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Hudson wakes up very hungover.
The world is already throbbing, pressing unkindly against the inside of his skull the moment his eyes crack open. He winces into the light spilling into his bedroom, immediately regretting several things at once. First: not closing the blinds, and not setting out his customary painkiller and glass of water on the bedside table—kindnesses that Drunk-Hudson is usually considerate enough to take care of for Future-Hudson. Second: karaoke. And third, by association, several rounds of soju shots that felt like absolutely nothing at the time and now feel like everything, all at once, crowding behind the small cramped space his eyes.
Still, he remembers that the dinner and drinks that had been planned for Connor’s last night in Vancouver had felt sensible and adult while they were happening—but as the hour crept closer to goodbye, everything started feeling unbearably fast. Like the evening was sprinting toward an ending Hudson wasn’t ready to look at. Going back to his place as soon as they were done would’ve meant watching Connor start to pack properly, the night shrinking into soft, aimless puttering around a neatly zipped duffel. A movie neither of them would really watch, too busy pretending to ignore Connor's passport and travel essentials laid out on the coffee table like the subtitle of an epilogue.
So he’d suggested karaoke instead. Or, well, begged might be a more accurate description. There hadn’t really been much dignity in dragging everyone out for a little longer on a Wednesday night—yanking Connor into a clumsy duet to Carly Rae Jepsen in the name of some performative patriotism. Really just an excuse to laugh too loudly and pretend there wasn’t a timer running out on the night.
Now, trudging toward the bathroom, the entire thing feels like a rather juvenile miscalculation.
He fumbles open the medicine cabinet, planting a painkiller on his tongue before crouching over the sink to drink straight from the tap. The cold water shocks him awake just enough to steady his stomach, and thankfully, by the time he’s pulling on a loose shirt and sweats he can feel the faint beginnings of relief easing of the pressure behind his eyes. He's still a little lost tn the kitchen though. Hudson stands in front of his pantry for a full minute, staring blankly at cereal boxes and dry pasta like they might be the thing to inspire him into allowing the day to begin, but cooking feels impossible. Existing more than ambitious enough.
That’s when he realizes the song stuck in his head isn’t actually stuck in his head. It’s playing softly from outside—a tinny phone speaker leaking a familiar seventies tune through the slight gap in the sliding glass door.
Hudson doesn’t really think about it. He grabs one of his shaker bottles he usually reserves for the gym, fills it with water, and finds himself pulling the door open and stepping onto the balcony. It’s early enough that the heat hasn’t fully settled yet, but the sun is already strong, warming his skin instantly. Too bright for his aching head, but Connor looks too comfortable to ask him to come inside.
Another one of Hudson’s regrets: letting Connor stay at his place. He’s been a terrible influence—mostly on Hudson’s lungs. Hudson isn’t a smoker, not like this. He hates the way the smell clings to fabric, to hair, to skin. And yet, like he has on all the mornings Connor has occupied this balcony, he sets down his water bottle and reaches automatically for the pack of cigarettes and the Granville Island lighter stacked neatly on the small wooden stool that passes for a patio table. Not because he wants the nicotine, but because he doesn’t seem capable of resisting the ritual.
Connor is sprawled back in the chair, eyes closed against the sun, hands folded loosely over his stomach with his phone tucked beneath them. He looks half-asleep, almost lifeless in the warmth, but Hudson can still feel the weight of his awareness, the quiet alertness that never really leaves him. It sharpens as Hudson sits down beside him with a soft grunt, already thumbing the flint wheel.
His voice is still rough a little with sleep—or maybe last night's musical abuse. "Want me to leave them here for you?"
“This is your fault,” Hudson mutters, non answer pinched with the filter balanced between his lips.
One eye cracks open, just barely, but Connor doesn’t bother denying anything. He just hums—a low sound between acknowledgment and sigh. “Mornin’.”
Hudson takes a long pull from his first drag. It isn’t rejuvenating, exactly, but it helps. Lifts the edge of the dark shroud hanging over his shoulders to make the sunlight feel a little less like punishment and a little more like an earnest sort of warmth as the smoke curls upward between them.
“Hungry?” he asks after a second exhale.
Connor shakes his head slightly, eyes still closed. “Better not.” A pause. “Water?”
He lifts a hand without looking, fingers searching, and Hudson passes him the bottle wordlessly. He watches Connor nudge open the cap with the point of his chin and take a long, unhurried swig, throat working as he drinks. He only stops when there’s a sudden buzz in his hand. The bottle stays tucked loosely in the crook of his arm, cap still open, while he frees both hands to type.
“You been up long?” Hudson asks.
“Nah.” Connor’s thumbs move slowly across the screen. “Just texting my sister.”
Hudson almost wishes he’d come out sooner, wishes they’d been awake together instead of Connor having this small slice of morning alone. It’s a dumb thought, possessive in a way that shouldn't belong to him.
“She okay?”
Connor exhales, a sigh that sounds more tired than annoyed. “Yeah, all good. Just planning Thanksgiving flights.”
