Chapter Text
Connor knew what loneliness felt like. It was a quiet constant, something that eventually became a friend through forced proximity, like the way moss grows over the walls until they become one thing, and you can't imagine what the brick-red looked like without the green in the first place. He knew what it was like to have someone take a look at him with interest and then drop him like a hot coal once they realised he wasn’t what they thought, that he was a little too different, a little too weird.
Too loud, too soft, too vulnerable - big dreams and an even bigger heart waiting to be bruised, that stubborn, steadily beating pulse, still pumping with each ache, each time someone left. And he somehow found it in himself to keep going, drifting from one place to another, across countries, across continents, unmoored and hoping to find an anchor, somewhere he could plant roots and just stay.
He remembered his obsession with being European when he was younger, because he had some naive idea that simply being in Europe meant that everything would be okay, that he wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb anymore. That little twelve year old who said he wanted to be an actor and have lots of friends would finally be accepted, welcomed with open arms because Europe was, like, free or whatever, right? They wouldn't care if he wasn't into soccer or baseball or what the other boys seemed to like, if he preferred to tumble around and do cartwheels and back-flips in the air instead, fine-tuning his body, perfecting his posture, ensuring his toes were pointed just right. Or if he was too much of a boy to be friends with the girls, because apparently boys were gross and messy and crazy, and who wanted to play with them. None of that would matter.
It turns out Europe wasn't what he thought it was either. Not to say that he hadn’t made good friends, he had, they had taught him things he would remember for life: Russian music, EDM tracks, how to become an amateur DJ. But still, at the time it felt like a gut punch to learn that even here nothing was that different. That twelve year old still followed him, memorialised forever on the internet where nothing really died, and then the videos were dragged out for public consumption and there he was again: the butt of the joke, the weirdo, ostracised by some social contract he had never been privy to, had never known how to follow.
And then he came back home, moved to LA and thought that West Hollywood would take him. A place known for its glitz and glamour, beautiful streets and beautiful people, and who didn’t want to be surrounded by beauty? He could make himself better, hit the gym, fit the aesthetics, make himself belong without giving up on the things that mattered to him. Because here, no one cared whether he was into tumbling or clowning or wanted to be an actor (half of LA was filled with aspiring actors, it was the Hollywood district for a reason) when he was just a pretty face for the night, good for a drink, a dance, someone to take home and not worry about in the morning. Casual.
That was one thing he had learned over the years: to compartmentalise, to keep it casual, not come on too strong. Each interest had its own little niche, its own group of friends, and he kept it that way, didn't mix clowning with DJing with acting because then that was too much. He could indulge in all of the things he liked and have fun with his friends and go after his dreams - some stubborn (foolish? narcissistic?) part of him still believed he could make it, in this city of millions, thousands chasing the same star, he could make it - just as long as they remained separate, because who would be able to handle the total eclectic mess that he was?
But still, there was a pang somewhere in his rib cage at times. A phantom ache, this feeling that perhaps he was missing something, that there could more. Maybe there was someone out there who could take it, everything, where he didn’t have to cut himself up into bits and pieces to be palatable, where all of him wouldn't mean too much of him, it would mean enough, just right.
And then he felt stupid because that was being ungrateful, wasn't it? He was good, his life was good. He had his sister, his biggest cheerleader, and his parents, his constant rocks. He had a boyfriend, albeit a little older than him and who sometimes made him feel self-conscious and out of his depth. But that was only because he was so much more mature and already had some experience with acting, there was so much to learn. And he was grateful to be taught; he was happy.
Even more so when he applied for an audition looking for a 6 '3, Russian, bisexual hockey player and heard a call back for a chemistry read. So what if he didn’t get it, or it was a tiny Canadian production in the middle of Toronto - he'd still heard back, hadn’t he? The thought buoyed him, even through the break-up with said boyfriend, and the niggling doubt that had haunted him for the past two years since The Joker, because if he couldn't catch his big break then, when would it arrive? Would it ever arrive?
