Work Text:
“I can't believe you actually wore the glasses.”
“Don’t hate just because you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Okay, try that again, but actually believable this time.”
“Your Jacob impression needs work. You’re losing your touch.”
“Who can I practice with when you’ve been gone so long, lover?”
To Connor’s left, Helen—Ellen? Elena? He can’t remember—clears her throat, sharp and pointed, and it finally spurs him to pull away from what has definitely become a too-long greeting hug with Hudson.
“Right, sorry—Hud, this is, ah—” Bad idea. Bad, bad idea to open his mouth before finishing the thought.
Connor knows she works for a magazine. Or a fashion house. Or maybe he’s just making assumptions based on the cut of her blazer and the fact that she smells expensive. Fuck. He has absolutely no idea. He’s been talking to her for fifteen minutes now—and by talking, he means being talked at about how much she admires his work and how he’d be a perfect fit for… something. A profile? A spread? A collaboration? Connor nodded at the right intervals and let his face do what it has taken to doing when the hour gets late and there's been too much business talk and shape shift into something blankly attentive and agreeable.
He knows better than to get drunk at a work event this early in the game, not with this many eyes around, but he’d been worn down by the schmoozing and location change. Exhausted enough to accept the soft blur of champagne and float politely through conversations without really listening to a word. Now Hudson’s here, and Connor’s brain has rebooted but the file is corrupted. He has no idea where he last saved.
“Hudson Williams, great to meet you,” Hudson says, swooping in with his boy-next-door smile and a firm handshake. He looks absurdly good—shiny dark hair, broad shoulders, charming as hell. Like a glossy, well-lit Superman ripped straight from Connor’s earliest spank-bank memories.
Ellen—sure, let’s go with Ellen—switches her martini glass to her other hand with practiced grace. Her smile widens, sharpens. Her eyes flick between them: Connor, then Hudson, then the hand Hudson still has resting on Connor's back. There it is. The calculation. The hunger—not romantic, but just as invasive. A business opportunity expanding to both of Heated Rivalry's leading men in real time. Not safe even at an indie event.
“Likewise, Mr. Williams, I’m—”
“I’m so sorry,” Hudson cuts in smoothly, already moving backwards a smidge with Connor in tow, hand pressing warmly against his spine. “but I’m actually here to steal this guy.”
He leans in a fraction, lowers his voice just enough to imply urgency. “That director we were talking about is looking for you,” Hudson says to Connor, like it’s information he’s just received. “We were chatting and she asked me where you were—said she wanted to get in a quick word with you before she takes off.”
Connor’s stomach drops in a nervous swoop. Oh. That kind of thing.
“Oh—shit,” Connor says automatically, already half-turning.
Ellen blinks. “Now?”
“Yeah,” Hudson says apologetically, nodding once. “She’s doing laps, apparently. Said it wouldn’t take long but she didn’t want to lose the opportunity to speak with you.”
The hand that shook hers slides easily to Connor’s arm, steering him away without slowing down.
Ellen's laugh sound nice but her eyes are a bit pinched. “Ah, I see—well, if you’d like to just—”
“I’m so sorry,” Hudson says again, Fuck off Ellen! tucked in neatly beneath his Canadian vowel lift—already walking, cheerfully merciless. “Try his agent!”
Then he’s pushing Connor through the crowd in earnest.
Bodies press and part around them—silk sleeves brushing Connor’s forearm, a burst of laughter too loud in his ear. The music thumps low and insistent beneath everything, bass vibrating faintly through the floor, through Connor’s ribs. It’s too much. It’s always too much, eventually. Or at least a different sort of too-much when he isn't supposed to be playing a character.
Connor’s stunned—but not so stunned that he can’t let out a sharp, breathless laugh once they’re clear of the densest knot of people. Hudson squeezes his arm to guide him left around a cluster of suits, shaking his head a little at himself, lips twitching like he’s replaying it already.
“Shit,” Hudson mutters. “That was kinda rude, wasn’t it.”
“You literally said sorry while dragging me away,” Connor says. “I don’t think that counts as rude.”
“It so does. She wasn’t important, was she? She didn’t seem important—no offence—but you had your dead eyes on.”
“Not important, don’t worry—wait, fuck. I have dead eyes? Are they really obvious?”
“Yeah, you do. But also no,” Hudson says easily. “I just know you.”
“Thank God,” Connor mutters.
They reach the edge of the venue, where the sound dulls into something survivable. The ceiling feels higher here, the lights a little less aggressive. Connor realizes his jaw aches from how hard he’s been holding it.
A server floats past with a tray of champagne, bubbles racing elegantly up thin flutes. Connor takes one on instinct, the cold glass grounding for half a second before he sips—and immediately regrets it. Sharp and cold in his stomach.
“Fuck. Take this.” He presses it into Hudson’s hand.
Hudson accepts it without question, takes a long sip. “This is nice. You don’t like it?”
