Chapter Text
On the day Hudson leaves, the morning turns elastic. Connor exists in two places at once, falling backward through time.
First, in the car—his hand layered over Hudson’s on the gearstick, cigarette-scented lips brushing Hudson’s cheek. It’s the only kiss he dares, the only one that feels permitted, but it isn’t enough. Hudson makes a dissatisfied sound and reels him back with a splayed palm at Connor’s jaw, tethering them over the console, mouths slotting together for a few hot breaths. They pull away, climb out of the car and hold each other for the last time in the middle of the road, traffic security shrilling, jets roaring overhead in a sky stripped of clouds but not of sun.
The afternoon light pours over Hudson, catching in his hair and turning it the color of cooling cocoa. Hudson’s fingers clutch at Connor’s sides, twisting the fabric of his shirt, while Connor buries his face in Hudson’s neck, breathing him in like it’s something he can store inside himself and keep.
“FaceTime as soon as I get home,” Hudson says, voice wavering at Connor’s ear.
Connor nods, bumping his shoulder with his chin. “Have a safe flight, baby. I love you.”
They finally break apart, Hudson mouthing something Connor is pretty sure is I love you forever, but Connor squints back theatrically. “What? I top you, whore-ever?” he guesses.
Hudson laughs, grabs his bags, and shouts back, “I top you, whore-ever and ever,” blowing him a kiss as he walks backward into the revolving doors, smiling the whole time. People turn to stare. Connor doesn’t care. He smiles too, even though it feels almost unnatural, like he has to arrange it from memory, and the memory is nothing but glass under his skin.
He is still standing there long after Hudson is gone.
Then he is back in bed with him, hours rewound into morning. It comes slowly, sleep receding into the spill of sunlight across the sheets, into the warm weight of Hudson draped over his arm.
Connor keeps his eyes wide open. They have so little time left together. He reaches instinctively for whatever part of Hudson he can find, brushing his nose into the nape of his neck, lifting his free hand to trace the curve of the snake tattoo around his elbow, nudging his hips forward until his morning erection settles between Hudson’s ass cheeks.
By the time Connor’s hand drifts over Hudson’s stomach—caressing the decadently smooth path leading to his navel—he feels Hudson’s back muscle ripple. Hudson groans, a soft, lazy sound, and presses back against him.
Connor hooks his fingers under Hudson’s boxers, snapping the waistband lightly against skin.
“What a way to wake up,” Hudson rasps, voice still threaded with remnants of sleep.
“Yeah?” Connor says, his hand sliding to cup the curve of Hudson’s ass, guided there by the span of his thighs. Somewhere in the back of his mind a tantalizing image fires sparks of electricity he shouldn’t feel—those thighs trembling around his neck while Connor fucks him.
The thought sends an instant shiver down his spine, which he masks with a faint kiss at Hudson’s neck.
He could ask.
No, he will wait until Hudson brings it up.
“Would’ve been even better if you had my dick in your mouth, TBH,” Hudson adds, his ass still nudging back insistently.
“I’ll remember for next time,” Connor mumbles, trying not to think about next time or how long it will take. It’s harder when he walks himself into this trap, inviting the looming presence of separation right to their bedside, a shadow that drains the light from his teasing. “Wake my Hud baby with a blowjob.”
“Every morning,” Hudson says. His voice is even, but the pause before it is riddled with tension that wasn’t there before. “Write it down.”
Connor feels that tension close around his throat and works through it with a weary sigh. “You’re insatiable,” he says, then adds, hearing the hypocrisy in his own voice, “and a freak.” What else can they do about it, about them, about the days and weeks, maybe months they’ll have to go without each other, except perform normalcy, piece it together by sheer will?
“Unless I wake up first, then—” Hudson trails off, shifting to face Connor. “You’re the freak getting his dick sucked.”
“Promise?” Connor taunts.
