a lie, and
somewhere I the back of his scared-shitless mind, Evan noticed the small
scattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose.
He hadn’t had the time to really appreciate them, then, because Connor had
stormed out – with the letter, which was fucking terrifying and Evan is still
unbelievably grateful he’d found it in the bin after he’d left the computer
lab. But that had been the first time, the first moment. Memorised, catalogued,
revisited over and over again.
Now, staring at the side of Connor’s face that isn’t hidden by his hair as
they’re sat on the floor of his bedroom, Evan wonders how it got to this point.
Their friendship had developed quickly, strangely, three mornings after the
computer lab incident. Connor had walked into class fifteen minutes late, bag
slung over his shoulder and hair falling loosely to his shoulders, and
wordlessly sat down in the always-empty seat next to Evan’s. No one had said
anything, but confused looks in their direction had made Evan sweat, and he
cannot for the life of him remember what that lesson was even about. He can
remember the after, though, where he’d fumbled to get his stuff back into his
backpack before he noticed the literal shadow looming over him.
“Um.”
“Hey.”
“H-hi.”
“Wanna go get lunch?”
“…S-sure?”
They’d sat face to face over disappointing plates of spaghetti, and they hadn’t
spoken. At first, Evan had felt super weirded out about it, but then he noticed
the tired bags under Connor’s eyes, and, well. He knew what it’s like to need a
moment of silence. And he didn’t really mind, after that, because the sunlight
had filtered in through that one awkwardly placed window and part of Connor’s
face was suddenly bathed in a soft golden glow, and Evan remembers being unable
to look away from the soft shine of his hair and the freckles that suddenly
stood out much more clearly against pale white skin.
“You’re staring, Hansen.”
Evan jumps, almost dropping his text book on the floor as he’s pulled back to
the present.
“S-sorry I was just like zoning out, um, I wasn’t like, staring at you, well I
mean like, not in a creepy way, um-”
“Breathe, Evan. I didn’t say I minded.” Connor doesn’t look up, focused on
highlighting something in the book Evan knows he’s borrowed from the school
library. Absent-mindedly, he reaches up and tucks a lock of hair that’s escaped
back behind his ear.
“Um. Okay,” Evan says, because he doesn’t know what to say but he feels like he
should say something. Connor’s mouth twitches, the beginnings of a smile.
“You remember that time in the orchard?” he asks quietly, and Evan almost wants
to feign nonchalance, pretend he has absolutely no idea what Connor is
referring to, be cool and blasé. But he’s neither of those things and Connor
can always tell when he’s bullshitting.
“Yeah,” Evan says instead, because of course he fucking does.
It had been just a few weeks ago, on a day that was absurdly warm for October.
They’d abandoned the studying they were supposed to be doing because Connor
wanted to go outside, and Evan had simply followed, walked the long path with
him, until suddenly they were there. The field framed with trees, warm and
blissfully empty, and Connor had laid down on the grass with a sigh that
sounded almost painful in its relief. They’d stayed there for a long while,
Connor flat on his back and Evan awkwardly sat crossed-legged next to him,
wondering if he should lie down too or if Connor would find that weird.
“I took off my hoodie, ‘cause of how warm it was,” Connor murmurs, nimble
fingers turning the page of his book, “and then you were staring right at me
and I realised you’d never seen my arms before.”
There are scars, on Connor’s arms. Criss-crossed, up and down, from his wrists
all the way up his forearms. Small, delicate lines. They seemed almost
translucent that day, clear and white and unmistakable against his skin, and
Evan remembers how he’d stared at them, wondering if Connor had meant for them
to connect like they did in some places.
“Sorry,” Evan whispers, but Connor shakes his head.
“Nah, it’s normal to be like, surprised, with that. But you don’t have to
worry, or whatever. I don’t do that anymore. You can look again, if that’s what
you want, there’s no new ones.”
Evan realises, suddenly, belatedly, what Connor means.
“You thought I was staring because of the scars,” he says aloud, and for the
first time since they got in, Connor raises his head and looks at him.
“Yes?” he says, and his eyebrows are furrowed in confusion but Evan’s busy
drinking in the scattered stars of brown on his cheeks, on the bridge of his
nose. They’ve faded a bit from the lack of sun, hiding for the winter, but he
knows where to look. He’s memorised those on Connor’s face, could almost count
them all in his head.