“No, it’s good, I just—don’t need it.” Connor scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Shit. Do I look tipsy? I feel like I look tipsy. I haven’t been to the bathroom in forever, I haven’t checked my hair. I don’t want to look tipsy in front of—fuck, who the hell are we meeting anyway what do they want? I saw Greta Gerwig earlier eating a cocktail wiener, is it her? You're sure she asked for me?”
Hudson stops walking.
“What? A cocktail—” His brow creases. “Dude—no. No, I made that shit up.”
Connor freezes. “You—what?”
“I fully made it up,” Hudson repeats, unapologetic. “Completely. Why do you think I was so vague.”
Connor stares at him for a beat. The hum of the room fills the silence—the clink of glass, the murmur of networking voices performing interest. Then he snorts.
Hudson’s eyes widen, delighted. “Wait. Did it sound real?”
“Yes,” Connor says flatly, going to rake a hand through his hair and then stopping himself just in time. “Terrifyingly. These parties feel like open-call waiting rooms I'm in like, fight or flight right now. If you scare me too bad I'll pee.”
“Holy shit,” Hudson breathes. “I’m incredible. I should do improv.”
The anxiety loosens its grip without the weight of obligation, though the wobble remains, a little off-kilter. Another tray drifts by—small glass bottles of water sweating under the lights. Connor grabs one, twists the cap with more force than necessary. He pointedly does not think about how young the server looks or imagine the TikTok series: That Time I Served Connor Storrie and He Was Drunk As Fuck. Four parts. Millions of views.
“No, you shouldn’t,” Connor says, gesturing vaguely at Hudson's everything. “You’re too good-looking.”
“Oh yeah?” Hudson cocks his head, clearly agreeing.
Connor shrugs, thumbs at the bottle’s metal screw cap. “You’re hot enough for stand-up comedy, at least.”
Hudson clicks his tongue. “I’m afraid you do not wanna hear my tight five, Concon.”
“Why not? Is it all about how much you hate your crazy bitch wife?”
“No,” Hudson says solemnly. “Worse. It’s all about how much I love my wife—and I still call her a crazy bitch.”
Connor laughs before he can stop himself. He chokes on his water, dribbles some down his chin, immediately a little mortified. He wipes at it with his forearm as Hudson snickers, careful not to rub his sleeve across his face like that might somehow ignite a new, worse embarrassment.
When he looks back up, Hudson is leaning against the wall, one shoulder braced, scanning the room out of habit more than interest. Not hiding—but not inviting anyone in, either. He finishes Connor’s abandoned champagne in two long gulps.
Connor steps closer, backs into the wall beside him properly. The cool surface seeps through his shirt. He nudges the toe of one of Hudson’s shiny boots with his own—small, grounding. “Happy you’re here.”
Hudson’s attention snaps back to him instantly. The smile that follows is soft, unguarded. “Fuckin’ better be. Been in airplane mode most of the day. My skin feels dry as hell.”
Connor rolls his eyes, but he hears the ask underneath it. “You look good. Don’t sweat it.”
Hudson’s shoulders loosen—just a fraction. “So. When’d you get here? How was the carpet at Variety?”
“Fine. Good, actually. I don’t know why I said that.” Connor exhales. “No butt comments from the paps this time.”
Hudson’s eyes darken briefly as he nods, remembering. “And that dinner the other night? Are you just the whole world’s darling now, or what?”
Connor scoffs, smiling despite himself. “Twitter is not the whole world.”
“No,” Hudson agrees. “But there are dozens of photos of beautiful famous women adopting you floating around, so I’d say you’re pretty beloved.”
Connor has seen a few. Had his new PR manager quietly acknowledge them in private chats, flagging which tags to interact with, which to ignore. It had felt strange—handing over his login information willingly, after everything. His phone scares him now. A collapsing star in his pocket, pulling him into darker places with just a few swipes and bad impulse control in the app store.
Something must flicker across his face, because Hudson pivots instantly. “Not as beloved as me,” he says lightly. “Don’t worry.”
This—this Connor can hold onto. The easy warmth of it. The way Hudson looks at him like nothing’s changed, just shifted to a different key. Connor feels a pinch of guilt anyway, about how MIA he’s been, about the fact that this—standing shoulder to shoulder in a too-loud room, half cornered by industry people eager to take a bite out of them—is where and how they’re finally catching up.
He knows exactly where their messages stopped. The last thing in the thread is his own where r u, fired off when he arrived at Sunset Tower, thumb impatient, already scanning faces. Before that, Hudson’s string of updates sits there unanswered, timestamped and stupidly affectionate in hindsight: landed 😎.; boarding 💪.; MUA at Fallon asked me if my teeth are real do you think they look fake. lie to me if you have to. Connor had seen them all come in, had even smiled at the last one—and then set his phone face-down and let the night swallow him whole.
“Listen,” Connor says now, exhaling through his nose. His eyes fix on the shiny, toothy line of the zipper on Hudson’s jacket. “Sorry I didn’t call. It’s been…” He trails off, the sentence collapsing under its own weight.
By the look on Hudson’s face, Connor knows he doesn’t have to finish it. Hudson’s always been good at reading the negative space around his words, enough time spent together to understand what's unsaid because saying it would make it more than just an energy shifting in the air above them.