Hudson nods, his hand roaming down to cup Connor’s cock, already throbbing at the touch, heat unfurling in Connor’s gut like muscle memory, his body altered, hooked on sensations only Hudson seems able to give him. It’s a little frightening, too, how, in a single week, this intimacy has become essential; how they ever survived without it, how it ever felt complete before, when it has spun a new kind of gravity beneath Connor’s feet, leaving him weightless, crawling, searching for the compass of Hudson’s mouth.
Connor seeks it now, suddenly aware of himself—sheets clinging in odd places, the dampness cooling on his back. His body runs molten, making them both overheat, and while Connor revels in Hudson’s scent, can’t imagine finding any part of him unattractive, he isn’t sure Hudson would feel the same.
They never cleaned up after last night, either.
After Hudson had fucked him so hard the bedframe rattled, held together only by the counterweight of Hudson bracing himself with one bulging arm on the headboard, towering over Connor, cheeks flushed with exertion, hair falling into his eyes, mouth open on a hiss that shaped itself into a broken heart. All it took for Connor to come was Hudson closing his hand around his cock and letting the aftershocks of those relentless thrusts take him apart, along with the bite of Hudson’s mouth when he dropped into a kiss that was more irreverent breath and scraped teeth than anything tender.
Even now Connor thinks he can taste the sweat when he wets his lips. He still feels a little sore, loose, hips tacky with the mess that leaked out later. He likes it, and is already picturing Hudson doing it again, leaving behind an ache that will linger with him after Hudson is gone.
Hudson could probably slide right back in with barely any prep.
But first Connor needs to shower. He tries to slip away; Hudson won’t let go. He’s strong, his fighting instinct readily available. He knows how to pin a body and keep it there, though he isn’t really trying, and after a brief, playful scuffle Connor escapes with a distracting bite to Hudson’s shoulder.
He doesn’t make it far—only to the sink—before Hudson trails after him and loops his arms around Connor’s waist, resting his head against Connor’s shoulder.
“You’re a pest,” Connor teases, gathering water in his fingertips and flicking it into Hudson’s face.
Hudson scrunches up, still adorably sleep-soft in the dappled morning light, refusing to loosen his hold. Something swells in Connor’s chest, violent with affection, threatening to knock him off balance all over again.
He twists the faucet all the way to cold, splashing a frigid handful over his burning skin. When he lifts his head, his reflection stares back, his curls unspooling wildly around his face, blue eyes so clear they’re nearly translucent, brimming with things that don’t need to be said.
Hudson whistles. “Yes, baby, you’re stunning.”
“Thanks babe, but I need to piss,” Connor grumbles, trying to maneuver toward the toilet with Hudson suddenly a dead weight molded to him.
“Hot. Can I watch?” Hudson asks unnecessarily, since he hasn’t detached himself at all; he’s still right there.
“Pervert,” Connor tuts and pulls his cock out to try. He’s softened just enough that it might work, but not with Hudson breathing against his neck, chin digging into his collarbone, eyes actually following him down.
“Huddy, you’re not helping,” Connor mutters, bumping his ass back to make some space.
It only makes Hudson groan and press in again, one arm sliding from Connor’s waist to cup his ass, then trailing upward to his stomach to grab his chest. “But papi,” he whines, falling back on a nickname that started as a joke in texts and has since gained dangerous traction in moments like this, when Connor is on the verge of losing his grip on reality, unable to tell whether the flutter in his stomach is annoyance, arousal, or some unholy cocktail of both.
“I just want to do sex to you,” Hudson says, entirely serious.
Connor laughs, helpless and a little deranged, the sound rippling between them, leaving them swaying toward each other.
“I just want to do sex to you,” Connor echoes once he can breathe again, biting his lip. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“Uh-huh,” Hudson says, catching one of Connor’s nipples and rolling it between his fingers. “Hey, do you think…” There’s hesitation in his voice, the pause filled with Connor’s sudden intake of breath as Hudson tightens his grip, the nipple pebbling beneath his touch. “Can I fuck your tits?” Hudson finishes, breathless now, teeth finding the ridge of Connor’s neck. “I really want to fuck your tits.”