And he had considered it: leaving acting, stop chasing the thing he had wanted seriously for seven years, look towards something else, something that had actual security and prospects, so he wouldn't be living paycheck to paycheck waiting tables in fancy restaurants he had no business being in because he was so bad at the job.
He'd basically been on his last strike, ready to be fired from the job at the same time he'd gotten the confirmation from the producers of Heated Rivalry and he felt something like relief. And the realisation that he couldn't give this up: he wanted it too much, he was too hungry, starved for the freedom that came with acting, the way it allowed him to slip out of his own mind and into someone else's, the worlds it opened up, forever expanding in the back of his head.
And then he met Hudson Williams one Toronto afternoon, as he wandered around like a maniac hunting for coconut cream, before they were accosted by a bunch of teenagers who had nothing better to do than pull stupid faces. They weren't even that good. Connor was a literal clown, okay? He'd show them.
And he did, realising too late that it had been only two hours since he'd properly met the man next to him, and perhaps it would freak him out to see his co-star sticking his tongue out at a bunch of strangers and making weird growling noises.
But then - then he heard something that sounded suspiciously like a snarl to his right, and there was Hudson: face twisted and hands clawed like a beast waiting to pounce. The teenagers stared at them, dumbstruck, before pushing and shoving at each to hurry the fuck up man, these hobos are insane, hightailing it out of there as fast as their gangly legs would carry them.
They both turned to each other then, slowly, locking gazes; small grins and then raucous laughter spilled onto the sunlit sidewalk and Connor didn't think he'd ever laughed this hard within the first few hours of meeting someone. He felt it then, something like recognition, faint tremors humming underneath his skin and easily ignored.
He told himself to stop romanticising things, to not get too in his head about it because that was what he did: mulled over the thoughts again and again, replaying it when he couldn't sleep, hoping for things that were too much, impossible and stupid to ask of someone who he'd be spending two months with and had only known for a day. He's not your best friend, he's not going to be your best friend, you don't even know him. Why are you still chasing after that anyway? You already have friends.
But it felt like he did know Hudson. Like the craziness in him, the hunger, had found an echo, tracing it back towards the same gnarled roots, something old and inseparable. It was the same feeling he had during that chemistry read, the one he had done and forced himself to forget, because ruminating over it would only drive him out of his mind. A single spark, a flame held on the edge of a roaring precipice, ready to be picked up by the wind and launched into a burning inferno.
He had buried it then, taken the match and stomped it out under his feet, because what was the chance he would actually be cast? But now he was here, and so was Hudson, and there was this warmth igniting under his skin, this small, foolish possibility of maybe. Maybe they could be friends, good friends even, and they would get along and Hudson would get it.
He seemed to understand: he could go on spiels talking about directors and movies and cinematographers, flicks no one else Connor knew had heard of before Hudson, long, rambling reviews that were hilarious in how impassioned and scathing they could be (well, he tried to be scathing, but Hudson with furrowed brows and a scrunched nose was too cute to be anything other than endearing).
There was an ease there, a comfort he hadn’t found with anyone else before, the simplicity of just existing next to someone without needing to talk over the silences or second-guess his jokes.
And it just got easier: long 12-hour days on set, coming back to apartments right next to each other, dark Toronto nights sharing a cigarette and throwing words at the sky, just talking, talking, talking. Intermittently resting tired heads on warm shoulders, soft sleepy voices whispering half-forgotten memories (you were fighting in a barn? with the cows?? was there no other space available?), loud laughter and teasing quips pushing each other to the brink (come on Connie, one more push up, or I'll have you beat. I don't even care. Yeah you do. Yeah, I do, ugh).
***
Should it be this easy? he thought as he watched Hudson carefully julienne the carrots, his knife moving in precise increments, going so slowly to make sure it was all even and he didn’t accidentally get blood all over their dinner. Connor couldn’t help the smile he knew must be plastered all over his face: it was like handing a little kid a plastic knife for the first time, watching their eyes widen with the responsibility and their ultra-seriousness in trying to do a good job.