But that day in the orchard, he hadn’t focused on Connor’s face, nor had he
really paid attention to the scars. They were almost expected – a somewhat
obvious explanation for why he always wore long sleeves. But the freckles were
a surprise, gently dotted up and down his arms; soft constellations brought out
by the sun. And yes, Evan had stared, because he’d wondered then how many
others he had yet to see, and if he would ever see them.
“It. Um. I wasn’t,” he says, and ducks his head, because he can feel the heat
travelling up his face and that’s embarrassing as all hell, so.
“What, then?” Connor says it simply, like it’s an easy question. Evan tugs at
his sleeves.
“N-nothing, really. I don’t know, I was just. Um. Like nothing in particular
like it’s nothing weird or anything like that I mean-”
“Evan,” Connor murmurs, voice soft, and he shifts, moving forward until he’s
kneeling next to him, and Evan makes the mistake of looking up. Blue eyes stare
directly at him, curious and wide, and there’s a freckle he hasn’t noticed
before just at the corner of the right one, ever so slight.
“Connor,” Evan tries to say, but it comes out silent. Connor’s eyes flicker to
his lips, watching them shape his name.
“Why do you look at me, when you think I can’t tell?” he asks, and Evan’s mouth
goes impossibly dry.
“I-I don’t-” he starts, but Connor moves closer,  that stubborn lock of hair
once again framing his face, and if Evan shifted just a millimetre, their noses
would bump against each other.
“The truth, Evan,” Connor says, and then, so quietly Evan’s almost sure he
imagined it; “Please.”
“You have freckles,” The words are out of his mouth before Evan can stop them,
and somehow, they’re easy to say. They’re the simple truth, so light on his
tongue that for once, he’s not terrified. Connor’s eyes widen just a bit, and
his mouth opens on a question that Evan answers before it’s voiced. “They’re
beautiful. Y-you’re beautiful, actually. Um.”
Silence. Connor stares at him, face impossibly close, and every moment Evan’s
catalogued over the past few months plays in his mind at once. Computer labs,
orchards, coffee shops, Evan’s backyard, that one fiasco with the cake when the
batter had splattered everywhere and he’d heard Connor laugh, smiles and
hoodies and scarred arms and long hair and freckles, countless freckles, like
stardust on his skin.
“You think I’m beautiful,” Connor says, slowly, like he’s testing it out, like
he’s not sure he’s getting it right.
And somewhere, in the back of his mind, Evan realises that if there was ever
going to be one defining moment, it’d be this one.
“Yes,” he says, breathless, and he doesn’t have the time to be scared that he’s
ruined things because then Connor is kissing him, straddling his waist and
pushing him back where he’s leaning against the bed, one hand on his shoulder
and one on his neck, and time doesn’t stop; it shatters. Connor kisses him like
he’s been aching to do so for years, he kisses him like there’s no point in
doing anything else ever again. And Evan gasps against his mouth, hands finding
Connor’s hips and clutching, desperate to drink him in, to take every second of
soft, warm lips against his that he’s given.
“Fuck,” Connor whispers, pulling back, and when Evan tightens his grip for fear
that Connor is going to stop, he feels the other boy shudder. Gently, Connor
lifts a hand to Evan’s face, tracing his lips with the tips of his fingers, and
Evan lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“Can I- is this okay?” Connor asks, and Evan nods, dizzy with relief. The next
kiss is softer, calmer, and by the time Evan feels Connor’s tongue on his
bottom lip, he’s already so gone for this boy that opening his mouth and
deepening the kiss is the easiest thing he’s ever done. Softly, Evan moans, and
Connor’s breath hitches at the sound. Evan’s hands slide up Connor’s back,
wanting him closer, and when he feels Connor’s hair brush against his cheek, he
absentmindedly moves a hand up to wrap that one lock around his finger. Connor
tenses, wet lips parting on a gasp, and Evan, feeling curious and
uncharacteristically brave, tugs.
“Fuck,” Connor manages, eyes sliding shut, “Right, off the floor, I need –
c’mon.” He stands, pulling Evan with him, and then there’s a pillow under
Evan’s head and they’re on his bed and Connor’s lips are on his neck, hot and
wet and insistent.
“C-Connor,” Evan starts, about to protest about marks, but then Connor’s teeth
tug at his skin and he honestly couldn’t care less. He moans, turning his head
to give Connor better access, and like, his mom will kill him, but it’s worth
it.
