Archive of Our Own ^beta

Part 1: Recognition

Zoom Meeting

The first time Hudson felt it, it wasn’t during the kiss.
It was during the chemistry read.
A screen. A timer. A Zoom rectangle that Connor filled with an almost unreasonable ease.
Hudson had been doing this long enough to recognize nerves when he saw them: tight shoulders, overcompensation, a kind of apologetic charm. Connor had none of that. He appeared on the call already settled in his body, already present, already looking back at Hudson, not up to him.
Three minutes in, Hudson felt something shift.
Not excitement. Not intrigue.
Recognition.
Connor leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, eyes bright and steady. When he spoke the lines, there was confidence there, not arrogance, not bravado. Just a grounded certainty, like he knew he belonged in the scene and trusted Hudson to meet him there.
Hudson remembered thinking, absurdly: I found my person.
Not in a romantic way. Not yet. In a deeper, stranger sense. Like something had clicked into place that he couldn’t name.
I found my Shane, Connor would later say, laughing.
But Hudson knew, felt it then, that Connor had found him too.
When the call ended, Hudson stared at his own reflection for a moment longer than necessary, heart racing.
“That was… different,” he murmured to no one.
By the time they met in person, the recognition only sharpened.
Connor was exactly what he’d seemed: open, grounded, curious. Comfortable with touch, with silence, with space. Hudson noticed immediately how little Connor flinched, how he didn’t retreat when Hudson spoke too fast or laughed too loud or veered off-topic. Other people sometimes found Hudson overwhelming. Too wild, too restless, too much.
Connor didn’t.
Connor kept up. With a genuine smile and an open heart.
And more than that, Connor stayed.
They were put in adjacent hotel rooms without ceremony. Just a coincidence, production said. But it became a rhythm instantly. Doors opening and closing in tandem. Morning knocks that didn’t need explanation. “Coffee?” texts sent without preamble.
After long days of filming or skating lessons, they ate the same thing, gravitating toward identical orders without discussing it. Connor joked once that they shared a stomach. Hudson laughed, secretly pleased.
They went to the gym at the same time, too. Not planned. It just happened. Connor lifting with quiet focus, Hudson pacing between sets, talking through scenes, through ideas, through half-formed thoughts about the industry and art and what it meant to be seen.
Connor listened. Always.
Hudson began to realize something unsettling: Connor didn’t just tolerate his free spirit. He valued it. Where others judged Hudson as reckless or indulgent, Connor saw curiosity. Vitality. Life.
“You don’t have to shrink,” Connor told him once, casually, mid-stretch. “You don’t take up too much space.”
The words stuck with Hudson longer than he’d expected.
Then there was Ilya.
The character moved between them like a live wire. Connor’s Ilya was fearless in his wanting, completely unapologetic in his presence. Hudson’s Shane responded before Hudson himself could catch up: eyes softening, breath hitching, control unraveling in small, devastating increments.
Hudson told himself it was the script.
But late at night, alone in his room, just one thin wall separating him from Connor, he found himself wondering if what Shane wanted wasn’t fictional at all.
Maybe he’d been waiting for an Ilya his whole life.

Hudson and Ilya

__________
Connor noticed something else.
He noticed how easily their lives braided together off-screen. How being next door turned into being inseparable. How Hudson reached for him instinctively, sharing thoughts, doubts, excitement.
Connor liked how Hudson laughed with his whole body. How he moved like rules were optional. How he never apologized for his intensity.
Connor also liked how Hudson looked at Ilya.
Not Connor.
Ilya.
That look, open and undone and aching, only appeared when the camera rolled. And Connor, to his quiet horror, started wanting it off-screen too.
He tried not to.
He reminded himself they were best friends. That what they had was rare and precious and didn’t need to be named as anything else.
But then there were the tattoos.
The idea came up one night on Hudson’s bed, takeout containers balanced precariously between them, scripts abandoned on the floor.
“We should get something ridiculous,” Hudson said, scrolling through his phone. “Like matching clowns.”
Connor laughed. “A clown?”
“Yeah,” Hudson grinned. “Commit to the chaos.”
Connor hesitated. He’d been imagining something else. Something quieter, something that meant this mattered. He didn’t want temporary chaos. He wanted permanence.
“Maybe something a bit more… sentimental?” Connor offered carefully.
Hudson made a face. “You want, like, a quote?”
They fell into conversation then, about Hollywood, about image, about how the industry sold intimacy like currency. How queerness was marketable now, but only when packaged just right.
Connor said, “It’s strange. We’re doing something deeply personal, but it’s also… transactional.”
Hudson nodded. “Sex sells.”
The words landed between them.
Connor sat up slightly. “That’s it.”
Hudson blinked. “That’s the tattoo?”
“Yeah,” Connor said, heart racing. “On the surface, it’s provocative. But underneath,” He gestured between them. “It’s about connection. What people think they’re consuming versus what’s actually happening.”
Hudson considered it. Then he smiled slowly. “Okay. But I want it somewhere intimate.”
“Where?”
“Top of my left thigh,” Hudson said easily.
Connor swallowed hard.
“I want mine somewhere I can always see,” he said. “Even when I’m on the couch.”
“Your shin?”
“Left,” Connor said. “With a simple heart around it.”
Hudson’s expression softened. He didn’t ask why.
Later, Connor would explain it like this:
When I went to Vancouver, I went to visit Hudson for a week… We knew we wanted to get a little tattoo together, just to commemorate our connection and being on the show because it’s pretty momentous for both of us… We didn’t want to do anything that was too on-the-nose. I like it because it’s provocative on the surface. But underneath it, it’s about connection and experience… In the moment, we were both just like, “SEX SELLS,” and we were like, “Yep. That’s it.”
Hudson agreed instantly.
Connor told himself Hudson said yes because he loved Connor as a best friend.
Connor knew, quietly, that he said yes because he loved Hudson with his whole heart.
The day they got the tattoos, they walked through the rain together, shoulders brushing, sharing an umbrella too small for even one. Connor felt the permanence of the ink before the needle ever touched skin.
Hudson barely flinched.
Connor watched him, heart swelling painfully, and realized the truth he’d been circling for weeks:
Hudson wasn’t just his best friend.
Hudson was his soulmate.
And soulmates, Connor was learning, didn’t always mean returned.

The tattoo that started it all.

Walking in the rain.

__________
That night, something broke open.
They were back in Hudson’s room. Rain tapping against the window. Air heavy with everything unsaid.
“You’ve been distant,” Hudson said quietly.
Connor exhaled. “Maybe I’m just tired of pretending.”
“Pretending what?”
“That this doesn’t feel bigger than it is.”
The silence trembled.
Hudson stepped closer.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered.
“Then don’t.”
And that was it.
The space between them detonated.
Hudson grabbed Connor’s shirt and pulled him in. Their mouths crashed together, hungry, unrestrained, months of suppressed tension finally given somewhere to go.
This wasn’t choreographed.
There were no cameras.
No one saying cut.
Connor kissed him the way he’d wanted to during every scene they’d been forced to pull back from. Hudson responded instantly, lips parting, breath catching as the kiss deepened into something urgent and undeniable.
Hands roamed without permission now, over backs, shoulders, gripping fabric, learning heat and muscle and reality. They pressed together until there was no space left between them, until the kiss felt less like discovery and more like surrender.
It was everything they’d been holding back.
Everything the scenes never allowed.
Hudson’s fingers tightened at Connor’s waist, pulling him closer like he was afraid the moment might vanish.
“Ilya...”
The name slipped out softly.
Unthinking.
Connor froze.
Hudson went still too.
The rain outside sounded suddenly sharp against the glass.
“I didn’t mean...” Hudson began.
But he had.
Connor stepped back slowly, breath uneven.
“I’m not him,” he said quietly.
Hudson ran a hand through his hair, panic flickering across his face. “I know.”
But something had cracked.
The kiss had been real.
The want had been real.
But the name hadn’t been his.
And that was what lingered.
__________