And he could tell Hudson cared - he'd dragged Connor out of his apartment as soon as they had finished their showers and changed into sweatpants, adamant that he was making dinner tonight because Connor had been cooking for them both the past week. That was easy too: they ate the same things, trying to get their macros in, needing to nourish themselves if they wanted to hit the gym - it was the same as if he were cooking for himself, just double the portions. He didn’t even think about it anymore, hands reaching for two bowls when they would have only reached for one a month ago.
“I am capable of eating by myself, you know.” He said, leaning against his doorway, curls still dripping wet. Hudson looked like he'd just got out of the shower too: his cheeks were still flushed from the heat and his short hair was sticking up like he'd run his hands through it too many times.
“Yeah, but are you capable of eating anything other than ground beef and whatever other disgusting protein shit you have in your fridge?”
“Like you don't eat it too,” he rolled his eyes. “Besides, we need to get in our 200g of protein or we-”
“Okay, I'm calling it. No more health talk for the rest of the night. I don't wanna hear the word protein or calories or grams coming out of your mouth, Storrie.”
“Prot-”
“Shut up or I'll make you.” He threatened, a finger pointed at Connor's face. Connor could see the way his lips were trying not to twitch up.
“Yeah? What are you gonna do? Make me watch Dune again while I have to sit through your 10 minute rant on every scene Timothee Chalamet is in?”
“It wasn’t a 10 minute rant.”
“Every scene, Hudson. Every. Scene.”
“Well you stayed and listened, so you can't have hated it too much. Actually, I'm pretty sure you loved it.”
“Oh, did I?” He did. There was nothing quite as entertaining as watching Hudson get riled up about the things he cared about, buzzing on the couch, their thighs pressed together, his hands waving all over the place as he ranted. Connor could sit through three hours of it.
“Uh huh. And I can treat you to more of my pretentious little film student reviews-”
“That's not what I said!”
“-after dinner.” And then there was a warm hand on his wrist, and Connor didn't even put up a fight.
He'd never really planned to, because being around Hudson was magnetic: he found himself gravitating towards him without any conscious thought, body pointed in the right direction like a compass, feet already half-a-step away before his mouth had even opened. And resisting Hudson was like trying to defy gravity, because why would you want to? Why wouldn't you want to bask in the warmth of his gaze, the way his brown eyes crinkled, his soft laughter, the dimple in the upper corner of his cheek? Why would he ever say no to that?
So there they were, bellies full of japchae, the kitchen a war zone with pots and pans and spoons everywhere - he'd tried to clean up as Hudson cooked, arguing it was easier than doing it all at the end, but Hudson had snapped and said ‘not to mess with the method’, a wild look in his eyes as he brandished a wooden spoon in the air. Connor let him be after that.
But now he felt lazy, Hudson's body a warm presence running alongside him, touching from shoulder to leg, and the urge to just lay his head there and sleep was so tempt-
“Hey,” a voice whispered, “hey, Connie. You sleeping?”
Well there goes that. “No,” he mumbled, “what is it?”
“You wanna hit the gym?”
“What?” Because what? Had some alien come and captured Hudson and replaced him with a duplicate? In which reality would Hudson want to willingly go to the gym after dinner if Connor wasn't dragging him there?
He felt guilty about it sometimes, wondered if his need to drive himself harder, this obsessesion with perfection and doing more, trying to achieve something he didn’t even know, was just translating onto Hudson - the slumped hold in his shoulders after a long day, the groan he let out when Connor said it was time to hit the weights - but then Hudson would grin, and his eyes would flash bright and that niggling feeling he could never seem to shake quietened and spluttered out.
“Remember? You said it so confidently like, 30 minutes ago.”
“Said what?” His brain was tired, he was about to fall asleep and he had no idea what was going on.
“Uh, of course I can go work out after this. What, are you putting some magic spell in the sauce, Huddy?” he mimicked, adding a drawl to every word, sounding very much not like him.