“Jesus, you’re so-” Connor says, and finishes his sentence with a kiss, sloppy
and deep and everything Evan’s ever wanted. He moves his hands up again,
wanting to bury his fingers in Connor’s hair, but Connor pulls away, grabbing
his wrists and pushing them down either side of his head.
“S-sorry,” Evan stammers, “It seemed like y-you liked it, before, so I-”
“I do like it,” Connor says immediately, and his grip on Evan’s wrists
tightens, “I like it a bit too much, is the thing.”
“O-oh.” Evan’s blushing, he knows it, and Connor’s still holding him in place.
It’s intimidating to be like this, the focus of Connor Murphy’s attention, but
Evan finds he’d rather die than move.
“I don’t, um. I don’t want to start anything you’re not comfortable with,”
Connor says quietly, “And pulling my hair would, um. Definitely start
something.”
“Y-you’ve already started something, though,” Evan says, “I mean like, we can.
Um. Whatever you want. But like. I’m comfortable with you, so. Whatever you
want.”
“Evan,” Connor says, “I just want you.” Again, he says it so nonchalantly, like
he hasn’t made every single dream Evan’s ever had come true with one sentence.
Helplessly, Evan squirms under him, trying to get closer, trying to get
something, anything.
“Please kiss me,” he hears himself say, and he would be embarrassed by how
desperate that sounds but Connor does. He leans his weight on him, pinning him
to the mattress, and lets go of Evan’s wrists to slide his hands down and under
his shirt, delicate fingers brushing against Evan’s skin. This time, when Evan
slides his fingers into long, soft hair, Connor lets him. And when Evan tugs,
Connor moans, low and soft, and rocks his hips down. Evan gasps at the
friction, mouth falling open, and Connor slides his tongue against his,
fingernails scratching slightly at Evan’s hips.
“Can I – your shirt?” Connor asks, voice trembling slightly, and Evan would
give him the world right now, if he asked. So he nods, lifts his arms, and lets
Connor pull it up and over his head before tossing it somewhere on the floor.
“Y-you too,” Evan says, because he has to, he has to see. Connor smiles then,
soft and small, but does as he’s told, and there are freckles; dozens of them,
all over his arms and shoulders and just above his chest – galaxies of gentle,
pale brown.
“God,” Evan breathes, and Connor laughs, but Evan can hear the nervousness,
there. So he grabs the back of Connor’s neck and pulls him close, because
kissing him seems more effective than words. Connor sighs into his mouth, and
then his hands are back, running up and down Evan’s skin, tracing his ribs and
moving up to his collarbone, then brushing over a nipple. Evan jerks at the
touch, and Connor laughs again, pulling Evan’s lower lip into his mouth and
biting down ever so gently.
“So sensitive,” he muses, and then one hand is going lower, down over his
stomach and stopping at the waistband of Evan’s jeans. “Can I?” Connor asks,
and fuck, he’s so beautiful, bare skin and loose hair and eyes blown wide, and
all Evan can do is nod.
The first touch is something of a revelation. There’s a brief moment, just
before, where Evan figures it can’t be much different to his own hand, so
there’s no reason for him to be this breathless. But then Connor touches him,
delicate fingers wrapping around him, and Evan realises that breathlessness is
the least of his problems.
“Shit, those sounds you make,” Connor murmurs, and Evan is well aware of the
hiccupping moans and whimpers that are falling from his lips as Connor strokes
him, and he would be embarrassed but he just doesn’t care, he just doesn’t
fucking care.
“Please, please, please,” he gasps, hips bucking of their own accord, and he
doesn’t even know what he’s asking for but Connor delivers.
“Okay, fuck, okay,” he mutters, and then he’s sliding Evan’s pants and boxers
down his legs and Evan’s toeing off his socks because he can’t deal with all of
the sensations and then Connor’s hand is back and Evan whines, embarrassingly
high pitched.
“Fuck, Evan,” Connor says, and kisses him roughly, biting at his lips.
“Yes yes yes,” Evan mutters, kissing back as best he can, and fuck, he wants
more, he wants –
“What do you want, baby?” Connor asks, voice low in Evan’s ear, and it’s all
Evan can do to reach down and push at Connor’s jeans.