Part 2: The Unraveling

The end arrived quietly.
No dramatic countdown. No single moment where it was announced.
Just a slow thinning of time.
Connor noticed it in the way people started talking about flights. In the way costumes were hung with more care, as if preservation mattered now. In the way Hudson lingered in doorways, stretching conversations longer than necessary, like he was afraid of what silence might mean.
Fear settled into Connor like a second skeleton.
He tried to imagine his life without Hudson and failed every time.
Tried to imagine waking up somewhere else, LA maybe, sunlight hitting a familiar ceiling, phone empty, body untethered from the constant pull of another presence. Maybe he’d pick up a restaurant shift again. Maybe he’d audition and wait and hope and pretend this part of his life hadn’t cracked something open permanently.
The distance was already unbearable.
And worse than the distance was the uncertainty.
What do I do now? Connor thought, night after night, staring at the hotel wall that separated him from Hudson. How do I tell him? And if I do, what do I lose?
Because Connor already felt like he was losing him.
Hudson talked about the ending differently.
He wasn’t afraid, not in the same way. He spoke with optimism, with faith in continuity. He promised a never fading connection like it was a given.
“We’ll FaceTime all the time,” Hudson said once, sprawled across the bed, arms flung wide. “You’ll come visit. It’s like two hours. That’s nothing.”
Connor nodded, smiling faintly.
Hudson kept going. “You have to meet Gizmo properly. He’s going to love you.”
“Your cat,” Connor said.
“My baby boy,” Hudson corrected. “Honestly, you two are going to be best friends. Especially in the mornings.”
Connor raised an eyebrow. “Why mornings?”
Hudson laughed. “The way you wake up and stretch on the sofa, long limbs everywhere, no dignity? You look exactly like him.”
Connor laughed too, but the image lodged somewhere painful. The idea of being folded into Hudson’s domestic world, of belonging there, felt too dangerous to want openly.
Hudson didn’t worry like Connor did. He trusted what they had. He trusted that labels didn’t matter, that affection could exist without definition.
Hudson had always lived that way.
He never boxed himself in. Not with desire, not with identity. He didn’t think in terms of gay or straight or bi. He thought in moments. In attraction. In connection. In whether something felt alive.
And Connor, Connor felt alive.
So did Ilya.
Hudson couldn’t deny the pleasure of Connor’s body, or the way Ilya’s confidence thrilled him. He loved intimacy. Loved closeness. Loved touch. Loved how it all felt when it didn’t need explanation.
But love, romantic love, felt like a word that demanded certainty.
And Hudson didn’t have it.

Gizmo.

__________
The car ride stayed with Connor long after it happened.
They were crammed into the back seat after another punishing day, knees knocking, air stale with exhaustion. Hudson leaned against Connor almost immediately, weight sinking in, breath warm through fabric.
Connor didn’t move.
Hudson’s head slipped from shoulder to thigh, the descent slow and helpless. Connor’s heart stuttered.
He looked down at Hudson’s face, unguarded, lashes low, mouth relaxed in sleep, and something in him fractured.
Connor reached out without thinking.
He brushed Hudson’s hair back, fingers light, reverent. Let his thumb trace the curve of cheek, the warmth of skin. Hudson stirred but didn’t wake.
Connor felt it then, fully and unmistakably.
This wasn’t infatuation. This wasn’t proximity. This wasn’t confusion.
This was love.
And loving Hudson this way, without being able to name it or claim it or share it, was going to destroy him.
Connor pulled his hand back sharply, like he’d been burned.
He shifted away, creating space where none had existed, heart pounding with the effort of restraint.
When Hudson woke, Connor was already distant.
Already protecting himself.

The car ride.

__________
That night, Hudson showed up at Connor’s door without knocking.
Connor looked up from the half-packed suitcase on his bed. “You okay?”
Hudson shrugged, already stepping inside. “Just… don’t want to be alone.”
Connor didn’t hesitate. “Stay.”
They lay down without ceremony.
Opposite sides at first.
Then Hudson shifted.
Slowly.
He rolled toward Connor, hesitant in a way he rarely was when awake. His hand found the hem of Connor’s shirt, fingers curling into fabric like something instinctive.
Connor turned.
Hudson moved closer, until there was no air left between them. His arm slid around Connor’s waist, pulling him in with quiet certainty.
Connor’s hand rose to Hudson’s shoulder.
Hudson exhaled.
It felt absurdly natural.
Hudson’s fingers drifted upward, threading into Connor’s curls. Slow. Absent-minded. Like he’d done it a thousand times before. He combed through them lazily, soothing himself more than anything.
Connor’s breath caught.
Hudson leaned forward, pressing a soft, unthinking kiss to the top of Connor’s head.
Not dramatic.
Not passionate.
Just… tender.
Connor closed his eyes.
Hudson’s voice came out half-asleep, muffled against his hair.
“Don’t go.”
Connor stilled.
Hudson’s grip tightened faintly at his waist.
“Ilya,” he murmured.
Connor’s chest tightened so hard it hurt.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
Hudson hummed something that sounded like relief and drifted into deeper sleep, fingers still tangled loosely in Connor’s curls.
Connor didn’t sleep for a long time.
Because this felt like love.
And that was the problem.
__________
Morning arrived bright and merciless.
Hudson woke first.
He stayed still for exactly three seconds.
Then he carefully untangled his fingers from Connor’s hair.
“Morning,” he said lightly, stretching like nothing had shifted.
Connor blinked up at him.
Hudson stood, grabbing his phone. “Call time moved up. They’re adjusting lighting for the rink scene.”
He moved around the room casually. Efficient. Normal.
Connor sat up slowly.
Hudson pulled on his hoodie. “You want coffee? I’ll grab some downstairs.”
As if they hadn’t slept wrapped around each other.
As if he hadn’t whispered don’t go.
As if the kiss on his head had meant nothing.
Connor forced a nod. “Sure.”
Hudson smiled easily. “Cool. Back in five.”
The door shut.
Connor stayed sitting on the bed, the warmth where Hudson had been slowly fading.
That was when it hit him.
Hudson could reach for him in the dark.
But in daylight, he pretended it hadn’t happened.
And that hurt more than the distance ever could.
__________
Hudson noticed the distance immediately.
Connor still showed up. Still laughed. Still cared.
But the ease was gone.
The unconscious touches. The way Connor’s attention used to feel complete, like Hudson was being seen all the way through. On camera, Ilya still gave Shane everything: undivided focus, hunger, certainty.
Off camera, Hudson felt the absence like a hollow under his ribs.
It made him restless.
He wanted more than fragments. More than borrowed intensity that vanished when the scene ended. He wanted Connor to go back to the way he used to be: open, warm, unguarded.
He didn’t understand why wanting that felt suddenly dangerous.
__________
The confrontation came late.
Too late.
They were in Connor’s room, suitcases all packed, the end pressing in around them. Hudson had tried, subtly, to close the gap again. Sitting closer. Touching Connor’s arm. Lingering in conversation.
Connor finally snapped.
“You don’t get to do this,” Connor said, voice tight.
Hudson froze. “Do what?”
“Act like nothing’s changing,” Connor said. “Like I’m not already losing you.”
Hudson frowned. “You’re not losing me.”
Connor laughed, sharp and bitter. “Then why does it feel like I am?”
Hudson searched for words and found himself grasping for reason instead of truth.
“Because things don’t have to be romantic to be real,” Hudson said carefully. “What we have, it matters. It’s rare.”
Connor’s chest tightened.
“A soulmate is hard to come by,” Hudson continued, almost pleading now, with Connor, with himself. “And that’s what this is. True love. Just not… romantic.”
Connor stared at him.
Hudson rushed on. “I’ve never needed to define myself that way. I don’t know if I’m gay or straight or bi or anything. I just feel things. And I feel this. With you.”
Connor’s voice shook. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one risking something?”
Hudson faltered.
Because he didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t hurt.
“I care about you deeply,” Hudson said. “I appreciate you. I love being close to you. I love the intimacy. I just... I’m not sure if I love you that way.”
The words landed like a quiet catastrophe.
Connor nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he said. “Then I need to step back.”
Hudson’s stomach dropped. “Connor...”
“I can’t do this halfway,” Connor said. “I can’t be the person you lean on while you figure yourself out.”
Hudson reached out instinctively.
Connor stepped back.
The distance was immediate. Devastating.
__________
The last day of filming passed in a blur.
Connor moved through it like a ghost. Smiled when expected. Hugged people goodbye. Accepted congratulations from everyone on set.
He didn’t look at Hudson much.
Hudson felt it acutely.
When it was over, Connor left early. No dramatic goodbye. Just a quiet departure, suitcase rolling behind him, shoulders squared with effort.
Hudson watched him go and felt something tear loose inside him.
He told himself it was fine.
He told himself they’d talk.
__________
They did talk.
Sort of.
Hudson reached out first, acting normal. Sending memes. Commenting on photos. Talking about nothing.
Connor replied politely. Briefly.
Each message felt like a bruise.
Connor felt hurt. Hudson felt empty.
They orbited each other at a distance neither knew how to cross.
Hudson lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, feeling the absence settle into his bones. Connor sat on unfamiliar couches, staring at his phone, wondering how something so profound could end so quietly.
Neither of them said the words that mattered.
Not yet.
The yearning didn’t disappear.
It just learned how to ache in silence.
__________