Connor shifts, aware suddenly of the room again. From the corner of his eye, he catches the side glances from the nearest cluster of people—curious and speculative, the kind of attention that sharpens when it thinks it’s spotted a narrative forming. He’d known being together would make noise. He just hadn’t expected the kind that requires monitoring, the kind that makes you conscious of how close you’re standing even when you’re not touching at all.
“We should leave,” Hudson says suddenly.
Connor blinks, re-centering. “What? Really? But you just got here.”
“Aren’t you beat?” Hudson asks. “I’m kinda beat. Let’s be beat meat somewhere else.”
Connor wrinkles his nose. “Gross. I mean—yeah. There’s that thing tomorrow morning, but there are some cool people here.”
“Cool people who are about to make me sweat through my fuckin’ sand-coloured dress shirt,” Hudson says. “My pit stains under this are not cute, Concon. I’m good to wait to meet cool people, tomorrow, and the day after that.”
“Well, did you eat tonight, at least? I think there was food over—”
“Dude, I’m really good. This is like my third location tonight, I got my pics, I’d like to leave on a high note.”
Connor hesitates. This is the part that always knots him up—the part where he’s supposed to want more. More faces, more handshakes, more proof he belongs here. Leaving early feels like wasting momentum. Like tempting the universe.
But his feet hurt, and his head buzzes. And Hudson is right here, solid and familiar, offering an exit like it’s nothing at all.
“Third?” Connor says. “I thought you were just going to—wait. Who did you meet?”
Hudson’s smile turns blinding as he pulls out his phone, bangs falling into his eyes as he flips to his camera roll. Connor feels a brief, irrational regret at stealing that look from the room so soon—but not enough to change his mind.
“Variety party,” Hudson says, tilting his phone so Connor can see. The photo shows Hudson standing between a tall woman and an older gentleman, posture immaculate, professional face locked in like muscle memory. Then he swipes. “Like twenty minutes ago.” The second photo is looser—Hudson grinning like an idiot beside a bald white guy, drink in hand.
“Fuck. Were you nervous?” Connor asks, nudging the screen back to the first image.
He recognizes Eva Victor immediately—because duh. The older man’s name lies just out of reach. Connor is pretty sure Hudson made him watch several interviews when he visited for New Year’s, and he absolutely does not want to expose that particular gap in memory, so he keeps his mouth shut.
“Shitting my fucking pants,” Hudson says cheerfully. “Neither of them knew me, but they were really nice about the picture. I left, like, immediately after.”
“And this one?” Connor taps the second photo. “Nerves gone? You look jolly.”
“Yeah, I had a drink in the car and—oh fuck, my tie’s crooked here—” Hudson squints, pinches the screen, zooms in with intense scrutiny. After a second, he exhales. “Okay, no. It’s. Anyway. He knew me. Joachim fuckin’ Trier knew me. Can you believe that?”
“Wait—" Connor cuts himself off, stunned. He hadn't recognized him. "That’s—”
“Yup. Worst Person in the World.”
“Holy shit. He watched the show?”
“He saw my butt.”
“Our butts,” Connor corrects, knocking his water bottle lightly against the last fizzy dregs in Hudson’s champagne flute.
Hudson’s eyes sparkle, sharp and buzzing and alive with it. “Holy shit indeed.”
There’s a beat. The giddiness lingers between them, bright and fragile, because it feels like something they’re supposed to keep quiet about. Connor takes a second to match his breathing to the subtle rise and fall of Hudson’s chest before he speaks again.
“So,” Connor says, softer now. “Two for three successes. Anyone here you still wanna get a picture with?”
Hudson purses his lips and goes up on his tiptoes to scan the room—a completely unnecessary gesture, given his height. He drops back onto his heels and turns, grin aimed squarely at Connor.
“Nope.”
“But what about leaving on a high note-”
Hudson cuts him off by plucking the bottle from Connor’s hand and taking a quick swig. His lips come away wet. “You’re my high note.”
Connor exhales, the last of the night finally slipping off his shoulders. He sets a hand on Hudson’s back, squeezes at the nape of his neck—just enough to feel him there, real and solid.
Yeah. They can go.
François is there, so leaving without taking pictures is non-negotiable.
They’re handed fresh glasses to clink with him and Robbie and Nadine—someone pressing stemware into Connor’s palm before he can refuse it. He pawns it off after the first sip again anyway, even though he knows he probably doesn’t have to be quite so careful now that they're leaving, but he doesn't really want it.
Besides, just watching Hudson’s throat bob as he drains his own is enough of a contact high to carry Connor through the next round of photos. Through Hudson leaning in close, their hands cupped around their faces to seal their conversation off from the rest of the room like giddy children spilling secrets during class—Eva Victor's right there, Con, if i can ask her with no moral support you can too…do you want me to ask for you? I'll ask.