“W-want you,” he manages, and Connor lets out a soft, sweet moan that Evan
never wants to forget for as long as he lives.
“O-okay,” Connor says, voice shaking, and then he’s taking off his jeans and
he’s taking off everythingand of course there are freckles on his legs and he’s
so fucking beautiful Evan’s gonna die, he’s gonna die like this in his bed,
because of long legs and soft hair and blue eyes and fucking freckles.
“Breathe,” Connor whispers, and he’s right there, looking down at him, lips
brushing against his. And Evan does, sucks in air and lets it fill his lungs,
and then Connor takes them both in hand and it leaves him all at once. He’s
breathing in short static gasps, and Connor’s lips are at his neck again,
mouthing lazily, and fuck, that’s his cock pressed against Evan’s and it feels
so fucking good.
“Conner,” Evan gasps, and Connor responds by doing something clever with his
thumb.
“God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted you like this,” Connor tells him,
and it’s somewhat of a consolation, somewhat reassuring to Evan, who is panting
and squirming in a way that’s much more desperate than he’d like, to hear
Connor’s voice break.
“M-me too,” Evan says, because honesty has worked out fine so far, and the moan
Connor lets out against his neck is very rewarding.
“Yeah? How long?” he asks, and Evan shudders under him, hands going up to fist
in Connor’s hair, because he’ll be damned if he’s the only one losing his mind
like this.
“S-since the computer lab, probably,” he stutters, and Connor groans. The hand
around their cocks speeds up, and Evan tugs at his hair in retaliation.
“God, I thought I’d scared the shit outta you,” Connor says, and Evan laughs
breathlessly.
“You did,” he admits, “but you were like, really pretty too.”
“For me it was that time in class,” Connor gasps, “You were so cute and jittery
when I sat down next to you, and I don’t think you took any notes for the whole
hour.”
“45 minutes,” Evan corrects, moaning softly when Connor rubs his thumb over the
head of his cock, “You were late, asshole.”
“Fuck you,” Connor says, but he’s laughing, and it’s a beautiful sound.
“P-promises, promises,” Evan manages, and Connor tightens his grip then,
stroking them hard and fast.
“Next time,” he promises, “I’ll fuck you then. Bet you’d look even prettier
with my cock in you.”
“Fuck, Connor,” Evan whines, and that’s it, for him. His back arches as he
comes, and he feels Connor tense against him as his world goes white. Vaguely,
he knows he’s whimpering, gasping Connor’s name like a mantra as he comes down,
and he can feels Connor’s lips against his neck, pressing kisses against his
skin as they shudder together.
“You’re so good, fuck, Evan. So good for me,” Connor’s saying, breathless and
soft, and things are coming back to Evan now. Like a camera focusing, almost.
He can feel Connor’s hair against his cheek, can feel a wet stickiness between
his thighs, and it should be gross but it’s not. Everything’s warm and soft,
and he finally understands the term “afterglow”.
“Fuck,” he whispers, and Connor chuckles quietly.
“Was that okay?” he asks, pressing a kiss to Evan’s temple, and Evan smiles,
leaning into the touch.
“More than,” he says, letting his fingers dance up and down Connor’s arms,
jumping from freckle to freckle like stepping stones.
“Can’t believe you have a freckle fetish,” Connor murmurs, and Evan flushes
red.
“It’s not a fetish! I just like them on you. They’re like. Pretty. Like stars,
or something.”
“Like stars?” Connor asks, and Evan can hear the grin in his voice, “Aren’t you
just a poet, Hansen.”
“Whatever,” Evan huffs, shifting down the bed and turning his face into
Connor’s chest. Connor laughs, and Evan smiles to himself as the taller boy
trails his fingers down his back, gentle and comforting and warm.
“I’m really fucking glad I have freckles,” Connor says quietly, and Evan sighs
softly, pressing a kiss to his collarbone and wriggling closer, as close as he
can get.
“Me too.”
Connor says something about getting cleaned up, but Evan’s not listening. He’s
already drifting off, safe in Connor’s arms, and though he’ll regret it later,
when they wake up sticky and gross and plastered against each other, right now,
he’s happy. Right now, he’s in space, and Connor’s stroking his back, and
Evan’s dreaming about galaxies and worlds unknown and stardust covered skin.
End Notes
     i have two essays and a multichap fic to write but here i am instead
     i hope you liked it please let me know if u did i crave the
     validation
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