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Connor feels warm and fuzzy. At this time of the year, Vancouver is of course cold, much colder than Los Angeles. Naturally, Connor should be freezing. From shooting alone Connor knows he doesn't really like the chilly Canadian winds, and yet this time, for once, Connor feels warm. He's surrounded by Hudson's friends, with Hudson's thigh pressed flush against his own in the tiny booth they're cramped in, warm inside from the beer he's been sipping on since he got to the club. His face is slightly flushed, and that too is not from the cold, but from all of the laughing he's done since he sat down with them.
Really, Connor shouldn't even be there in the first place. If he thinks about it, there's nothing for him to do in Vancouver—other than spending time with Hudson, obviously, but apparently that is more important than just rotting in LA, mostly alone. No, most probably he would have been spending his New Years Eve in a similar fashion, getting drunk with his own friends.
But without Hudson.
The sweet part, however, is how Connor feels like he belongs to that group of friends. He's met some of them before, albeit briefly, during filming. Sometimes they would swing by to visit Hudson, all laughter and teasing, and the curiousity of people who were never on set before. Other times, Hudson would drag him for lunch or dinner (or brunch, or breakfast, or drinks), promising him fun and gossip.
Point is, Connor has met them before, but never like this, in a large group of people. Observing them from the side it's clear they know each other well, and despite small groups or duos forming between them, they make sure to involve everybody equally. That, for tonight, includes Connor. Inside jokes get back story, told loud enough across the table for Connor to hear, and they all smile all pleased and happy when he breaks into giggles, face flushing a deeper shade of red.
To add to that, Hudson is so stupidly attentive of him it makes Connor's stomach flip.
Just now, Hudson leans towards him slightly, thighs still pressed flush against one another, close enough Connor gets a whiff of his cologne. It doesn't make Connor shiver. He's better than that.
"You okay?" He asks, a whisper meant just for Connor.
"Mn," Connor hums, nodding just a little bit. When he turns his head, Hudson is watching him carefully. "Just listening."
His eyes are warm, so pretty up close it's absolutely ridiculous. Hudson's hand finds his own and he laces their fingers together, loose and casual.
"You're sure? You're… not feeling left out or anything, right?"
Stupid, sweet man, whenever he wants to be. Connor is sure his face does something stupid, like melt into a much softer, love-stricken expression.
"Huddy," he starts, Hudson's eyelashes fluttering slightly at the sound of the nickname. "I'm fine. Really, baby, I like listening to you guys. All is good," he assures the other man, letting his face fall into an easy smile.
It's a lovely evening. Not how Connor imagined spending his New Years Eve, in Vancouver, Canada, but somehow—someway—better. He blames it on the arm Hudson throws around his shoulders as they pour out of the club half an hour before midnight. Like that, they're just a group of drunk young adults, loud and laughing, and stumbling their way through the streets of Vancouver.
Someone yells something about fireworks. The view around them is truly beautiful. Hudson is pressed against him, side to side, not an inch between them. His fingers are playing with Connor's hair—that one curl behind his ear that Hudson adores. It's almost a subconscious habit, his hand in Connor's curls, something he started doing months ago between the scenes, eyes skimming over the script.
"Don't be surprised," Hudson says some time later, when more people pour out of the nearby bars and clubs, right onto the street. "We have a little tradition of kissing on midnight."
When Connor takes a look at the friend group, he notices the shift that happens. Couples gravitate towards each other, and those who are single turn to their friends, whispering about something in hushed voices. Hudson stays by his side.
He turns his head towards Hudson when the countdown reaches nine.
"A tradition?" He asks curiously. Hudson shurgs.
Eight. Then seven.
"Something silly to have fun with each other. You down?"
Six. Connor swallows.
"Sure," he says, but it sounds a bit weak in his own ears. "Yeah, I'm down," he tries again.
At five, Hudson's fingers sneak from his hair down towards his jaw, and he angles Connor's head better. Still pressed against him, side to side, gentle fingers caressing his jawline. His fingers are burning hot, and Connor has this stupid thought that his skin might melt under their gentle caress.
At four, Connor thinks they've done this before. He's kissed Hudson before, more than he can remember, always with a camera on them. Previously, there was always a purpose. Previously, he was just Ilya, and Hudson was just Shane. At three, Hudson's breath tickles his face, and the bastard smells of cigarettes and the god awful bubblegum flavoured vape he's been hitting all evening long at the club. And he had the audacity to complain about Connor tasting of cigarettes, bastard.
Connor loses count at two, between wondering if this one has a purpose. If the purpose is the tradition shared between the friend group, or if Hudson simply wants to kiss him at midnight. It's stupid, because they don't even wait until fucking midnight to kiss. It's at two, or maybe at three, or maybe Connor had lost time ten seconds ago and this has been going on forever, but he's kissing Hudson. Or Hudson is kissing him.
At first it's a simple press of their lips. Chaste, kind of boring, definitely unsure of what they're even doing. But Connor is unable not to kiss this man like he means it. Like he's kissed him before, so many times Ilya bled into him just a little bit and he kissed because he wanted. And so his tongue is in Hudson's mouth, and Hudson's fingers tighten around his jaw, kissing him back. Cigarettes. The fucking bubblegum vape. The cranberry vodka he had in his silly little cocktail.
Like this, kissing and being kissed in return, Connor is definitely not cold. Vancouver feels like the hottest place on earth when heat rushes all around them, Hudson's saliva turning to lava as it travels down his throat, sets every inch of his insides on fire and settles deep in his belly until Connor squirms. Stupid fucking midnight kisses on New Year's Eve, stupid fucking kisses that should not have been deepened and going on for what feels like hours.