Part 3: The Return

Jacob’s message came in on a Tuesday afternoon in early November.
Straightforward. Professional. Kind.
Hey guys, just wanted to loop you both in. The show is officially premiering November 28. We’ll be together most of November and December for press. Long days, lots of travel. I know it’s a lot, but I’m excited for you both.
Hudson stared at the screen longer than necessary.
November 28.
Together.
Most of November. All of December.
Eight weeks.
His chest tightened, not with excitement first, but with fear.
Because seeing Connor again wasn’t a hypothetical anymore. It wasn’t something Hudson could push to the back of his mind and soften with optimism. It was real. Imminent.
And suddenly the distance that had felt unbearable became terrifyingly fragile.
Connor read the message sitting on the edge of a borrowed bed, phone heavy in his hands.
His stomach dropped.
Eight weeks.
He hadn’t let himself imagine this. Hadn’t let himself picture seeing Hudson again in person, not the way Hudson moved through space, not the way his presence recalibrated everything.
Connor had survived the distance by narrowing his world. Keeping contact minimal. Letting the ache dull just enough to function.
Now the ache roared back to life.
Can I do this? Connor wondered.
Can I stand next to him every day and pretend I don’t want him?
He didn’t know if his heart would survive the proximity.
__________
They met again in a city that felt unfamiliar to both of them, neither home nor set, but something in between.
Connor saw Hudson first.
The recognition hit him like a physical blow.
Hudson looked the same, and not. Familiar face, familiar posture, but something in him was braced now, like he was holding himself together with intention instead of instinct.
Hudson turned.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them.
Connor felt the pull immediately, sharp and magnetic. His body reacted before his brain did, taking half a step forward before he forced himself to stop.
Hudson’s breath caught.
There you are.
They said hello carefully.
Too carefully.
Their hands almost brushed.
Neither acknowledged it.
__________
The days that followed were worse.
They were together constantly: interviews, fittings, travel. Close enough to feel each other’s presence at all times.
Under interview tables, their shoes found each other.
At first accidental.
Then deliberate.
A slow nudge. A retreat. A return.
Neither looked down.
Both knew.
In green rooms, their knees brushed and stayed there.
In elevators, their shoulders leaned together longer than necessary.
In private corridors, their personal space shrank until breathing felt shared.
It wasn’t overt.
It was intimate in the smallest, most dangerous ways.
__________
The moment came late one night.
Hudson’s room.
Door closed.
Air heavy.
Connor broke first.
“I can’t do this,” he said. “I can’t pretend we’re fine.”
Hudson stepped closer.
“I need you,” he said.
Connor laughed, broken. “You need him.”
“No,” Hudson said, firmer. His hand rose slowly, resting against Connor’s chest. “I need you.”
Connor’s heartbeat kicked hard at the contact.
Hudson felt it.
His fingers slid upward, curling lightly at Connor’s shoulder, then drifting to the back of his neck.
“I thought wanting you meant losing you,” Hudson said. “I didn’t realize not saying it was already doing that.”
The yearning surged between them, raw and exposed and painful.
“Say it,” Connor whispered.
Hudson inhaled.
“I don’t just want you as my friend. I want you. The one who listens. The one who stays. The one who sees me and doesn’t judge.”
Connor’s chest rose sharply.
“I’m in love with you,” Hudson said.
The room felt unbearably small.
Connor stepped closer.
Not touching at first.
Then Hudson closed the distance.
His mouth brushed Connor’s temple, soft and lingering.
Connor’s heart began to race, fast and uncontrollable.
Hudson didn’t rush.
He let his lips graze Connor’s cheekbone. His jaw. Light contact. Heat.
Connor’s fingers tightened at Hudson’s waist.
Hudson leaned in, breathing him in.
And that was when it hit him again: the scent.
Connor’s skin. Clean, warm, unmistakably him.
Hudson had read a Hollanove Omegaverse fanfiction once, late at night, laughing at the intensity of how Shane and Ilya were written as drawn to each other’s scent like something instinctive. He’d rolled his eyes at it.
Now he understood.
Connor smelled grounding. Real. Alive.
Hudson pressed a slow kiss into Connor’s hairline. Then to the crown of his head. Letting it linger.
Connor’s pulse thundered in his ears.
Hudson brushed his mouth near the corner of Connor’s lips, close enough to feel the warmth, not quite claiming.
Connor felt dizzy.
Hudson’s hands slid down Connor’s back, settling at his waist, holding him there, not forceful, just certain.
“I don’t know how to stop wanting you,” Hudson admitted quietly.
Connor swallowed hard. “Then don’t.”
Hudson rested his forehead against Connor’s.
Neither moved.
They didn’t crash into anything reckless.
They stood there, bodies pressed close, breathing in sync, hearts racing.
They didn’t kiss.
Not yet.
But Hudson’s mouth had traced enough of Connor’s skin to make it impossible to pretend this wasn’t real.
Then, because life refused to pause, they grabbed their coats, their bags, and left.
In the back seat of the waiting car, their knees touched.
Hudson’s hand slid over Connor’s.
This time, Connor didn’t hesitate.
Hudson lifted their joined hands and pressed a quiet kiss to Connor’s knuckles.
Slow.
Intentional.
The city blurred past.
Eight weeks ahead.
Eight weeks of proximity.
Eight weeks of deciding whether this was courage or catastrophe.
And for the first time, neither of them felt alone facing it.
__________

"Press Tour."

Part 4: Electric

The press tour should have been exhausting.
Instead, it felt electric.
From the first red carpet to the last late-night panel, Hudson and Connor moved like they’d rediscovered gravity, always orbiting each other, never too far apart.
Interviews became their playground.
Under tables, their knees found each other easily now. Connor would nudge Hudson’s ankle mid-answer; Hudson would press his foot back in silent agreement. Sometimes they’d chase each other’s toes like it was a private joke only they understood.
Cameras never caught it.
But they felt it.
On couches during talk shows, Hudson’s hand would land casually at the small of Connor’s back, protective and familiar. Connor’s fingers would smooth nonexistent lint from Hudson’s jacket, lingering just a second too long.
The affection wasn’t reckless.
It was intentional.
Soft touches. Thumb tracing knuckles. Fingers brushing shoulders. Forehead leaning in during laughter. The kind of physical closeness that read as chemistry to the public, but felt like something deeper to them.
They started wearing each other’s things.
Connor showed up to one interview wearing Hudson’s bracelet. Hudson borrowed Connor’s oversized hoodie on a travel day and claimed it was the only clean thing he had.
They never acknowledged it publicly.
But every time their eyes met mid-panel, they both knew.
It was theirs.
A small rebellion. A quiet claim.