The camera work draws in a couple of The Pitt cast members, curious and smiling, and then Janelle appears seemingly out of nowhere with a squeal that punches straight through the noise. She wraps Connor up in a hug so tight and warm that his eyes sting. It hasn’t even been that long, but it still hits him that Janelle is very sweet and serious when she tells him that he looks great tonight. Connor thinks he misses his mom.
Even after the almost-emotional hiccup, the feeling lingers, fizzy and light and never quite settled back into place. It follows them up to Hudson’s floor, down the quiet hallway that smells faintly like carpet cleaner and someone else’s room service fries, ("Ew, Hudson, don't eat people's left overs they could be diseased." "You think there are diseased people at the Hilton?" "You're here aren't you?" "Hey, that hurts, Concon.") and into Hudson’s room where his bags haven't been unpacked properly yet and the city hums faintly through the glass.
They end up orbiting the desk without really deciding to, shoes kicked off at the door and gas station loot spilling out between them: a small tub of sour keys, bubble gum wrappers tacky with spat out gum. Hudson had bought them on a whim—because they couldn’t stop calling each other Hubba and Bubba while they wandered the aisles, deliberating loudly over snacks that promised joy and reliably delivered disappointment. They’d stood there too long, shoulders bumping as they argued over chocolate or chips and ultimately united only over the belief that anything that turned to rubber after four chews was a betrayal of basic human decency.
Now the evidence of it is scattered across the desk like a joke that keeps landing. The wrappers crinkle when Hudson leans back against it, tie loose around his neck and collar unbuttoned, trying and failing to blow a bigger bubble than Connor had earlier during their competition. Connor watches him do it with the same quiet fondness he finds himself infected by far too frequently.
“Is for me?” Hudson asks now in a sweet, pitched-up voice, pulling a stupid face at the small box Connor slips out from the inner pocket of his coat as he drags the balcony door open.
“And here I was thinking you only want me for my body,” Connor says dryly.
“No, I do,” Hudson replies immediately, jaw ticking as he bites down on another failed bubble. He cranes his neck back like he needs to reconfirm this very second, eyes doing an exaggerated sweep over Connor’s body while Connor’s got one foot out the door. “Your ass looks crazy in designer, but I also let you hit my vape all New Year’s, so you kinda owe me.”
Connor pulls a cigarette from the pack with his teeth and speaks around it, pointed. “One night of occasionally hitting your stupid vape is not equivalent to the number of cigs you thieve.”
Never mind that Connor didn’t really need Hudson’s vape that night. He could’ve gone out to the balcony whenever he wanted—did, a couple of times. But he liked the wordless exchange. Hudson tipping it toward him without looking. The plastic still warm when Connor put his mouth around it.
Connor zips up his coat against the bite of the breeze and waits, patient, while Hudson ducks back to the entryway for his shoes and spits out his gum before joining him outside.
“It so is,” Hudson insists a few seconds later as he slides the door shut behind himself—never one to let an argument die. “Do you know how many hits are in that thing? Worth a billion of these fucks.”
Connor holds out a second cigarette. “And ten times the toxic chemicals, baby.”
“You judge far too much for someone who indulged equally in that watermelon ice pod.”
Connor snorts softly, thumbing at the spark wheel without igniting.
“Light me,” Hudson says, holding his hand out expectantly.
Connor just shakes his head. Instead, he gestures Hudson closer with two fingers, already drawing on the filter between his lips. Hudson steps in without hesitation, cigarette raised.
Connor tips forward, touches the glowing cherry of his own to the cut edge of Hudson’s. The paper catches. Hudson bows his head as he inhales—slow, satisfied—eyes flicking up to Connor’s like he’s won something. Connor exhales smoke through his nose, deliberately calm.
When he puts his lighter away, he feels it click against something else in his pocket. He frowns, reaches in, and pulls out a pen.
“Where did I even—oh shit.”
Hudson’s eyes widen around his drag. He points an accusing finger at Connor. “Thief. You’re the thief!”
Connor stares at the pen, then at Hudson, lips twitching despite himself. “You’re the one who was calling me away from all of our adoring fans. If you hadn’t distracted me, I would’ve returned it.”
Hudson huffs, smoke slipping from his mouth on the laugh. “Adoring fans,” he repeats, fond and disbelieving, stepping closer anyway. The balcony light cuts his face into warm angles; his shadow falls over Connor’s shoes, then his knees. “You say that like I made you leave.”
Connor doesn’t answer right away. He clicks the pen open, closed. Slips it back into his pocket and feels his fingers want to linger there longer than necessary, in neutral territory. When he looks up, he doesn’t move his feet—but he leans, just enough to make the space between them intentional.
“I could've stayed longer,” he says, low. “feels more like you're the one following me around like a lost dog.”
Hudson stills. It’s subtle but Connor feels it all the same, the way Hudson seems to hum on a different frequency when he’s pleased. His shoulders loosen, the corners of his lips curl. He tilts his head and the strain in his neck is so inviting, like he’s offering Connor a better angle.
“Interesting,” Hudson says lightly, but his eyes are bright, keyed in. He takes another drag, then exhales slowly to the side, clearing the air between them. "Is that really how you see it? Because from where I’m standing, I’m the one who keeps getting dragged into dark corners.”