Oh yeah, it was coming back to him now.
“This is gonna be so good, it's gonna blow your mind, Connie.”
“Have you ever made it before?”
“Nope,” he said, just as confidently, “it's gonna be fucking awesome.”
“But you've never made it before?”
“That's what I just said Concon, keep up.”
“Right.”
“What, you don't believe in my cooking abilities?” Hudson said, eyebrow cocked. He should have known then, recognised the challenge in his eyes, but Connor had run headfirst into it because he couldn't resist the taste of competition.
“Mm, I have faith in you babe. It just looks like a lot of steps.”
“Yeah, it's so long. I feel bad now for asking my mom to make it for me so many times when I was younger. Cutting shit into julienne sucks, it's so fucking itty-bitty, like tiny little ballerina slippers. Honestly, who made this shit up? I'd rather get headbutted by a bull.” Sometimes Connor didn't even know what to say to the things that came out of Hudson's mouth.
“Oh yeah, did I tell you about the time I fought in a barn?”
“Yep, you sure did.” He said it so casually, like it was a completely normal thing to hold an MMA tournament in a fucking barn.
“Yeah, those cows were crazy. Oh yeah, one time we had a stinky cheese competition-”
And then he launched into a story about who could eat the stinkiest cheese fondue, because this was what Hudson and his friends did for fun apparently, and how they melted the blue cheese with the Camembert and god knows what else, and stunk up the apartment so bad, his mom had banned them from using the microwave ever again.
Connor just watched as Hudson spoke, words flowing out of his mouth as he stirred the sauce, splattered a bit on his cheek, smeared it even worse when he tried to wipe it away. Watched as he dropped the spoon, washed it, got water all over the sink, and grinned proudly when he offered Connor a taste and he couldn’t help but let out a little ‘mmm, tastes good’.
“Anyway,” he said, coming back to the topic at hand, “what were we talking about?”
What were they talking about? How had they gotten onto the topic of Hudson's friends's annoying boyfriend anyway?
“Oh yeah,” he snapped his fingers, “my amazing culinary skills.” Connor snorted.
“Hey, I'll have you know I could be a chef if I wanted to.”
“Babe, you barely survived the Old Spaghetti Factory.” There was a pause, and then they were both laughing, Hudson’s thoughts mirroring his own.
“In your completely imaginary world, would you be running your own Michelin star restaurant?” He said, watching Hudson add the teeniest bit of extra salt with a tiny teaspoon.
“Hell no, we're not doing any of that fancy shit. I'd serve real food: poutine, extra gravy, extra cheese. Kraft Dinner, more Japadogs than you've ever seen.”
“Okay, I’m gonna go into cardiac arrest just thinking about it.”
“Oh please, you'd love it. Would you be dying to hit the gym afterwards and crawling out of your skin? Probably. But you'd still love it.” He pointed the wooden spoon at Connor like a judge, “You can't fool me Connor Storrie.” And yeah, he couldn't, because that sounded fucking delicious. A recipe for disaster? Sure. But delicious all the same.
“So, I have a proposal.”
“Oh Huddy, I love you but-”
“Shut up, you'd love to be married to me.”
“Eh, would I though?”
“Duh. I'd treat you so good baby, you wouldn't even know what hit you.”
“Okay, Romeo.” He grinned at Hudson's smoulder (it's my ‘come hither’ face but like, the other come you know?, he'd said once, and Connor had almost spat out his drink) and wiped a thumb over some of the sauce that was still on his cheek. “What's your proposal?”
“If you can still make it to the gym after this and beat me, you get to dare me to do whatever you want on set tomorrow.”
“A dare?” Connor laughed. “What are we? Thirteen?”
But some part of him felt giddy excitement. A dare, like they were in a middle school sleepover, midnight snacks and sharing stupid secrets.
“Yeah, why not?” Hudson grinned, eyes twinkling. And there it was again: so easy, so simple. Why not?
“And if you win?”
“Whatever I want.” Oh boy.