"I'm currently wearing your hat"

__________
Recording Ember & Ice made everything worse.
The night before their first session, Hudson showed up at Connor’s hotel room without knocking.
“I don’t want it to feel stiff tomorrow,” Hudson said.
Connor smiled faintly. “It won’t.”
But Hudson stepped inside anyway.
They sat on the edge of the bed with scripts between them. Lines about longing. Rivalry. Touch.
It didn’t take long for rehearsal to dissolve into something else.
Hudson’s hand found Connor’s thigh mid-line read. Connor didn’t correct it. Their mouths brushed once, then again, not performing, not acting, just needing.
They are not Ilya and Shane anymore.
They are not Dane and Finn anymore.
They are Connor and Hudson at this moment.
The air changed.
The script slid to the floor.
What happened next wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t awkward. It was months of restraint giving way to something wordless and certain.
They explored each other slowly, quietly, hands learning, mouths mapping, breath catching in the spaces between. No cameras. No audience. No choreography.
Just heat.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, breathing hard, Hudson pressing soft kisses into Connor’s hair, Connor’s hand resting flat over Hudson’s heart.
The next day in the booth, every line felt dangerous.
Every growled threat. Every whispered confession.
They kept remembering the night before.
You could hear it in their voices.
The producers called it “incredible chemistry.”
They didn’t know the half of it.
__________
After the recording, things were still good.
Better than good.
They were inseparable on the press tour.
Even though production booked two hotel rooms in every city, Hudson’s keycard somehow always ended up in Connor’s hand by midnight.
Room service trays were shared. Early morning coffees delivered to the same door. Shoes kicked off in the same hallway.
They agreed, quietly, to show up to as many events together as possible.
They liked being seen as a pair.
It felt honest.
Until it didn’t.
__________
The new agent framed it as strategy.
“You’re both strong individually,” she said. “You need to establish that. Separate events. Separate narratives. It’ll help long term.”
They both nodded.
It made sense.
Connor didn’t fight it.
Hudson didn’t question it.
The first separate appearance felt strange, not devastating, just unfamiliar.
Connor did an interview alone.
He handled it easily. Smiled. Spoke thoughtfully.
Then the question came.
“So what’s the deal between you and Hudson?”
Connor hesitated.
That night, back in the hotel room they were technically not sharing, Connor asked Hudson quietly:
“What should I say?”
Hudson didn’t look up at first. He was scrolling his phone.
“We are soulmate,” he said casually. “We don’t need label.”
The words landed heavier this time.
Connor went still.
Hudson kept talking. “People just want a box. It doesn’t change what we have.”
Connor felt something inside him fracture.
Because this wasn’t the first time Hudson had said that.
And every time he did, it sounded like safety.
Not choice.
Connor swallowed.
“So that’s it?” he asked softly.
Hudson finally looked up. “That’s enough, isn’t it?”
Connor forced a smile.
“Yeah,” he said.
But something in him hardened.
Later that night, Hudson reached for him out of habit.
Connor shifted away, just slightly.
Not dramatic.
Just enough.
Hudson noticed.
Connor didn’t explain.
He didn’t argue.
He just began, quietly, to rebuild the wall he had torn down.
Because love without a name had once felt romantic.
Now it felt like postponement.
And Connor had learned what postponement cost him.
__________

Part 5: The Fracture

Connor didn’t withdraw dramatically.
He didn’t accuse. He didn’t confront again.
He just recalibrated.
Less reaching under tables.
Less instinctive closeness.
Less lingering touches that felt like promises.
Hudson noticed.
He didn’t say anything.
He made a show of not noticing.
He let Connor drift toward François at events without stepping in. If someone mentioned the two of them, Hudson would nod easily, as if it amused him.
He looked relaxed.
He wasn’t.
__________
Los Angeles didn’t welcome them gently.
It demanded performance.
Golden Globes rehearsal took place on a bare stage long before the audience arrived. Just tape marks on the floor, quiet technicians, empty seats waiting for spectacle.
Hudson and Connor walked out together.
For a moment, everything felt like it used to.
This time, it was Connor who grounded him.
Hudson felt it right away, the familiar electricity, yes, but more than that, the way Connor steadied him. Matched his timing. Softened his edges. Caught him when he pushed too hard.
It felt like breathing again.
Connor watched Hudson loosen under his attention and felt something twist inside him.
Onstage, they were perfect.
Offstage, they were unraveling.
Rehearsal ended.
Reality returned.
François was waiting in the wings.
He greeted Connor with warmth that didn’t pretend to be casual. François had never hidden who he was, openly and confidently bisexual, grounded in himself in a way that didn’t require explanation.
“You were great,” François said, touching Connor’s arm lightly. “Come. I want you to meet some people.”
Connor hesitated.
It was subtle, barely visible, but it was there.
His eyes flicked to Hudson.
Hudson nodded easily. “Go,” he said. “I’ll catch up.”
François smiled and guided Connor toward a cluster of industry friends.
Hudson watched from a distance.
This was what danger looked like.
Not confrontation.
Belonging offered without hesitation.

The after party.