“Yes,” Connor says immediately, dizzy at how the words escape him before he can stop them, knowing every part of it is true. “Fuck my tits, my mouth, whatever you want.”
Hudson moans, teeth grazing Connor’s skin, biting at his pulse. “I will fuck every inch of you,” he promises, his rigid cock grinding into Connor’s ass, his hand still working Connor’s nipple in slow, reverent circles. It feels unbearably good—the two of them alone in the middle of the bathroom, every boundary between them obsolete—but the minutes are ticking by, their descent unhalted even in the whispered space between one beat of Connor’s heart and the next. He holds on to that promise, draws on it to find the strength to finally break away and kick Hudson out, for real this time.
He rinses off quickly, strides back into the bedroom with a towel knotted low on his hips, and stops in the doorway, arrested by the sight of Hudson sprawled in the sheets.
He’s playing with himself, grip loose, legs fallen open, one of Connor’s sleeping t-shirts twisted in his hand.
When he hears Connor return, he lifts his gaze, inhales the collar, then flings the shirt somewhere toward one of his half-open bags precariously left in the middle of the room.
“I’m taking that with me,” Hudson says.
Connor wasn’t going to comment, but now he has to ask, “To do what with it exactly?”
He lets the towel slip from his grasp, the fabric nearly catching on his erection as he watches Hudson’s palm lazily slide up and down, pausing only to smear at the tip or dip to cup his balls—a detour that makes Hudson’s eyes flutter shut before snapping open again, fixing on Connor with a tunnel vision that seems to dismantle the rest of the room.
“To do what,” Connor repeats, realizing too late that he’s moved, that his knees are already bumping the edge of the bed.
“What do you think, Connie?” Hudson teases, patting the space beside him, a smirk rippling across his mouth. It’s so brazen—the smirk, the command, all of him that it should jolt Connor’s survival instinct into gear, but instead it quiets it, renders it inconsequential beside the urge to give in.
“Take a video and send it to me,” Connor says, climbing onto the bed, hooking a leg around Hudson’s and cupping his chin to kiss him. “When you fuck my shirt,” he clarifies.
Hudson hums his approval against Connor’s mouth. “I’m going to fuck your chest now,” he says, hands tracing the line of Connor’s pecs.
“Do it,” Connor dares, and then pays for it immediately when he’s pinned to the mattress as Hudson straddles his stomach, the weight of him settling heavy and comforting against Connor’s sternum. Hudson only lifts away briefly to grab the bottle of lube, tipping it over himself. The stray drops land on Connor’s chest, the cold touch making Connor shiver.
“Is this a bad time to say I wish you still had your nipple piercings?” Hudson asks, slapping his cock down the center of Connor’s chest.
“You know why I don’t have them anymore,” Connor replies, his voice fracturing as he squeezes his pecs together around Hudson.
“I know,” Hudson says, because they’ve talked about it, about the industry and what it doesn’t allow. Their tattoos have caused enough trouble as it is. “But fuck, you look so hot with them,” he murmurs, pupils blown wide as he looks down, his cock pinned between Connor’s chest. “That one photoshoot—” He gasps, thrusting once. “Where you had long hair—”
His words trail off, breaths tangling with rough sounds as he keeps moving, the flushed head of him sliding in and out of the warming press of Connor’s chest, so close that Connor’s mouth parts, tongue swiping at his lips.
“Which one?” Connor manages, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat. Hudson like this—seated over him, using his body—feels almost too good. The beauty of it chokes him, trapping the air in his lungs.
He kind of wishes Hudson’s hands were at his throat.
“You know the one—” Hudson says, but he isn’t really focused on answering anymore, breath breaking into scattered sounds, curses, a few breathless fuck, babys, and then a confession that makes Connor’s eyes roll back. “I got off to it once,” he admits, hips jutting forward, his cock sliding wetly through the heat Connor’s chest makes, his balls knocking softly against Connor’s ribs.