And the thing was: Connor was competitive, maybe to a fault, and there was no way he would let Hudson win just by default. Even if the premise was stupid, even if the prize was a dare, like they were dumb teenagers again with nothing better to do with their time. He would drag himself there, crawl if he had to, when the only thing he wanted to do was curl up on this couch with a warm blanket and just sleep. It was so soft, so comfortable, he could just close his ey-
“Let’s go, soldier.” How did this man have this much energy in him at 8 in the evening?
“Ugh, I really don't like you.”
“Well, you should have thought about that before insulting my culinary genius, hmm?”
“Hudson, baby, you're the next Gordon Ramsay, you're so good you'd put-”
“Nope,” a warm palm rested over his mouth, “you can't flatter me with those big blue eyes now, Storrie. Come on, up.”
And Connor stood, cursing himself and cursing Hudson and all the food he had eaten. But it had been really good, maybe he could convince Hudson's mom to give him the recipe some time.
“Okay, okay, compromise -” because the prospect of changing into gym clothes and going downstairs and having to shower again made him want to lay down and just pass out on the floor, “no gym. We just do exercises here, yeah?”
“Here?” Hudson said, looking around the room sceptically - which was fair, Crave didn't exactly have the budget to spend on fancy apartments for rookie actors.
“Yeah, like wall sits or squats or something. I can beat you in the living room just as well as I can beat you on the weight racks.”
Hudson rolled his eyes, “Yeah okay, we'll see, Connie.”
And so it began: first, who could do the most push-ups in a minute (Hudson had won that one) and then who could hold a wall-sit for the longest (Hudson had started going red in the face while Connor just smiled, smug, at his win) and then a tie-breaker of who could do the most squats in 5 minutes. Connor's thighs were burning by the time he met the four minute mark and Hudson noticed, “You okay Connie? Wanna take a little break? It's okay, I won't judge.”
This little shit. He was running on pure stubbornness and spite now. His muscles were screaming, an ache working up his legs and - fuck, why had he agreed to a squat challenge when he knew Hudson could do more than him? This was basically self-sabotage.
“3, 2, 1…” the timer rang, phone buzzing on the sofa. Connor sat down heavily and watched as Hudson did the same, it felt oddly reminiscent of the gym scene they shot - just less sweaty and…intense.
“So, safe to say I won?” The nerve of him, just sitting there with his head against the wall and smirking. He looked unfairly good as well, a pink flush dusting his cheeks, hair on the right side of messy. He was so annoying.
“Ugh, go away.”
“Aw, don't be a sore loser, Concon.”
“I'll show you sore.” He grumbled and then Hudson let out a laugh, tiny and fond, and Connor couldn’t help but smile. He accepted Hudson's hand and let himself be pulled up, following him to the bathroom to wash his face before kicking him out because he needed to piss. When he came out Hudson was flicking off the lights in the kitchen and the sitting room (if it could even be called that) and was double checking the lock on the door.
“Wanna sleep here tonight?”
“My apartment is right next door, Huddy.”
“Yeah, don't know why they bothered really, it's not like you spend much time there anyway-”
“Huh. Maybe ‘cause someone keeps dragging me out at every chance.”
“-always in my room, hogging my space, can’t be away from me for more than 2 hours-”
“That's you, that’s literally you!”
“- and then you look like a little lost puppy, ‘where's Hudson? I miss Hudson’-”
“Oh my god, you're the one who calls me your emotional support pillow, so you can't even talk-”
“-stealing my hoodies, and my blankets, and taking up all the space on my sofa-”
“Yeah, well, you end up draping yourself all over me anyway, so what's the point in leaving extra space for you?”
“- so basically, you should just sleep in my bed instead.” Hudson concluded with a happy little grin, and Connor shook his head because he had to know how that sounded right?
“I don't know, what are your intentions towards me Mr.Williams?” He fluttered his eyelashes and made a show of looking up coyly.
“Are you some Victorian lady on her wedding night? You've had my tongue down your throat Connie, you can handle a bit of spooning.”