Hudson takes another drag, smoke scraping a little against the dryness in his throat. He ashes into the Mainstreet can they'd repurposed into an ashtray the first night Connor got here, and considers asking for the bottle back. He doesn’t. “Oh yeah? Already? You guys do a big thing?”
“Not huge,” Connor says, shoulders sinking deeper into the chair. “My mom, Taylor, and I usually go back to Odessa and stay at my grandma’s. My aunt comes too if she doesn’t feel like dealing with her in-laws.” His phone gives a soft whoosh as he sends the message, then he drops it back onto his stomach. “Seats are just cheaper around this time.”
There’s a softness in his voice, warm and nostalgic. Hudson smiles before he realizes he’s doing it.
“What kind of stuff do you guys make?”
Connor huffs a small laugh. “Everything. God. My grandma starts prepping weeks ahead. Classic turkey, cranberry sauce, all the sides—this insanely loaded mac and cheese that would kill you.” His mouth tilts into a grin. “She was deeply disturbed when I went vegan for a year in high school.” Hudson snorts softly. Of course.
“She was devastated,” Connor continues, eyes opening just enough to squint out at the horizon. “I refused to eat basically anything she made, and she spent like an hour in the kitchen by herself while everyone else ate, trying to throw together something I could have.”
“That’s so sweet,” Hudson says quietly, eyes falling closed as he pictures it without trying—a younger Connor, baby fat clinging to his cheeks. Stubborn and impossible, turning his nose up at home cooking while his grandmother fussed around him anyway.
Connor scoffs, like sweetness isn’t quite the right word. “Yeah, it was. But I was also being a little shit for no reason.” He shifts, rubbing a hand over his face. “I should’ve just eaten what she made. She works so hard, and I just… complicated everything. Whatever. Kid stuff, I guess.”
The cigarette burns lower between Hudson’s fingers as Connor's voice gets a little quieter, before edging into something conspiratorial. "Thanksgiving’s her favorite holiday. I felt so guilty I cried and ended up eating some turkey anyway.”
Hudson opens his eyes to look at him—at the way the sun catches the edge of his jaw. One knee bouncing lightly to the beat—the second skin on his shin glinting in the sunlight, curling slightly at the edges. And the sleepy honesty in his voice, loosened by the bare morning warmth, the hangover and the flight in a few hours and the knowledge that the day is already moving forward whether they want it to or not.
“Well,” Hudson says eventually, smoke trailing from the corner of his mouth. “That’s surprising.”
Connor turns his head slightly. “What’s surprising? That I was a cunty sixteen-year-old?”
“No, no, that tracks.”
Connor huffs out a laugh. “Well, at least I was only a cunt at sixteen. You’ve been a cunt for how many years now?”
“First of all,” Hudson says, gesturing at him with what remains of his cigarette, “you’re clearly still a cunt—”
“Just tell me what’s surprising.”
Hudson smiles despite the interruption, giving in easily when Connor cracks an eye open again, looking at him with a curious, pinched brow.
“That you call your grandma your grandma,” he says.
Connor blinks. “What else would I call her? My mom’s mom? That sounds like I hate her.”
“I just figured you’d have one of those white-people names for her, y’know. Like your Meemaw, or your Deedee—”
“My Deedee? What the fuck—”
“Or your Mimi, or your—”
“We call her Nana, okay? Jesus.” Connor shakes his head, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “What do you call your grandparents?”
Hudson’s smile fades a little at the edges, not enough to make it heavy but enough to shift the air between them. “Eh.” He shrugs. “My dad’s parents died when I was too little to remember. Never met my mom’s side. My grandfather’s gone too, but all I know aside from that is she doesn’t talk to her mom.”
The words come easy, a practiced casualness holding in the shape of something older. He takes another his final drag, too deep, and it rasps against his throat hard enough to make him cough. Connor holds the water bottle out toward him without comment, sitting back again once Hudson takes it with a quiet nod of thanks. He rinses the irritation away before licking his lips and clearing his throat.
“She’d be my halmeoni, I guess,” he says.
“That’s grandma in Korean?”
“Yeah.” Hudson stuff his butt through the tab-less mouth of the Mainstreet and tucks it under the stool out of sight. Rolls his water bottle between his now empty hands. “But I don’t actually know if that’s how you’d normally say it, or if it’s more like… calling someone Grandmother. Like, too formal or something, maybe.”
“Mm.” Connor hums softly. “Yeah, I get what you mean.”
Silence settles in, folding easily around them as the city murmurs softly below. The morning rush has already thinned; Sundays belong to dog walkers, cyclists, people moving slowly with coffee cups warming their hands. The occasional Lime scooter tears recklessly through the bike lanes—someone late to brunch pretending they’re invincible.
Maybe they’ll be those late-brunch people today, Hudson thinks vaguely. They’ve still got time before Connor has to go, enough to stretch the morning out. But the thought of leaving the apartment—even just for food, to delay anything—makes something tight pull across his chest. As if movement itself might start the clock again. As if stepping off the balcony means admitting the day has an ending at all.