Connor steps forward.
Not much. Just enough that Hudson has to lean back against the railing, stance widening. Just enough that Connor’s knee brushes his, that Hudson has to tilt his chin up. Enough that the smoke curls up between them and Connor can smell Hudson. Tom Ford, tobacco and bubble gum drifting across Connor’s collarbone instead of vanishing into the night.
“Dragged,” Connor echoes, soft and low. His hand comes up—not touching, but close enough that Hudson’s wrist warms under it. “You don’t look like you’re fighting very hard.”
Hudson vibrates.
Connor feels it before he really sees it move through Hudson's body—the way his energy spikes, tight and electric, like he’s been plugged into something too strong for his own wiring. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and for a split second he looks like he might laugh. Instead, he jerks slightly, and his hand drops away as he reaches into his pocket.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, half under his breath. The phone comes out, screen flaring to life, bright against the dark glass and city spill: K<3 flashing.
Connor doesn’t look away, and Hudson doesn’t try to angle the screen, doesn’t hide it. They don't pretend with this part. He winces, not quite apologetic, but close enough that it lands somewhere uncomfortable in Connor’s chest. He lifts a finger in a small, crooked one sec that feels almost sheepish.
“I gotta…” Hudson starts and doesn't finish.
Connor nods back, automatic, even though he’s not sure what he’s agreeing to, or if there’s anything to agree to. Hudson doesn’t see it anyway, already moving, brushing past Connor’s shoulder as he goes. His cigarette dangles precariously between two knuckles as he types with his thumb, cherry bobbing softly in the dark.
He pauses at the railing, takes one last deliberate drag—long enough that the tip glows bright and defiant—then crushes it out against the other side of the metal before lifting the phone to his ear and turning toward the balcony door.
“Hello? Hey, baby—yeah, I’m good.” Hudson glances back quickly over his shoulder as he slips inside, like he’s checking Connor is still there, hasn’t evaporated in the few seconds since Hudson pressed pause. A stupid, hopeful part of Connor thinks he’s making sure to remember where he left off. “Nah, I’m back at the hotel—yeah, I left with Connor, you saw?”
The balcony door doesn’t slide shut all the way behind him, Hudson leaves it to stop just an inch shy of the jamb. Connor can’t tell who the gap is for. Hudson, maybe, keeping one foot in the night, or for Connor. An unspoken allowance. An if you want in, you still can. The thought sits heavy in his chest, equal parts invitation and restraint.
Connor stays where he is—close enough to feel the warmth spilling out from the room, far enough that he hears the bright sound of someone's laughter a few floors down rather than the low tones of Hudson's voice murmuring, love you, miss you, bye.
Connor tops. It’s not something they've ever discussed, it just happened and kept happening. Not the—not the other thing, though they don’t talk about that either. It’s just easy to fall into a certain rhythm, a pattern that's long asserted itself without discussion. The first time it happened, Connor got a hand under Hudson’s knee and pushed upward, probably only because that was already their routine during rehearsals—and Hudson didn’t stop him. He just breathed quicker, a little unsteady. “Slow, yeah? I—I haven’t—” And Connor had only groaned, kissed him quiet, then louder again.
Hudson’s pretty quiet now. He breathes hard through his nose, hands flexing around his own legs where he holds them up and open. Air rushes out of him a little louder at times, the occasional small grunt caught behind it when Connor moves into him, slow and shallow, notching a little deeper.
Connor likes watching Hudson like this—the red flush spilling down his chest, flaring brighter between his pecs. He really likes watching his face: the flicker of his lips as he trembles with the effort of keeping himself contained, watching Connor disappear inside of him. Connor likes waiting for the crack.
“Con—” Hudson manages between movements, the sound halting abruptly when Connor goes deeper, dragging up against him. “Connor.”
“Hm?” Connor hums back, light. He knows what Hudson’s asking for. He just doesn’t care to give it yet—not as much as he cares to hear him say it, to watch him struggle to comply.
“Con, can you—shit.” Hudson’s eyes screw shut, overwhelmed by the sudden, harsher movement of Connor’s hips.
“What?” Connor asks, forcing his voice into something loose and unbothered, roughened by all the gravel in his throat.
Hudson makes a small sound behind closed lips, a high moan that quickly tapers into a sigh. “You.” He can’t do it. Or he won’t. Connor knows he can, and that he will. Hudson’s full pink lips press into that telltale firm line, zipping himself shut—pulled tight like a wire Connor knows exactly how to make him fall from.
Connor lifts, shifts his hands from bracing on the mattress to Hudson’s thighs, pushing him wider, giving himself a better view of Hudson’s puffy rim clinging to his slick cock. The sight alone drags a noise from Connor’s chest, makes him tip his head back toward the ceiling as he fights to keep his rhythm. Focusing hard on the roll of his hips rather than the heat closing around him.
Another sound from Hudson doesn’t bring him back down—but Hudson’s hand on his wrist does. It’s clumsy, the yank he uses to pull Connor’s hand to his sternum. Connor lets it happen, lets his palm spread properly over Hudson’s heated skin, lets his weight sink heavier, hips snapping harder now that he can feel Hudson’s heartbeat hammering against his hand.
