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The irony, the parallels to their characters, are not lost on Connor as he flies toward Vancouver. Toward Hudson. His best friend.
No, “best friend” doesn’t even begin to cover the breadth of what Hudson is to him. He’s… a part of his fucking soul family, isn’t he? They’re soulmates. He’d known as such ever since they first met.
The plane descends through a perpetual twilight, the sky a bruised gradient from indigo to the last fiery streak of sunset over the Pacific. Connor watches the lights of Vancouver resolve into grids and strings of gold, his heart performing a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. It was a familiar flight, but it had never felt like this. It had always been a commute to work. Tonight, it feels like a filament being drawn taut, pulling him inexorably to a single point.
Hudson.
The irony is a living thing in his chest, a second heartbeat. He knows Ilya would chase across continents for Shane. He thinks of the lines that made them famous, that had fueled a thousand fan edits and speculative articles. He’d said them with professional conviction, channeling the script’s longing. Now, hurtling through the winter dark, he understands their poverty. No writer—not even the very, very good ones—could script the quiet, terrifying truth of this.
This wasn’t about chasing or grand declarations. It was about flying toward your axis, the person who quieted the static in your world simply by existing in it.
The seatbelt sign chimes. He thinks of Hudson’s hands, competent and sure on the steering wheel. Of the way he laughs, head thrown back, soundless until a sharp, delighted gasp of air escapes. Of the sacred, mundane intimacy of their friendship: Hudson knowing how he takes his coffee, Hudson stealing food from his plate, Hudson wordlessly passing him a sweater when Connor gets cold on set.
He thinks again of his soul family. Hudson is his chosen brother, his confidant, his mirror. And somewhere along the way, without Connor even noticing the shift in gravity, he had become the secret, hopeful destination of every one of Connor’s thoughts.
The wheels touch down with a screech and a rumble. Connor’s phone lights up instantly, as if Hudson had sensed the exact moment of contact.
HUDSON:
Terminal 8. Arrivals. Right side. Don’t get lost.
A smile breaks over Connor’s face, reflexive and unstoppable.
The walk through the terminal is a blur of holiday bustle—tinsel, weary families, the tinny sound of Auld Lang Syne from a shop speaker. His body moves on autopilot, his mind a riot of anticipation and fear. What if he’d read it all wrong? What if the lingering looks, the casual touches that felt electric, the way Hudson’s gaze sometimes held his a beat too long… what if it was just them? Just the unique, profound language of their friendship?
He follows the sign to Arrivals, the crowd thinning. He sees the glass doors, the dark Vancouver night beyond, the line of idling cars. And then he sees him.
He’s sitting in his car, staring at his phone, a slight frown of concentration on his face.
He looks, Connor thinks with a painful lurch of affection, like home.
As if feeling the weight of his gaze, Hudson looks up. His eyes find Connor’s instantly, cutting through the space between them. The frown vanishes, replaced by a smile so wide and genuine it crinkles the corners of his eyes. It was a smile that held all their history, all their private jokes, all their shared silences. It was a smile that felt, to Connor’s desperately hopeful heart, like a beginning.
Connor pushes through the doors, the chill night air sharp in his lungs. Hudson shoves his phone in his pocket and quickly gets out of the car.
“You’re late,” Hudson calls, his voice warm and teasing, carrying over the hum of engines.
“Plane was slow,” Connor says, stopping a few feet away, his duffel bag hanging from his hand. The space between them feels charged, significant. “It doesn’t know I have somewhere important to be.”
Hudson’s gaze softens. He takes a half-step forward, closing the distance. “Yeah? And where’s that?”
Connor’s bravado flickers. The script lines are there, ready. With you. Always with you. But this isn’t a script. This is Hudson, his best friend, the keeper of his quietest self.
“Here,” Connor says simply, his voice rough. “Just… here.”
For a long moment, Hudson just looks at him, the teasing light in his eyes deepening into something unreadable, intense. The sounds of the airport fade—the engines, the announcements, the chatter. There are only the two of them under the yellow light, in the cold, on the cusp of a new year.
Then Hudson reaches out, not for the duffel bag, but his hand closing around Connor’s forearm, a firm, grounding grip through the layers of his coat. The contact sends a jolt straight through Connor.
“Good,” Hudson says, the word low and full. “Get in the car, Con. It’s freezing. And we’ve got a countdown to catch.”
He doesn’t let go immediately. His thumb brushes once, briefly, over the fabric of Connor’s sleeve—a small, deliberate stroke. A message. A promise. Then he takes the duffel, his shoulder brushing Connor’s as he turns to open the passenger door.
The party at Hudson’s place is far from a modest affair, one that is already in full swing when they arrive, and Connor is touched. Hudson left his own party just to pick him up from the airport.
“Aw, baby,” Connor teases, “you left the party just for little ole me?”