Connor has the second to think that if Hudson stops kissing him, he might seriously fall apart and never be able to pick himself up back together, before someone pulls the two of them apart, away from each other. Cold air hits him straight to the face and Connor whimpers.
But he doesn't get the time to complain before a new set of lips is pressed against his, a loud peck accompanied by a loud smooching noise.
"Happy New Year!" The girl screams, and before Connor can shake off the surprise, he's quite literally passed around to be kissed on his cheeks, on the lips and on his temples by every single one of Hudson's friends.
Right. Tradition.
Connor lets himself relax, lets himself laugh. He kisses them back, respectful pecks on the girls' cheeks, loud smooching noises. Lets himself be tugged down when he's too tall for the people to reach him, laughs loud and clear, lets the warmth get to him again.
At the end, he ends up on Hudson's side again. There's lipstick stains all over Hudson's cheeks, but Connor is sure he looks exactly the same, flushed and kissed, and radiating joy. His stomach doesn't churn in stupid, unnecessary jealousy, because Hudson's eyes are already back on him.
So are his hands. It's sweet, one hand sneaking around his jacket to rest on the small of his back, gentle and nothing more than a sweet caress, burning hot when Connor focuses on it for a second. His second hand finds Connor's, and he tangles their fingers together again.
"One more?" Hudson asks, teasing but sort of hopeful, and Connor simply nods his head. Hudson is tugging him closer, and…
This one is… sweeter. If Connor has to admit, it's nothing more than a gentle press of their lips together, but something unspoken squeezes Connor's insides just at how gentle it is. It doesn't last long, but nobody pulls them apart this time. When Hudson moves away, Connor has to physically stop himself from chasing his lips.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid Texan brain, stupid Vancouver night, stupid Hudson. Stupid Connor, for starting the new year thinking he might be stupidly, hopelessly and dangerously in love with Hudson.
The night goes on, and Connor does his best to not fall into the trap that is his own brain. They drink more cranberry vodka, hop between bars and get sweaty on too many dance floors, before one of the girls starts complaining about her heels killing her. What follows is some laughter, lots of teasing and a couple of people already calling for cabs.
Once again this night, Connor is dragged around, but this time he goes easily. He's kissed again, although this time it's kept very demure, just pecks to his cheeks. He listens to Hudson's friends gush about him—how he's so sweet, so funny and lovely to talk to, how they loved how he played Ilya in the show, how Hudson is unable to look away from him for even a moment.
Truly, when Connor glances up, away from the woman in front of him, Hudson is looking their way. Gentle smile and fond eyes, definitely looking at him by the pleased squeal the girl clutching his arm makes. Connor wants to kiss him again. He leans down to hug the girl, thanks her for the amazing evening, says bye to some more people before Hudson calls for him again.
"Connie," he says, and Connor doesn't blush. Someone whistles, and the amused looks they throw Connor's way are enough to make him squirm. On top of that, Connor might seriously be stupidly in love. "out cab's here. Come on, baby."
In the cab, Hudson plays with his fingers, his head resting on Connor's shoulders. He's warm, sleepy and his words slur a little when he speaks, whether from tiredness, alcohol or both, Connor isn't sure.
"Loved having you there, you know?" He says in a hushed voice, and Connor makes a little noise to let him know he's listening. "Loved all of them whispering to me how sweet you are, how pretty you are, how much they adore you after having you for like, five minutes," he continues.
"You're sweet talking me."
Hudson grumbles in protest, his head raising just for a moment so he can look Connor in the eye.
"No, seriously! Seriously, they all loved you. Begged me to take you with me the next time we have a big outing!"
Connor raises his brow and forces Hudson's head back down onto his shoulder. That is safer than having to look into those glassy, beautiful eyes of his. "And will you?"
"Want to. If you have the time, always. Always, Concon."
He's really drunk then, throwing Connor's nicknames around like they slide off his tongue with such ease he doesn't even notice it. He nuzzles his face into Connor's neck, and that position simply can't be comfortable, but Connor knows better than to fight him like that. The drive isn't long anyways, and there is a high chance he will not get a neck cramp from it.
Like that, face hidden in Connor's neck, he says something else, a mumble that gets lost in the moles that adore Connor's skin close to where Hudson's lips are.
"Hm? What was that?" He tries, nudging Hudson's hair with his nose. It would be so easy to kiss the top of his head like this, but Connor feels like if he does it once, he might never be able to force himself to stop.
For a moment, it's silent. The cab driver glances at them in the rear view mirror, but Connor supposes he's heard enough shit on New Years (Eve) that he's not paying them too much attention. He glances down at Hudson again. If it wasn't for the uneven breathing, Connor would think he managed to fall asleep.
Then, Hudson raises his head again.
"I said I loved kissing you again."
Ah.
Connor stills. He forces himself to be calm for once, regards Hudson with a small smile and hopes it's enough of an answer for once. Perhaps Hudson is wasted enough to not think too much of Connor's silence, because with a pleased noise he plops his head back down onto Connor's shoulder. It feels heavy and hurts a little bit with how aware of every single bone and muscle of his body Connor is.
But it's the New Years. It's January 1st, Connor's hands aren't shaking and Hudson is drunk enough that his usually loud, bold but lovely personality melts into something more private and muted, in a gentle and trusting way. It's January 1st and his lips tingle, and if he swallows right now he will still be able to taste the bubblegum vape and the cranberry vodka Hudson tasted of not that long ago. They're almost at Hudson's building. Connor has a flight back home tomorrow morning.
It's January 1st. Connor is in love.