The noise that spills from Hudson sounds strangled, even though Connor isn’t touching him like that yet. Hudson hasn’t let go of Connor’s wrist; he tugs him closer, not with enough strength to actually move him. Hudson knows what he has to do.
“Con.” Hudson tries once more, but there’s no follow-up, his tenor gone thin.
Connor feels his jaw tighten before he lifts that hand and slaps Hudson across the face for his laziness—hard enough to draw a gasp, for Hudson’s skin to flash pale and then bloom quickly into a ruddy pink beneath his stubble. Not hard enough to really hurt (Hudson always insists it doesn’t, and Connor never quite believes him; Hudson told him all the gory details of the scar on his shoulder, how it felt when the stone speared into the meat of his back and how it took far too long for him to register it properly, longer still to accept that it needed proper care—his pain tolerance is a danger more than an asset), but enough for the shock to drop Hudson’s jaw open in a soft gasp. Hudson’s lips are wet, searching, as Connor’s hand finds his chest again, higher now, nearer his collarbones. Connor isn’t sure whether it’s kind or cruel of him to land so close.
“What,” Connor grunts again, pointed and rougher than he feels. Hudson’s eyes are wet, rimmed red when he finally looks up, and the moment he does, Connor wants to give him anything—everything. But Hudson is always asking him to be mean.
Hudson licks his lips. Another moan hovers at the back of his throat as he holds Connor’s gaze and his fingers loop around his wrist again, gentle and pleading. “Please.”
Connor’s a sucker for it—for the crack in Hudson’s voice, for the sweat beading along his hairline, for the soft fold of his stomach as Connor pushes him deeper, deeper. He’s a sucker because even when Hudson doesn’t ask the way he should, Connor’s hand creeps from Hudson’s chest up to the base of his throat, along the sides of his jugular. Hudson doesn’t ask for things properly, but he asks sweetly, with his whole heart. With anyone else, the way Hudson curses like a sailor in front of Hollywood producers and art-house directors he idolizes might seem embarrassing or tasteless—but Hudson is just passionate, just hungry and real about it, unashamed even when his stomach growls loud enough for others to hear. It’s one of the things Connor loves about him, envies—wishes he could siphon out of him and keep for himself. That reckless daring to want, and to submit to others knowing it.
Maybe that’s why Connor goes easy on him here. He lets Hudson talk a big game in public, but forces him to bring his weaknesses into the light when they’re alone. Hudson isn’t a liar; the daring just doesn’t erupt the same way when Connor’s on top of him, pinning him down with hands and gaze, demanding he ask nicely.
Hudson keeps asking nicely. His lips move, his voice quiets, tumbling down through several flights of “Please, please, Con, please, yeah—” until Connor’s fingers close around the sides of his thick throat, cutting off the sound, the light, the oxygen and lifeblood that keeps Hudson running at a million miles a minute.
Hudson’s body responds beautifully—helpless under the pleasure-panic of it—locking up, trembling, every muscle oscillating for a brief, captivating moment, all the way down to his hole fluttering around Connor's swollen cock. Connor could stay there forever, with Hudson holding onto him the entire time, his hand—strong enough to snap Connor’s wrist—squeezing the thin tendons there with impossible reverence.
Connor lives there for a brief eternity until he gets to ten, flexes his fingers, then releases.
It feels like the earth itself rattles beneath them, all of West Hollywood hitting an eight on the Richter scale as Hudson re-enters his own body with a grateful moan. Connor arches like a shooting star, a meteor crashing into the ocean with a hiss, bending down to taste the air he stole from Hudson’s lungs, slamming desperately into that boiling, sea-salt heat.
After, the pen finds its way into Hudson’s hand, ballpoint dragging gently over the skin of Connor’s thigh as he writes out his full name, the bare one, opposite Momma’s Boy.
“Stop moving,” Hudson mumbles. He’s lying on his stomach, perpendicular to Connor’s legs, the whole golden length of him on display—stretch marks and acne scars, tattoo ink and the wrinkled impressions of the sheets still ghosting the softest parts of him. Connor already had his turn signing; the wide, looping script of his signature sits faintly on Hudson’s left ass cheek.
“I have not moved for the past ten minutes,” Connor says, incredulous, “and I have no energy to move ever again. What are you talking about?”
“You’re moving,” Hudson insists. “You keep flexing your thigh.”
“No, I’m not. You know, I didn’t have this much trouble when I—”
“That’s because it’s your fault—look! You’re doing it right now! Look.” Hudson demonstrates by scribbling a small blue heart, and the muscle under Connor’s skin jumps on cue.
Connor’s mouth opens, then closes. “Okay. Well. That’s involuntary. I can’t control that.”
“I know what involuntary means,” Hudson grumbles, and Connor feels his eyebrows shoot up.
He stays quiet, waits for it.
“I just—” Hudson exhales. There it is. “I want it to look nice.”