__________
As the press tour ramped up, the narrative shifted fast.
Once, people had only cared about Hudcon.
Now there was Concois.
Connor and François photographed together. Connor and François laughing in interviews. Connor and François moving through rooms like a unit.
Hudson smiled for the cameras.
Hudson played the role of someone unbothered.
Inside, something burned.
François didn’t hesitate.
François didn’t circle.
François didn’t hide behind abstraction.
If he liked Connor, he said it. If he wanted to be seen beside him, he stood there openly.
Connor felt that clarity.
And part of him thought: maybe he deserved it.
François’ character Scott Hunter had been brave.
Scott had been first. Scott had named what he felt and stood in it publicly without flinching.
François felt like that.
Steady. Certain. Ready to step in as a boyfriend without negotiation.
Connor knew it.
And he was tired.
Tired of waiting for Hudson to choose something.
But then there was Hudson.
Hudson, who pretended not to care while watching every room Connor entered. Hudson, whose eyes found him even when he was laughing with someone else. Hudson, who could fracture quietly and not let anyone see it.
Connor couldn’t ignore that pull.
He still loved him.
That hadn’t changed.
__________
It happened at a launch party.
Nothing dramatic.
Music too loud. Cameras flashing intermittently. Champagne refilled without asking.
Connor had turned toward François to hear him better.
François leaned in.
And kissed him.
Quick.
Confident.
Enough.
Connor froze for a breath, not pulling away immediately, not leaning in either.
Half a second.
That was all it took.
By morning, it was everywhere.
Photos.
Headlines.
Speculation.
“Concois Confirmed?”
Hudson stared at the image on his phone alone in his room.
Connor’s face mid-turn.
François leaning in.
It looked natural.
It looked inevitable.
Hudson set his phone down.
Picked it back up.
Set it down again.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
Connor had every right.
François was clear about what he wanted.
Hudson wasn’t.
At press the next day, someone asked Connor about it.
Connor handled it calmly. Lightly. “We’re close. People read into things.”
Hudson stood beside him, smiling like it amused him too.
His hands stayed at his sides.
Inside, something was tearing.
__________
Later, in a quiet corridor after the event, Hudson asked.
“Was it real?”
Connor didn’t dodge.
“It wasn’t nothing,” he said.
Hudson nodded.
Jealousy moved through him like heat, sharp and humiliating.
He wanted to say something territorial.
He wanted to say mine.
Instead he said, “You deserve someone who knows what they want.”
Connor studied him carefully.
“And you?” he asked.
Hudson looked away.
He didn’t know what to do with jealousy.
He’d always believed love should be unpossessive. Expansive. Free.
Now he wanted to grab Connor’s face and kiss him in front of every camera in the city.
“I don’t get to be jealous,” Hudson said finally.
Connor stepped closer.
“You are,” he said quietly.
Hudson let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched.
Connor’s voice softened.
“I still love you.”
Hudson looked up sharply.
“I love you too.”
“Yeah, but not like that.”
There was no ambiguity in Connor’s eyes.
No hesitation.
That was the cruelest part.
Hudson knew Connor still loved him.
He knew it with bone-deep certainty.
François hadn’t stolen him.
Hudson had simply never claimed him.
And now he didn’t know how to start.
The hallway felt too narrow.
Too small.
Hudson’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t know what to do.
And for the first time since this began, that ignorance scared him.
It didn’t happen immediately.
Connor didn’t storm after François the night of the kiss.
He waited.
He told himself he was thinking clearly.
He told himself he deserved clarity.
Two nights later, after another event where Hudson pretended not to look and Connor pretended not to care, François texted:
Come up?
Connor stared at the message longer than necessary.
He could still hear Hudson’s voice from earlier that evening.
You deserve someone who knows what they want.
François knew.
That was the point.
Connor knocked.
François opened the door without surprise.
No tension. No awkwardness.
Just certainty.
They talked at first. About the event. About the press. About how exhausting it was pretending not to read the headlines.
François didn’t circle the moment.
He stepped into it.
“If you’re here,” he said quietly, “it’s because you want to be.”
Connor nodded.
He wanted to want this.
The kiss this time wasn’t stolen.
It was slow.
Intentional.
François touched him like someone unafraid to claim what was offered, hands steady, movements confident, no hesitation in where things were headed.
Connor let himself be pulled in.
He let himself respond.
He let himself feel wanted in a way that didn’t require decoding.
The night unfolded without confusion.
Without ambiguity.
Without restraint.
François was attentive. Warm. Clear in every touch.
Connor felt desired.
He felt chosen.
He felt held.
And yet.
Even in the quiet afterward, lying still in unfamiliar sheets, something felt wrong.
François’s breathing evened beside him.
Connor stared at the ceiling.
The room was calm.
His chest wasn’t.
He closed his eyes and tried to anchor himself to what had just happened , the certainty, the directness, the uncomplicated affection.
But what rose instead was memory.
Hudson’s forehead pressed to his.
Hudson’s mouth brushing his temple.
Hudson’s voice in the dark.
Don’t go.
Connor turned onto his side carefully, away from François, who slept easily.
He didn’t regret the night.
But he felt hollow.
Because the part of him that loved Hudson hadn’t quieted.
It hadn’t weakened.
It hadn’t shifted.
It was still there.
Stubborn.
Heavy.
Alive.
The clarity he thought he wanted hadn’t erased it.
It had only illuminated it.
By morning, Connor felt split in two.
One part of him understood that François offered something real. Something steady. Something brave.
The other part of him still searched every room for Hudson.
And that was the part that scared him.

Connor and François.

________

Part 6: Constants

The fracture didn’t come from shouting.
It came from accumulation.
From small things that stacked quietly until they weighed too much.
The girl had always been there.
Not in the way rumors wanted her to be. Not as spectacle, not as proof.
Just present.
Connor remembered the video before he remembered how it made him feel.
It was a short clip Hudson had posted from Venice, a small café tucked beside a narrow canal, sunlight glinting off water just out of frame. Only Connor and the girl were visible, laughing as they tried to manage a gelato so large it was already collapsing under its own ambition. Pistachio and chocolate streaked down the bowl, melting faster than they could keep up.
Hudson wasn’t in the shot.
But his laughter was.
Warm. Unrestrained. Bright in a way that couldn’t be faked.
It came from behind the camera, easy and delighted, and it was unmistakably clear that Hudson was happy. Happy to see the two people he cared about sharing something simple. Happy to witness connection without needing to be the center of it.
Connor could hear it in the laugh: no tension, no jealousy, no longing to be included.
Just joy.
That was the part that stayed with him.
The moment wasn’t romantic.
It was domestic.
And that realization hurt more than anything else could have.
She supported Hudson the way constants do.
Quietly. Reliably. With a kind of care that didn’t demand anything back. Emotional presence. Physical comfort. Someone who touched his arm when he grew restless. Someone who walked beside him when the world became too loud.
Hudson loved her. Connor never doubted that.
But it was a love that felt like family. Protective. Safe. Familiar.
Connor liked her. Genuinely.
He admired how she understood Hudson without trying to define him. How she accepted his ambiguity without pushing him to resolve it. How she made space instead of asking for territory.
Connor understood why Hudson kept her close.
Especially in their world, having a girlfriend was a kind of armor. A visible shield. A way to redirect attention, to soften advances, to keep questions at bay.
Connor didn’t resent that.
What unsettled him was how familiar the role felt.
Because he, too, had become something constant.
Something steady.
Something always there.
__________
Valentine’s Day arrived quietly.
Hudson posted a collage.
It wasn’t subtle.
It wasn’t ambiguous.
Photo after photo of him and his girlfriend, intimate, affectionate, long-term. A couch selfie wrapped in blankets. A mirror photo with his hand at her waist. A sleepy close-up. The caption overlaying one image:
With me since my 2000 gold Mazda Protege smoked and squealed and I had no job.
And across the collage:
Happy Valentine’s Day ❤️
Connor stared at it longer than he meant to.
He wasn’t surprised.
She had been there before him. Before the show. Before the frenzy.
This wasn’t betrayal.
It was acknowledgment.
But then there was the other image.
A separate photo of Connor.
Hudson had drawn a red heart around his face.
Just him.
Not both of them.
Not the whole group.
Just Connor.
The gesture was small. Almost playful.
But intentional.
Connor’s chest tightened.
Hudson wasn’t hiding him.
He wasn’t choosing her over him.
He was… holding both.
Part girlfriend.
Part soulmate.
Part family.
The girlfriend was used to this dynamic. Connor knew that. She had never seemed threatened by him. She accepted his presence in Hudson’s life easily, comfortably, as if she understood he wasn’t competition.
Connor almost wished she had been.
It would have made things clearer.

His GF and BF.

Valentine's Day post.

__________
Media picked it up immediately.
Articles dissected the collage. Speculated about timelines. Pulled at her privacy.
Hudson called that night.
“They’re using her name now,” he said. “Digging into her life. I couldn’t let that happen.”
Connor believed him.
Hudson hated invasion. Hated the way the internet turned real people into plot points.
“I didn’t want it to look like I was hiding her,” Hudson continued.
Connor nodded slowly.
“And I didn’t want it to look like I was choosing sides.”
There it was.
Choosing sides.
Connor closed his eyes.
Hudson wasn’t trying to hurt him.
He was trying to be fair.
Trying to hold everyone he loved without collapsing it into a hierarchy.
Connor understood that.
He just didn’t know how to survive it.
__________
François texted that same night.
You okay?
Connor stared at the message.
He had gone to François’s room not long ago. Had chosen certainty over ambiguity. The night had been warm, intentional, grounded. François had touched him like someone unafraid to claim what he wanted.
Connor hadn’t regretted the closeness.
But afterward, lying awake beside someone so steady, he had felt hollow.
Because clarity wasn’t the same thing as gravity.
And gravity still pointed toward Hudson.
Now, looking at that red heart drawn around his face in a Valentine’s post meant for someone else, Connor felt guilt tighten in his chest.
He had tried to move forward.
But he hadn’t moved on.
__________
Even when they were in different cities, Hudson still reached out.
Always Hudson.
Can you talk?
I’m spiraling a bit.
I just need you.
Connor answered.
He always answered.
He steadied him through headlines and anxiety and the strain of public perception.
He was still the anchor.
Still the safe place.
And slowly, painfully, he understood what that meant.
Hudson treated him the same way he treated the girl.
No labels. No hierarchy. Just love, wide and expansive and undefined.
Connor wasn’t being rejected.
He was being relied upon.
Connor didn’t want to be a harbor.
He wanted to be home.
And he didn’t know if Hudson knew the difference.
__________