“Spooning?” Connor gasped, “Scandalous, what will the ton think? Also don't say tongue down your throat, that's gross.”
“Sorry baby, is smooching better?” Hudson said, guiding Connor to the bedroom, one hand on his waist, the other resting in the middle of his back.
“Locking lips?” Connor offered, grabbing the blanket from the top shelf of the cupboard.
“Smashing faces?” Hudson suggested, as he made the bed and arranged their pillows, giving Connor the fluffier one.
“Sharing kissy-wissies?” They both slid into bed, hoodies dumped somewhere on the chair, bodies turned towards each other.
“Ew,” Hudson wrinked his nose, “kissy-wissies? No way, Con, that’s like, something a mom says to her 5 month old baby.”
“No - okay, yeah. Not the right vibe.” he sighed, eyes fluttering closed.
After a minute he murmured, “I can feel you staring. What is it?”
“Nothing.” Connor blinked his eyes open to see Hudson with a small smile tucked into the corner of his lip. He had an absurd urge to trace his finger over it which was - weird, right? That would be weird. “Just thinking about, oh you know, how I won the bet. So many options, I wonder what I'll make you do…”
“Oh my god, shut up.” Connor groaned and reached out to swat him on the chest. “You're so annoying.”
“You hate losing so much,” and there was something fond in his voice, “I love riling you up.”
“It's the gymnast in me, okay? Trying to beat other kids since the age of five doesn't suddenly disappear twenty years down the line, apparently.” Connor sniffed dramatically, turning his nose up in the air.
“Yeah, I can see that.” And he reached up a hand to pull on one of Connor's curls gently, prompting him to look back. “You don't have to, you know? It was stupid, we can just forget about it and leave it at the fact that I beat you.”
“Uh - no, I'm doing it, Huddy. You can't scare me.” He stuck his tongue out for added effect because seeing Hudson wrapped up in a blanket inches away from him, with that look on his face and that soft voice was doing funny things to his sleep-addled brain. “I'm a brave boy.”
“Yeah, you are.” Hudson grinned, and Connor felt himself grin back, for no reason, like an absolute idiot.
“Okay, now shut up and go to sleep, we have to get up at 6 tomorrow.” He said after a minute, because he could feel a hot flush crawling up his neck (when did the blanket become so warm?) and they did really need to rest.
“What? But shooting doesn't start til 9-”
“We're going to the gym.” And he shook his head as Hudson groaned.
“Nooo, I need my beauty sleep, Connor.”
“I think you'll be fine.” he said dryly as Hudson shuffled closer.
“Are you calling me beautiful, Connie?”
“Yes, stunning, gorgeous, out of this world. Now, sleep.” He closed his eyes but opened them again a minute later because Hudson wouldn't stop huffing and puffing like the goddamn wolf in that pig story his grandma used to read to him.
“Hudson?”
“Hmm?”
“What's up?”
“What's up where?” Hudson repeated, brows furrowed, acting all innocent like he hadn’t been groaning and grumbling this whole time.
“I swear to god I'm 30 seconds away from going back to my bed right now.”
“No you're not.” No, he wasn’t; it was way too comfortable here, but he could pretend he had the willpower for a minute.
“My sweet, comfortable, silent bed.”
“You're too far away,” Hudson said grumpily, an annoyed little pout on his face. And then a hand was shoving at his chest, “Turn around.”
“I feel like a puppet right now,” Connor huffed, even as he shifted, “I'm just being manhandled like-” and then he was pulled against a warm, solid chest and Hudson's arm came to rest over his waist, a familiar weight.
“Okay? Better?” It was quiet, mumbled against his neck.
He couldn't even pretend it wasn't. “Yeah,” Connor sighed, snuggling back further into the heat (Toronto nights were cold, okay?) decimating any inch of space between them. This was so much better.
“G'night Connie.” A whispered caress down his spine. Connor didn't shiver, but pulled the blanket tighter around them anyway.
“Night, Huddy.”
He was asleep before he knew it.