“It’s not permanent,” Connor says gently, careful to drag a little tease through it so Hudson doesn't complain about being babied. “You know that, right? We already got matching tattoos.”
His comment has the desired effect, Hudson’s mouth curls smugly as he slaps the heart on Connor’s shin, like he can push the ink further in, make it more real by force of will. “Damn right it’s permanent. But it’s not that. I just wanna practice making my signature look nice.”
Connor tilts his head. “Practice? Haven’t you been getting enough of that lately?”
Hudson frowns, carefully closing the loop of the double l in his name. “Yeah, you’d think. But Twitter says I write like a ten-year-old boy.”
“You are a ten-year-old boy,” Connor says automatically.
The pout on Hudson’s bottom lip makes Connor regret it—for maybe a tenth of a second. He thinks of their first signing event—but no, that wasn’t the first time he saw Hudson write. There was Muskoka, the night they stayed up until four in the morning despite a seven a.m. call time, trading signatures like secrets.
“Whoa, yours is so pretty. Like a Disney Parks princess.”
“Oh gee, thanks. Should I put a heart over the i?”
“Nah. If you’re too cute someone’ll kidnap you and then I’ll have to kiss someone else when we film season two.”
“Mm, yeah. Bad for continuity.”
“Do you think mine is ugly?”
“Uh.”
“Connie baby, please. Just tell me I’m pretty.”
“You’re very pretty, Huddy.”
“Thank you.”
“…Your handwriting is not.”
“Okay, fuck my drag, I guess.”
But even that wasn’t the first time. The first in-person table read. Connor peering secretly over Hudson’s shoulder, past the backwards cap and Patagonia quarter zip, watching him scrawl he’s devastated in near-illegible chicken scratch beneath the bland stage direction Shane looks down at his plate. Connor remembers, distantly, thinking that the way Hudson chewed on his pen cap was disgusting—and also how he hoped he’d never stop surprising him.
“If I’m a ten-year-old boy,” Hudson says now, “then you’re going to jail for all the things you just did to me.”
Connor’s soul rockets back into his body with a stunned laugh. “What. The fuck. Is wrong. With you,” he grits out, punctuating each word with a whip of his pillow at Hudson’s head.
”You can’t do this to me,” Hudson says between laughs, barely lifting his hands to defend himself. “I’m literally neurodivergent and a minor!”
Every time Connor pulls the pillow away, Hudson’s dark hair fluffs in a new direction, and he keeps going to see every possible iteration of bedhead until Hudson decides to use the pen to his advantage, shanking Connor in the soft, fleshy inside of his thigh in retribution.
“Ow—you little shit, that’s gonna bruise,” Connor groans, overly dramatic and scooting away.
Hudson’s expression collapses into real, immediate regret. “Oh fuck, did that actually hurt? I’m so sorry—c’mere, c’mon.” His hands are heavy on Connor’s hips, holding him still without force as he draws Connor’s leg a little wider and presses a kiss to the blue dot he jabbed into him. One firm, closed-lipped. Then another, softer.
“Now I’ve been abused,” Connor whimpers so he doesn’t sigh, though his hand slides into Hudson’s hair anyway—not urging, just anchoring, just feeling him there.
Hudson shakes his head beneath Connor’s palm, biceps flexing attractively as he pushes up from his stomach. “No. No more abuse. Stop the violence,” he murmurs, tossing the pen aside. It clatters against the side table, then skitters across the floor into oblivion. Connor doesn’t care; his breath busy catching on the tender urgency in Hudson’s voice, even knowing he just whispered a Glee quote at him like a confession.
Connor hums as Hudson shifts, swings a leg over, settles his full weight into Connor’s lap and presses two kisses—identical to the ones on his thigh—to Connor’s lips. Firm, then soft. Then wet, then—
“Timeizzit,” Connor slurs against Hudson’s mouth.
Hudson shrugs, unhelpful, keeps kissing open-mouthed and lazy across Connor’s cheek, his jaw, his throat, while Connor turns his head and pats around for his phone.
When he locates it: Fourteen separate emails from his agent. Seven texts from his sister. A missed—almost certainly drunken—FaceTime from François. He notes the hour.
“Mm. It’s time.”
“For what,” Hudson mumbles, squeezing Connor’s shoulders, his arms, wandering to his chest. Once, Jacob joked that Hudson was only able to concentrate during intimacy scenes because he used Connor like a fidget toy. Connor hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.
Connor clears the notifications and clicks into his chat with his sister—just a flurry of Pinterest links to crochet patterns she’s considering. He smiles, soft, and locks his phone. “Time for me to blow this popsicle stand.”
Hudson pulls back, eyebrows already wagging. “Blow, you say?”
Connor scoffs, but it comes out too fond. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love my ridiculous,” Hudson declares, grin sharp and sure in the dim light as he leans in.
Connor’s eyes flutter shut on instinct, trusting where Hudson will land. The quiet assurance tugs at something deep.
Hudson’s tongue barely swipes across his teeth before Connor uses what’s left of his willpower to push him back and slide out from under his weight.