Part 7: The Illusion

The call came on a Tuesday afternoon.
Connor almost didn’t pick up.
He was pacing his apartment, half-distracted, when his phone lit up with a New York number he didn’t recognize.
He answered casually.
Thirty seconds later, he was sitting on the floor.
“You’re serious?” he asked, voice breaking despite himself.
The producer laughed. “We don’t joke about this.”
Host.
Saturday Night Live.
Live.
National.
Historic.
When the call ended, Connor stayed there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Then he grabbed his phone again.
He didn’t text.
He called Hudson.
Hudson answered on the second ring.
“What happened?”
Connor was already smiling.
“I’m hosting.”
Silence.
Then:
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Hudson’s laugh burst through the speaker, bright and proud, disbelieving.
“Oh my God,” Hudson said softly. “Connor.”
He didn’t say congratulations first.
He said Connor’s name.
Like it meant something.
“You understand what this is,” Connor said quietly.
“I know exactly what this is,” Hudson replied. “This is the thing. This is the thing everyone wants and almost nobody gets.”
Connor exhaled.
There were dozens of people he could have called.
He called Hudson first.
Because Hudson understood the weight of it.
“I’m not going to mess this up,” Connor said.
“You won’t.”
“I can’t let them down.”
“You won’t.”
Connor laughed. “You don’t even know the material yet.”
Hudson didn’t hesitate.
“You were built for this.”
Connor closed his eyes.
He had never felt so seen.
“I’m going to slay it,” Connor said.
“Yeah,” Hudson answered softly. “You are.”
“I need you there.”
“I’ll be there.”
No hesitation.
Connor believed him.
__________
The week in New York moved fast.
Writers’ rooms that ran past midnight. Brainstorming sessions that crackled with nervous energy. Rehearsals that felt chaotic but somehow precise. He learned to trust instinct, to let go of perfection, to move with the cast instead of against them.
Every night, he went back to the hotel buzzing.
Hudson was home in Vancouver.
But Connor called him every night.
FaceTime open. Connor pacing, recounting every detail, sketches, rewrites, impressions, cast dynamics.
Hudson watched him with quiet focus.
“You sound alive,” Hudson said one night.
“I feel like I finally belong,” Connor replied.
Hudson smiled at him through the screen.
“You do.”
Midweek, Rachel and Jacob flew in.
Connor insisted on dinner. A long table in a private room. Familiar faces from Heated Rivalry. Laughter that felt grounding.
He felt steady.
Then the door opened.
Hudson walked in.
Connor froze.
Hudson hadn’t told him.
He was just there.
And he was alone.
Connor noticed that immediately.
No girlfriend.
No entourage.
Just him.
Here.
For Connor.
Connor stood before he realized he’d moved.
Hudson opened his arms.
The hug was tight. Full. Hudson’s hand pressed firmly at the back of Connor’s neck like he didn’t intend to let go anytime soon.
For the rest of dinner, Hudson stayed close. Their knees touched under the table. Hudson’s fingers traced absent patterns along Connor’s wrist while someone else told a story.
He wasn’t distracted.
He wasn’t dividing himself.
He was present.
Near dessert, Hudson leaned in.
“I’ll be at rehearsal tomorrow.”
Connor blinked. “You’re serious?”
“They’re letting me cameo in the skating skit.”
The skating skit.
Of all the options.
It was theirs.
Connor felt joy spike through him so sharply it almost hurt.
They left dinner early.
Back at the hotel, the door barely closed before Hudson pulled him in.
The kiss was slow and certain.
Hudson’s hands moved confidently along Connor’s back.
“My baby boy,” he murmured against his mouth.
Connor’s breath caught.
Hudson smiled softly.
“My superstar.”
The intimacy that followed was warm and unhurried. Hudson attentive. Generous. Whispering praise like it was fact, not flirtation.
Later, tangled in sheets, Hudson brushed his fingers through Connor’s hair.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said.
Connor believed him.

Dinnor in New York with Rachel and Jacob.

__________
The next morning, Connor slipped downstairs to meet Jacob for breakfast.
Jacob looked at him with obvious pride.
“You’re exactly where you’re meant to be,” he said. “I’m very proud of you.”
Connor smiled.
Then Jacob hesitated.
“I care about you both,” he said gently. “And I’ve seen what’s happening.”
Connor held his gaze.
“The longing between you isn’t subtle. Inside and outside the show.”
Connor didn’t deny it.
Jacob stirred his coffee before continuing.
“You might need to cool down a bit or create some distance for now in order to see more clearly.”
Connor frowned slightly.
“Not because it isn’t real,” Jacob clarified. “But because sometimes when two actors fall into something this intense, especially after a story like yours, it’s hard to separate what belongs to you from what belongs to the characters.”
Connor nodded slowly.
But he wasn’t shaken.
Hudson had flown in. Across the continent.
Hudson had shown up alone.
Hudson had stayed beside him all night.
“He’s not in love with Ilya,” Connor said quietly. “He’s in love with me.”
Jacob didn’t argue.
He just gave Connor’s hand a brief squeeze.
“Then protect it,” he said.
That afternoon, Connor did a quick ET Tonight interview on the press line.
“So, Hudson, François, the internet is obsessed. What’s going on?”
Connor felt the opening.
He almost said it.
Instead, he smiled.
“Hudson is literally my best friend,” he said. “And François is one of my best friends.”
He left it there.
He hoped Hudson would hear what it meant.
Best friend meant everything.
That night, Hudson was still glowing from travel and adrenaline.
Connor woke the next morning to faint marks along his neck, small bruises from where Hudson’s mouth had lingered too long.
Hudson noticed Connor examining them.
“Occupational hazard,” he murmured, brushing his thumb lightly over one.
Connor laughed.
Hudson walked him to the door for final rehearsal.
Adjusted his collar carefully.
Then cupped his face.
Kissed him slow.
Deliberate.
No hiding.
“I’m front row tonight,” Hudson said.
Connor rested his forehead against his.
“I know.”
He stepped into the hallway feeling unstoppable.
Loved.
Chosen.
Certain.
He did not know that by the end of that night, that certainty would collapse.

ET Interview in the SNL Studio

__________

Part 8: Live

Saturday Night Live felt unreal.
The lights. The countdown. Applause rising like a wave.
Connor stood backstage in a fitted pink shirt that hugged his frame perfectly, headset adjusted, script folded in his hand. He had imagined this moment before, alone, in apartments that smelled like takeout and doubt.
Tonight, he wasn’t alone.
Hudson was in the building.
And that changed everything.
When the monologue landed, when the audience laughed exactly where it should, when the applause rose in waves that felt almost violent in their approval, Connor searched for one face in the crowd.
He found it.
Hudson leaned forward in his seat, eyes bright, jaw set in a proud half-smile like he had known all along this would happen.
Connor felt invincible.
__________
Hudson showed up for his cameo.
Jeans. A perfectly fitted t-shirt. And a red jacket that looked almost unfair on him under stage lights.
When the cue hit, Hudson skated onto the stage.
Straight into Connor’s arms.
Full impact.
Connor caught him instinctively, laughing into the contact as the audience erupted.
Throughout the sketch, they touched constantly, hands on waists, shoulders brushing, fingers gripping longer than necessary. They thought they were subtle.
They weren’t.
The chemistry was electric. The audience screamed for it. They leaned into it.
After Hudson’s cameo, he stayed in the wings, watching every second of Connor’s performance like it mattered more than anything.
At closing, Connor had changed into a deep green silk shirt that shimmered under lights.
The cast gathered.
Someone called Hudson back onstage.
This time he was in a tight black t-shirt and leather pants that left nothing subtle about him.
Connor grabbed his wrist and pulled him beside him.
Right next to him.
When the applause hit, Connor felt overwhelmed.
Hudson didn’t hesitate.
He pulled Connor into a tight hug and buried his face in the side of Connor’s neck.
He inhaled.
Cologne.
Stage sweat.
And beneath it, faint but unmistakable, the trace of himself from the night before.
Hudson held him like he didn’t want to let go.
Connor closed his eyes.
Under those lights, with the crowd roaring, he believed completely:
We’re finally together.