“I’ll always pick you up from the airport,” Hudson answers, raw. Honest.
God, Connor loves him—there’s no way around it. He is hopelessly, utterly in love with his best friend.
“Come on,” Hudson says, gesturing with his chin toward the house. “The whole party’s waiting for the guest of honor.”
“Me?” Connor asks, placing a hand on his chest and pretending to swoon. “Why, I never!”
Hudson just laughs. “You’re ridiculous. Come on, before you turn into a Con-cicle.”
“That was horrible,” Connor says. “Please never call me that again, or I will have to end our friendship immediately. I won’t come back for season two!”
Hudson only laughs harder as he opens the door for Connor, who quickly shoulders inside and is greeted by a chorus of “Connor!”s and “Hey, man!”s. Hudson runs to put his duffel bag in the bedroom Connor always stays in when he visits, and then he’s back, and Connor loses his breath at how effortlessly gorgeous he is.
The house is warm and vibrant, pulsing with music and laughter. It’s a mix of crew members from the show, a few of Hudson’s Vancouver friends, and some local actor pals. The air smells of mulled wine, pine from the Christmas tree still twinkling in the corner, and something savory from the kitchen. Connor is pulled into hugs, clapped on the back, handed a drink. He performs his role—the charming, slightly jet-lagged guest of honor—but his awareness is a spotlight, following Hudson as he moves through the room, refilling bowls, laughing at a story. Every so often, Hudson’s eyes find his across the space, and the world narrows to that single, steadying point of contact.
As the night wears on, the energy shifts. The music softens. Someone dims the lights. The giant TV screen, which had been showing snowy scenes, switches to the feed from New York City, where a glittering, rain-slicked crowd is gathering.
“Three minutes!” someone yells.
A subtle, anticipatory rearrangement begins. Partners drift together. Hands are linked. Connor watches as the show’s head cameraman pulls his wife into a slow dance right there in the middle of the living room rug. He feels a sweet, sharp pang of longing.
Hudson appears at his elbow, holding two glasses of sparkling wine. He hands one to Connor. Their fingers brush.
“Getting close,” Hudson says, his voice quieter than usual.
“Yeah,” Connor says. He takes a sip, the bubbles sharp on his tongue. “Great party.”
“It’s better now,” Hudson answers honestly.
The simple statement sends a flood of warmth through Connor’s veins. The noise of the party seems to recede, muffled by the roaring in his own ears.
On screen, the countdown clock glows. Someone starts a chant. “Five! Four!”
The room erupts, joining in. Hudson turns fully toward him, setting his glass down on a side table. Connor mirrors him, his heart hammering against his sternum.
“Three! Two!”
This was it. The moment everyone paired off. Connor sees the kisses beginning—cheeky, sweet, passionate. The cameraman dips his wife. Two friends share a quick, laughing peck.
“ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
A chorus of cheers, the pop of a cork, the opening notes of Auld Lang Syne. Confetti seems to glitter in the air between them.
They are inches apart. Hudson’s gaze drops to Connor’s lips, then back up to his eyes, a question burning there, erasing all the easy confidence from his face. In its place is a vulnerability Connor has only seen a handful of times, raw and real.
“Connor,” Hudson breathes, his voice barely a whisper, meant for him alone in the roaring room. It was a plea, a confession, and a promise, all in one word.
And in that suspended second, with the scent of Hudson’s cologne and the echoed cheers washing over them, Connor just… knows.
Now.
“Hudson,” Connor starts, his voice rough with emotion. “I have to tell you something.”
“Oh?” Hudson breathes. “Do tell.”
“I…” Connor takes a deep breath, and, a little drunk and very in love, pours his heart out in the language of the best fucking rom-com to ever do it. “I love that you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out, even though you are literally fucking Canadian. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your cologne on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve… I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
Hudson laughs, stunned. “Did you just fucking quote When Harry Met Sally at me?”
“Not the point,” Connor huffs, his cheeks heating.
Oh, god. Did he fuck it all up?
But then Hudson is kissing him, and he’s tasted his mouth a thousand times before, but this is different because it is undeniably, unequivocally real. No script, no cameras. Ilya and Shane are a distant memory right now.
Right now, all that matters is the feel of Hudson’s body against his, the way he’s pressing in close like he wants to merge with Connor until they’re one being, and Connor could cry, because exactly. He can never get Hudson close enough. The man could be in his bloodstream, his bone marrow, and it still wouldn’t be close enough.
They kiss until they’re breathless, pulling away slightly to pant into each other’s mouths.
“You know,” Hudson says, and Connor feels more than he sees the quirk of his lips. “They say that whoever you kiss at midnight is who you’re going to spend the year with.”
Connor squeezes Hudson around the waist, unable to keep the goofy grin from his face. “I wouldn’t want to spend it with anybody else.”