Which photos, how many times—the questions crowd Connor’s mind, but he’s beyond speech now, reduced to the strain in his arms as he pushes his chest up, to the twist he gives his nipples that keep the pleasure dancing just on the edge of pain, to the cascade of breath pouring from his mouth.
“I’m not going to last like this,” Hudson grunts, hips stuttering.
Connor is just as close, his palm curved around his own swollen length, throbbing in his grip even though he’s barely moving. They could stay like this forever—time itself erased, Hudson pinning them through the earth—but Hudson, in his recklessness, in his inability to see this for what it is, their last moments before the fall—can’t help escalating it, dragging them to the end, tugging at Connor’s lip, pressing his finger inside for a few frantic heartbeats before whispering, rushed and panicked, “Open wider,” his hips quaking as he rubs against Connor and comes, spilling in an arc over Connor’s cheeks, down his chin, into his mouth with that sharp, metallic taste.
Connor swallows it all as his own release crashes through him, sliding over his knuckles, down his thighs, onto Hudson’s ass.
Afterward, Connor’s hands smear it along the cleft while Hudson traces his own release over Connor’s lips.
The symmetry isn’t lost on Connor; he’s content to stay like this too, to unmake time in this way. At least until his chest repairs itself, works the breath out of his lungs.
“Are we allowed to have this?” Connor asks later, watching Hudson finish packing, or rather watching him forget half his things, still scattered all over the apartment. Connor balances on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, toying with a cigarette he already knows Hudson will steal.
He hadn’t meant for those exact words to slip out, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.
Hudson, crouched on the floor, stills. His hands go white-knuckled around the zipper of his duffel before he looks up, waiting for the smoke to thin around Connor’s face. When he speaks, it’s with a restraint that startles Connor. “Who would know?” he asks.
He’s right. No one would, not unless they chose to tell them. Connor nods, small and halting, not even sure Hudson sees it. He takes another drag, trying not to catalogue the cliches he’s living inside: the cigarettes, the pinning, falling for your co-star. The smoke tastes harsher than usual, tendrils of it like teeth in his throat.
“Though I kind of wish they would,” Hudson says, the mattress dipping as he sits beside him. “You’re going to be such a star when the show comes out. Everyone’s going to lose their minds over your ass and your tits and—” He pauses, then tilts his head. “Your moles.” He presses a chaste kiss to the one on Connor’s cheek.
“I think it’s your thighs that’ll steal the spotlight.” Connor splays his hands over them for emphasis. He’d meant to tease and pull back, but he doesn’t.
“Learn to take a compliment,” Hudson scoffs, plucking the cigarette from Connor’s loose fingers.
Connor arches a brow. “Says you.”
“Says me,” Hudson mocks. “And it isn’t a competition.” He takes a deep drag, then tucks the cigarette safely into his other hand, out of Connor’s reach.
“It’s a collective effort, comrade,” Connor says. “Bare your ass in the name of Mother Russia.”
Hudson's laugh breaks off into a cough, the smoke tripping him up. “It’s a glorious ass.” He reaches for the ashtray on the bedside table and grinds out the cigarette, scattering ash. When he looks back up, there’s something serious in his expression, his eyes blistering. “You really have no idea how attractive you are, do you? Your entire friend group wants to fuck you."
“When did you get so possessive?” Connor asks lightly, fighting the heat blooming in his chest.
“Always,” Hudson says too quickly, a storm crossing his features. “You’re not still hooking up with that guy—Jordan?”
Connor smothers a smile. He can’t remember a time when his world didn’t contract around Hudson, around his touch. “No.”
“Good,” Hudson breathes, the fight bleeding out of him as he leans into Connor’s space. Connor catches him, resting their foreheads together, offering solace in the contact and in the whispered possibility: maybe one day.
Maybe one day they can tell someone, he thinks, when it isn’t all so precarious, when their careers aren’t threatened by every decision, when it won’t matter anymore.
Hudson answers only with a soft sigh against Connor’s mouth.