SNL rehearsal.

SNL rehearsal.

Backstage at SNL.

Closing Speech.

__________
The after party changed everything.
At first, it was just relief. Champagne. Congratulations. Hands clasped at his shoulders. People telling him he’d just secured the next decade of his career.
Hudson stayed close at first.
Then the music got louder.
The crowd thicker.
The space looser.
Hudson shed the red jacket and kept the tight black t-shirt on. Sweat gathered at his collarbone. The leather pants caught the light as he moved, sculpted and unapologetic. He looked electric. Magnetic.
People gravitated toward him.
Connor watched.
At first, he smiled.
Hudson was happy.
That should have been enough.
But Hudson loosened with the alcohol and the praise. He danced. Laughed loudly. Leaned in too close. Hands lingered at his waist and shoulders. He didn’t push them away.
Across the dance floor, their eyes locked.
For Hudson, it felt like connection.
For Connor, it felt like warning.
Jacob’s voice returned, quiet and steady:
You might need to cool down a bit or create some distance for now in order to see more clearly.
Connor watched Hudson tilt his head back in laughter as someone whispered in his ear.
Hudson looked alive in the chaos.
Uncontained.
Uncommitted.
Connor suddenly understood something he had refused to see.
Hudson loved expansively.
Connor loved singularly.
And singular love requires choosing.
The applause from earlier still echoed in Connor’s bones.
The highest point of his life.
The room had chanted his name.
And yet now, standing in the middle of the after party, he felt smaller than he ever had.
He thought about tomorrow.
The flight to Los Angeles for the award presentation.
François had already arranged to go with him.
François had been steady all week. Clear. Certain. Standing quietly in corners, never competing, never performing.
Hudson hadn’t asked about LA.
Hudson had mentioned Vancouver.
The next project.
The next shoot.
Different cities. Different timelines.
Connor felt the choice crystallize.
He crossed the room.
“You’re drunk,” Connor said.
Hudson grinned. “You were brilliant.”
Connor caught his wrist when Hudson reached for him.
“Don’t.”
Hudson blinked.
“Don’t come find me after you’ve let the whole room touch you.”
Hudson’s smile faded.
“If you’re not going to stand next to me and say I’m yours, just mine, then I can’t stay here and pretend this is enough.”
Hudson’s breath hitched.
“But I love you.”
Connor felt the words hit him, warm and real and devastating.
“And I loved you,” he said.
The past tense was deliberate.
“But it’s not enough.”
He stepped back.
Hudson didn’t follow.
Connor turned.
The hallway outside was quiet. Cold.
Behind him, the music continued.
François caught up a few steps later.
He didn’t touch him immediately. Just walked beside him.
“You were extraordinary tonight,” François said quietly.
Connor nodded.
He felt hollow.
“I’m flying to LA in the morning,” Connor said.
François met his eyes.
“I know.”
Connor exhaled.
He wasn’t running toward François.
He was stepping away from Hudson.
But sometimes stepping away is the same thing.
Inside the party, Hudson stood alone in the middle of flashing lights and moving bodies.
For the first time all night, no one was touching him.
Connor was gone.
Tomorrow, Connor would be in Los Angeles.
Hudson would be in Vancouver.
Different cities.
Different lives.
Different futures.
And this time, there was no ambiguity left to hide inside.
It was over.

__________
THE STORY COULD END HERE
Not every love story ties itself neatly with a bow.
Sometimes it ends in distance, memory, and longing.
But if you’d like to see Hudcon find their way back to each other,
continue to Part 9 and the epilogue.
__________

Part 9: Reunited

Silence can stretch longer than distance.
From March to July, Connor and Hudson did not see each other.
Connor threw himself into work, travel, and the stability François offered. François was good to him: patient, attentive, the kind of partner who didn’t leave things unsaid. They called each other boyfriends. They said I love you. François treated Connor like something rare, something worth protecting.
Connor tried.
He really did.
Meanwhile Hudson returned to Vancouver, filming another project and falling back into the rhythm of home. His girlfriend remained a steady presence, familiar and supportive, someone who had known him long before the noise of fame.
But she noticed.
The way Hudson sometimes stopped mid-sentence.
The way his phone lingered in his hand longer than necessary.
The way his laughter occasionally faded before it finished.
“You miss him,” she said once, gently.
Hudson didn’t argue.
He just stared out the window for a long time afterward.
__________
By July, production for Season 2 of Heated Rivalry began.
The reunion happened the way reunions between professionals often do.
Calm.
Controlled.
Connor arrived first, greeting crew members, slipping easily back into the rhythm of work. When Hudson walked in later that morning, they greeted each other like seasoned co-stars, an easy hug, a joke about early call times.
Nothing more.
Anyone watching would have thought nothing had ever happened between them.
They were excellent actors.
And for weeks, that was enough.
They rehearsed scenes together, delivered lines with precision, joked between takes. They avoided quiet corners. They avoided the gravitational pull that once existed between them.
Connor still believed he had made the right decision.
Hudson still wasn’t sure what he had been willing to give up.
__________
Then they filmed the emergency landing episode.
Connor stepped into Ilya’s panic as the plane dropped, the set vibrating with simulated turbulence and shouting teammates. The fear rose in his chest exactly the way the scene demanded.
We’re going to crash.
He imagined death the way the moment required, sudden and unfinished.
And then another thought forced its way in.
If this was the end…
If he died today…
Would he regret the life he had chosen?
Connor saw François’s face in his mind.
Kind.
Steady.
Someone who had never made him guess.
But another question followed, sharper than the first.
Would I wish I had fought harder for Hudson?
The plane landed in the script. The set erupted in cheers.
Connor barely heard it.
He whispered Ilya’s final line, the one he had written in terror moments before the plane touched down:
“Thank you… I won’t waste it.”
The words stayed with him long after the cameras cut.
That night, Connor called François.
He didn’t plan what to say. He just knew he couldn’t wait another day carrying something that didn’t belong in their relationship.
François picked up on the first ring. He always did.
Connor started talking and then stopped. Started again.
“I think you already know,” Connor said.
François was quiet for a long time.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I think I’ve known for a while.”
There was no anger in his voice. That was the worst part. François had loved him honestly, and Connor had tried to love him back the same way, and the trying was exactly what gave it away.
“You were never all the way here,” François said. Not cruel. Just true.
Connor pressed his palm against his forehead. “You deserved better than that.”
“I deserved someone who wasn’t still in love with somebody else.” A pause. “And so did you.”
Connor felt his throat tighten.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. You deserve sunshine. So do I.”
That line brought a soft smile to both of their faces.
The call ended gently. No door slammed. No last attempt to hold on.
Connor sat in the dark for a long time afterward, phone still warm in his hand. François had loved him the way Hudson couldn’t, and it still wasn’t enough. Not because anything was wrong with François. But because the part of Connor that chose who to love had never been his to override.
__________
Across the set, Hudson filmed Shane’s side of the story.
Reading Ilya’s messages.
Watching the terror unfold from a distance.
Hudson held the phone in his hand as Shane, but what filled his eyes was not acting.
Real tears gathered there, hot and blurring his vision. His lips trembled as he imagined the possibility the scene demanded.
What if Ilya had died?
The fear was sudden, and it was overwhelming.
Not Shane’s fear.
His.
Hudson’s chest tightened so violently he almost forgot the next line. He clutched the phone harder, like it might disappear.
If Connor had died…
If those messages had been the last thing Hudson ever received…
He would have spent the rest of his life wondering why he had never chosen.
Next day, in the proposal scene, Shane standing there, voice breaking with certainty, Hudson spoke the words.
“I choose you.”
The crew thought it was excellent acting.
Hudson knew better.
Filming wrapped late that evening.
Crew members clapped, congratulated them, praised the emotional intensity of the episode.
Connor stepped outside the soundstage.
He lit a cigarette with slightly shaking hands.
The smoke burned his throat as he exhaled slowly, trying to steady the pounding in his chest.
__________
Hudson returned to his trailer and sat down heavily on the small couch.
For a long moment he just stared at his phone.
Then he called her.
She picked up almost immediately.
“Hey,” she said warmly. “Long day?”
Hudson rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched between them, comfortable but heavy.
Finally he said quietly,
“I don’t deserve you.”
She let out a small laugh.
“Of course you do.”
Hudson shook his head, even though she couldn’t see it.
“But your heart and soul belong to him,” she added gently.
The words weren’t bitter.
Just certain.
Hudson closed his eyes.
“Go figure it out,” she said, her voice warm, almost proud of him.
He smiled faintly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I will.”
The call ended.
Hudson leaned back in the chair, the set still echoing in his head.
The line he had spoken earlier came back to him.
I choose you.
He smiled to himself.
It was time to say it for real.
__________
Connor stood outside the soundstage, the night air cool against his face as he lit another cigarette. The smoke steadied his breathing, but not the ache in his chest.
He thought about the scene they had just filmed — the fear in Ilya’s voice, the words he had whispered after the plane landed.
Thank you… I won’t waste it.
Connor wondered if he already had.
He had tried so hard to move forward. Tried to build something solid with François. Tried to convince himself that the love he still carried for Hudson would fade with time.
But standing there in the quiet, he knew one thing with brutal clarity.
Some loves didn’t fade.
They waited.
And then Hudson stepped into the light.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Finally Hudson said quietly,
“I meant it.”
Connor turned.
“When Shane said he chooses Ilya,” Hudson continued, voice low, “I meant it. But I don’t mean Ilya.”
Connor held his gaze.
Hudson swallowed.
“I spent months thinking I could keep everything balanced,” he said. “Thinking I could love people in different ways and not have to choose.”
He shook his head slowly.
“It just meant I was afraid.”
Connor’s chest tightened.
Hudson stepped closer.
“I don’t want a life where you’re the one that got away,” he said. “I don’t want to look back and realize I had everything and was too scared to hold onto it.”
His voice softened.
“I choose you, Connor.”
The words hung in the air.
Connor felt the months of distance pressing against that moment, the silence, the effort it had taken to move forward.
He thought about the plane scene.
About realizing how quickly everything could end.
Hudson waited.
No charm.
No performance.
Just truth.
Connor stepped closer until they stood face to face.
He touched Hudson’s cheek gently, as if confirming he was really standing there.
“I tried to stop loving you,” Connor said quietly.
Hudson’s breath caught.
“It didn’t work.”
For a moment neither of them moved.
Then Connor pulled him into a kiss.
It wasn’t desperate.
It was relief.
When they broke apart, Connor rested his forehead against Hudson’s.
Tears had slipped down Hudson’s cheeks without him noticing.
Connor brushed them away.
“I don’t want a life where we almost happened,” he said softly.
Hudson nodded, unable to speak.
Connor took his hand.
Not hidden.
Not temporary.
Final.
“Then let’s remove almost.”
Hudson laughed softly through the tears and pulled him close again.
And this time neither of them let go.
__________