“Oh,” Hudson says. “You’re serious.”
Connor steps into his briefs, toes into the borrowed slacks. “Yeah. I’m supposed to get picked up from my own hotel tomorrow, so. Have you seen my belt?” He ducks to peer under the bed, because it feels like something a person looking for something should do, not just someone who's trying to avoid eye contact.
“I think it’s there, on the chair. You took it off when we came in.” Connor glances up—Hudson naked, cock soft between his legs, sitting back on his heels—then follows the pointed finger like the room isn’t small enough to navigate without guidance.
“Thanks.”
He can feel Hudson’s eyes on him and hates that he can’t read what’s there from this distance, without skin-to-skin proof. Shirt. Coat. Another layer, then another. He cracks open the tub of sour keys on a whim; sugar dusts the desk as he lifts the lid, again when he snaps it shut.
“You can take them,” Hudson offers, as Connor tears off the grainy yellow tip of one. “And the gum. It’s yours.”
Connor shakes his head, tying his shoes one at a time. “Nah. You keep it. All yours, Hubba.”
When he’s done, there’s nowhere left not to look. He finds Hudson propped against the headboard where Connor had been sitting, flipping his phone between thumb and middle finger, over and over.
“You know you’re welcome to stay,” Hudson says, not a question.
Connor leans back against the wall, takes a second to do this right. He doesn’t like when Hudson presses on what they’ve established—but the truth is, Connor is beginning to understand that nothing about this is established. Not this, not the schedules crammed together due to the short visa window, the recognition at pharmacies, the not hanging out with Hudson for every hour of the day. Even before—Ontario, promo, filming—it was a dream, wasn't it. Three-month sleepaway camp. Protein shakes in the morning. Hudson’s head in his lap on GTA highways. That's not reality, not a life. It has long since been time to wake up.
“’Course, baby,” Connor says lightly. “But you’ve got brunch tomorrow, I’ve got my thing. It’s just easier.”
“We could drive you,” Hudson offers, simple as that.
“Could you?”
“I don’t see why not.” He means he doesn’t see why Connor wouldn’t stay—why Connor wouldn’t just fold himself into Hudson’s life like everyone else seems to, since he's such an obvious extension of Hudson. Like everyone can see the scars on their backs from where they were seam ripped apart by Zeus.
Connor wants to. Wants Hudson’s sleep warm skin over silk sheets, wants the well used bed instead of an Uber Black. But he feels the sting along his spine and knows he has to go.
“It’s alright. I wanna get a workout in before the shoot. I’ll see you tomorrow, though—after you carpet with François.”
Hudson nods slowly, eyes dropping to his phone again, and it kills Connor a little how childlike the motion is. Like he really needs the reminder, needs to know this isn’t the last time.
“And maybeee, we can run away again?” Hudson asks, smile creeping back.
“Yeah,” Connor says, rolling his eyes as he steps closer. “All the way to Vegas. Get married by Elvis. You’d love that corny shit.”
“Well, ‘we already got matching tattoos,’” Hudson quotes in an obnoxious, high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like Connor. The goofy laugh that follows dies when Connor gets close enough to plant a knee on the bed and grip Hudson’s chin to kiss him goodbye.
Hudson sighs with it, a breeze of relief fanning over Connor's philtrum. Connor diffuses it with his other hand that dives under the mattress to grab Hudson’s ass cheek—the one with his writing on it. “Oh yeah,” Connor mutters. “Forgot about that.” He gets maybe a quarter of a second to squeeze before Hudson’s laughter breaks the kiss, hands on Connor’s chest pushing him back without a smidge of force behind it.
Connor lingers at the corner just before the door longer than he means to, hand still on the wall like he might try to claw himself back inside.
“Bye, Bubba,” Hudson says, voice already softened by sleep, the smile on his mouth loose and unguarded. His eyes flutter, then settle half-shut as Connor takes a step back.
“Bye, Hudson.”
“Hubba,” Hudson corrects seriously, though a yawn cracks the word in half. Rubs at his face with the heel of his palm.
Connor huffs a quiet laugh. “Bye, Hubba.”
Hudson hums a vague, content sound that might be agreement, might just be his body powering down. Then shifts, tugging the sheet up with him, shoulder disappearing then reappearing as he settles into a position that Connor knows is how he usually falls asleep. Connor has to take his leave before he's caught in the riptide of something something already in motion.
The hallway outside is quiet in that hotel way—or at least, the way it is sans him and Hudson racing. The carpet swallows his footsteps, the low, distant churn of elevators and ice machines and lives moving parallel but never quite intersecting. Connor leans his forehead briefly against Hudson's door, just to feel the solidness of it, just to ground himself before he steps away.
He feels bad about not staying when Hudson wants him to. Bad about choosing the clean exit over the warm mess. Bad about knowing exactly how much it would take to make Hudson ask him again—and how easily he could say yes if he let himself.
But Connor also has shit to do. So he straightens, exhales, and walks down the hall without looking back. No sense in feeling bad about a lot of things like it can compensate for not feeling nearly bad enough about the ones he should.