Hudson doesn’t like thinking about the past. He doesn’t believe in replaying moments, in rewinding himself to examine what he could’ve done differently. It feels useless, the kind of contemplation that serves no purpose except to make him feel like shit. He’s always preferred moving forward, letting things sit where they landed. But he finds he does it constantly with Connor. Always thinking backward.
He did it after their first chemistry read, replaying their short interaction over and over in his head. Wondering if actually giving Connor his Instagram even though he'd literally asked for it had been too forward, too strange—especially with the lack of excuse of pretense to surround it, not a single promise made or assuagement given that they might be chosen. Wondering if it was normal to feel this good, talking to someone he hardly knew in front of several other somebodies he hardly knew. Wondering if he’d overstepped before they’d even begun.
Then he was doing it again when they met properly in person. Regretting every hour he’d spent lurking through Connor’s social media when, mid-conversation, Connor mentioned how long his hair used to be and Hudson blurted out a careless yeah, I saw before he could stop himself. The way Connor’s expression had flickered—not uncomfortable, exactly, but surprised—burned itself into Hudson’s brain. Because they weren't technically close like that, not yet, no matter how quickly they clicked. No matter how natural it felt to move from seeing Connor's face on a screen to having his lips hovering a few centimetres away from his face. No matter how setting boundaries felt like a protective action rather than self-conscious measure.
And still after filming, the silence felt catastrophic, pushing him steadily towards the mind-killer. He’d had the worst post-wrap crash of his life. Friends dragged him out, comped his drinks, tried to keep him moving. There was always promo to look forward to later in the winter, but everything felt dull and wrong until a few weeks later, when Connor texted him out of nowhere with a screenshot of a surprisingly cheap Air Canada round-trip and the message: how do you feel abt me on your couch for a week? And that felt real enough to hold onto. Until now.
Despite knowing it’s pointless, Hudson finds himself regretting Connor coming here, too.
Not because he didn’t want him to. He did. Maybe too much. Even when he first offered, back during those early prep days when they were still building the fragile foundation of whatever this was, he hadn’t been sure Connor would actually take him up on it. Back when they were trading little pieces of themselves like offerings, drawing lines between the lives they lived a few thousand kilometers apart on the same coast.
This is where I run.
This is where I go when I want to be alone.
This is where I filmed something once.
This is the harbour.
Oh shit, that’s beautiful.
It really is. You should come sometime, y'know. Stay at mine. I’d show you around.
Really?
Really.
Careful, I really will take you up on it.
You better. You’re stuck with me now, Storrie.
Hudson regrets and regrets and regrets so that he has something to fill the time until he can see Connor again.
Across the balcony, Connor's peering at his phone again, rearranging the queue. Reclined comfortably, hair still messy with sleep, perfectly casual and settled like he belongs here. Like Hudson will wake up tomorrow and find him here again, even if in a couple of hours he'll be tracking the airplane that makes such a thing impossible from happening.
Maybe, Hudson thinks, he can sidestep another regret before it forms.
“You guys do Thanksgiving in November, right?” he asks, trying for casual.
“Mhm,” comes Connor's half-distracted hum.
Hudson swallows. He doesn’t need another cigarette, but his hand moves toward Connor’s pack anyway, searching for something to do. “If stuff doesn't get too busy, do you—”
“Do you want to come?”
Hudson freezes.
Connor tilts his head, raising a hand to block the sun from his eyes as he looks over, a small shadow falling across his face. Hudson feels pinned in place, suddenly, beneath that easy, knowing gaze.
“I know it’s not, like… super exciting,” Connor adds, almost shyly.
Of course Connor beats him to it. Of course he somehow knows exactly what Hudson’s about to ask before Hudson can force the words out.
Hudson bites back a smile, clears his throat. “No, yeah, I mean—I’ve never done a full American Thanksgiving before. Football and… I don't know what else. Cornbread? Stuffing?”
Connor laughs softly. “Yeah. Football and stuffing.” He shrugs. “Doesn't have to be for too long, but I could show you where I grew up, or whatever. You could finally meet Taylor in person. I dunno. We’d have fun wherever, right?”
It's true. The music selection hadn't been terribly varied last night and they still had a ball. Hudson can still picture Connor, arms slung around his friends' shoulders, face scrunched up mid-wail, I'd go the whole wide world. Hudson thinks himself pretty lucky, because they didn't have to go that far. He also thinks his face might be physically incapable of containing the smile trying to break free. If he lets it happen fully he'll probably look completely unhinged, so he just nods instead.
Once. Then again. And again, until Connor starts laughing and nodding back at him, mirroring the movement until they both look ridiculous. Two bobbleheads knocking foreheads on the dashboard.
“I’m down,” Hudson says finally, between glimpses of Connor’s hair—curls flashing like spun gold in the morning light. “Nana’s gonna love me.”