Epilogue: Choosing

2030

The Dolby Theatre felt impossibly bright.
Connor had been here before, years earlier, sitting somewhere high in the audience, clapping for people whose names felt distant and untouchable.
Tonight his name was the one echoing through the room.
“And the Academy Award for Best Actor goes to…”
A pause.
“…Connor Storrie.”
For a second he didn’t move.
Then the room erupted.
Connor stood slowly, stunned, the applause washing over him like something unreal. Cameras followed him down the aisle as he made his way to the stage, heart pounding in a rhythm he couldn’t control.
He held the statue in both hands once it was given to him, staring at it as if it might disappear.
When he looked out into the audience, his eyes went straight to one place.
Hudson.
Hudson was already standing.
He looked exactly the same and completely different from the boy who had skated into Connor’s arms years earlier. Older now. Calmer. His smile softer, steadier, but still the first thing Connor searched for in any room.
Connor laughed nervously into the microphone.
“I… I didn’t prepare a speech,” he admitted, voice shaking. “Which is ridiculous because everyone tells you to.”
The audience chuckled.
Connor swallowed.
“There are a lot of people I could thank tonight. Directors, castmates, the crew who work insane hours to make films possible.”
He paused.
Then he looked back at Hudson.
“But there’s one person who has been beside me for every single step of this.”
Hudson’s smile faltered slightly, surprised.
Connor continued.
“You believed in me before anyone else did. Before the awards, before the roles, before any of this felt possible.”
His voice softened.
“You are my soulmate. Full stop.”
The audience murmured warmly.
Connor’s eyes never left Hudson.
“You are my Shane in every way.”
Hudson blinked hard.
Connor grinned faintly.
“And somehow you’ve managed to keep up with my cunty style all these years, so honestly… that deserves its own award.”
The room burst into laughter.
Connor exhaled softly.
“Thank you,” he finished quietly. “For choosing me.”
The applause rose again as Connor stepped away from the microphone.
He returned to his seat, still shaking slightly, statue in hand.
Hudson didn’t grab his arm or hug him right away.
Instead, he slid his foot next to Connor’s under the table.
Through the leather of their shoes, Connor could feel the warmth instantly.
A quiet signal.
The same one they had started using back during Season 1, the small secret touch when cameras were everywhere and words were impossible.
Connor smiled without looking down.
Hudson leaned closer and murmured softly:
“Congratulations, my baby boy. My superstar.”
Connor’s chest tightened.
__________
Later in the ceremony, the atmosphere shifted.
This was one of the final awards of the night.
The room quieted with anticipation.
“And the Academy Award for Best Director goes to…”
Another pause.
“…Hudson Williams.”
Connor was on his feet before Hudson even reacted.
He pulled him into a hug that nearly knocked the chair back.
“You did it,” Connor whispered.
Hudson laughed in disbelief.
Then, without hesitation, he grabbed Connor’s hand.
“Come with me.”
The audience erupted as the two of them walked toward the stage together.
Hudson reached the microphone still holding Connor’s hand.
He looked out at the audience.
Then back at Connor.
“I definitely prepared a speech,” he said, holding up a folded page.
Then he slowly put it away.
“Four years ago,” he began, voice steady, “I proposed to someone on screen.”
The room quieted instantly.
“As Shane.”
Connor’s breath caught.
Hudson turned fully toward him now.
“But tonight,” he said softly, “I want to propose to my Connor as myself.”
A ripple ran through the theatre.
Hudson reached into his pocket.
The ring caught the stage lights.
Connor covered his mouth with both hands.
“You chose me when I didn’t know how to choose,” Hudson said. “You believed in me until I learned how to believe in myself.”
His voice trembled now.
“I’ve spent the last four years trying to deserve you.”
He dropped to one knee.
“Connor Storrie… will you marry me?”
Connor was already crying.
“Yes,” he said immediately.
Then again, louder through laughter and tears.
“Yes.”
The theatre exploded.
Hudson stood and pulled him into a kiss that felt like the final scene of a story everyone had been waiting to see.
Connor laughed through tears when they broke apart.
“Well,” he whispered, “now we really told the world.”
Hudson rested his forehead against his.
“About time.”
And for the first time, there was nothing left to choose.
__________

For everyone who spent time yearning with us in the world of Heated Rivalry and Hudcon. Thank you for sharing this journey. This story was born from that love, from late-night discussions, laughter, heartbreak, and all the beautiful moments this fandom has given us. We’re grateful to have walked this path alongside so many wonderful soulmates.