make me feel

It’s so fucking early, nauseatingly early, bleak and watery dawn barely seeping through the crooked edges of the city, but he could not begin to care. He’s unsteady on his feet, ears still muffled by sleep as the elevator hums its descent, that initial plunge turning his empty stomach like a dropped stone, but he doesn’t care. And when the doors slide open, dousing him in the frigid air pooling in the lobby, drawing his shoulders rigid, stinging his eyes, he cannot care.

Because Connor is here, standing at the entrance, looking so fucking soft and sleepy like some bleary-eyed demigod, actual snowflakes in his curls and brows a little knit together in that way Hudson wants to smooth over with his thumbs, because baby, how many times do I have to tell you that’s how you get wrinkles?

Hudson shuffles across the marble floor in hotel-provided slippers, too antsy to bother with things like socks or shoelaces, and when their eyes meet it’s sort of like the happy end to the nightmare he’d just been having about looking, looking, looking. Here he is. And his smile is just as big as Hudson’s feels. They crash together like something predetermined, waves against cliffs or maybe more like meteors into the atmosphere because he feels on fire where they touch. Somehow Hudson can breathe again.

He’s momentarily distressed as Connor pulls away, but a light fingertip tracing his shoulders has Hudson turning dutifully where he’s directed: the hostess at the front desk has fished her phone from her pocket, shaky fingers tapping out a pin code, and Connor’s team steps in to block the view. Blood in the water. Connor smiles ruefully, tugging at Hudson’s sleeve toward their escape. His curly head dips to catch a muttered directive from his assistant, probably something about the flashing cameras just beyond the revolving doors, but then they’re tucked inside a corner of the elevator. Alone.

Hudson’s eyes roam Connor’s face, bridge of his nose and cheekbones gone pink and already windchapped, which makes him look strangely young, which makes Hudson’s heart twinge. Connor will have to borrow some moisturizer, and he’s definitely not wearing sunscreen even though it’s so much more important in the winter, so he’ll be getting an earful later. He is taking care of his lips, which Hudson stares at, because they’re wet and his tongue is caught between his teeth which he does to stop himself from smiling too crazy. Hudson goes to reach fingertips beneath some hem of Connor’s clothing, he’s not picky, but he’s redirected with interlocked elbows.

“Security camera,” Connor says without breaking his squinty smile. He looks so fond Hudson might combust.

Hudson whines under his breath, sparing a glance toward the ceiling before forcing himself to stare straight ahead instead of directly into the ray of human sunshine beside him. “You’re edging me.”

“You like it.”

“After two weeks, Connie baby, I think this level of blue balls could be diagnosed as self harm.”

Connor snorts. “Missed you too, babe.”

“Flight okay?”

“Great, actually. Slept for once.”

“Lucky.”

“You look tired.”

Hudson flinches as though struck.

Connor course corrects. “Still god’s gift to mortals, even with eye bags.”

“Barely a compliment. Please, Connie, I beg. Fetch me my pool of water.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Right away sir, Narcissus sir. Nary a pore in sight. Raven hair tousled to perfection. Can hardly look upon ye, lips so kissable, dark eyes so mysterious and arresting.”

Hudson throws his head back, grabbing at the handrail and panting hotly, “I’m gonna- I’m- turning into a flower!” He makes his least sexy O-face, just for whoever’s watching the security feed.

Connor laughs loud and unguarded, pushing him away. Something loosens in Hudson’s chest at the sound.

“Disappointing,” Connor shrugs. “I personally prefer the version where he falls on his sword because he can’t raw his own reflection. Or maybe that was Ameinias.” Another shrug.

“You would,” Hudson sniffs.

“You don’t?”

Another elevator chime, and Connor fists a hand into Hudson’s shirt to be lead down the hushed hallway, and it feels dreamlike again. Hudson doesn’t think too hard about the paparazzi circling below like hellhounds as he glances back over his shoulder to make sure Connor’s still there. Soon enough he’s shoving his best friend into his hotel room, who, by the way, has the presence of mind to flip the non disturbare sign hooked over the handle. He’s so smart. Must be all that sleep he’s heard so much about. They stare at each other for a moment, grinning like maniacs, Hudson vibrating out of his skin while Connor unzips his heavy parka. The room is warm and quiet and theirs, at least for the time being.

“Bed, now.”

“Can I take my shoes off first?”

“No. Fine. Hurry up. I have to smell you.”

“Smell me?” Connor notches a few octaves, all mock horrified with a dainty southern hand across his clavicle. 

Oh my god, I’m going to kiss you, shut up, Hudson thinks. “To start,” he says threateningly.

Connor climbs onto the bed and flops onto his back with a grunt, almost entirely submerging into the fluffy depths of the duvet. Hudson follows, crawling over top of Connor so he can sink into some weird entangled bastardization of child’s pose. Somehow he knows their cocks would be perfectly slotted together if they were hard, but they’re not. Well, okay. Maybe a little. He nuzzles into the fabric of Connor’s shirt, takes a whiff, and frowns.

“Wrong.” Hudson props up on elbows to glare accusatorially.

“Wrong?”

“You have new cologne.” 

“Um. Yes…?” 

Connor just blinks at him, lips parted and eyes so wide-open-blue, and Hudson resists the urge to bite him, or lick his teeth. Such great teeth. Instead, because he can’t possibly be expected to take it anymore, he begins wrestling the offending shirt over Connor’s head. The other man succumbs, groaning when his arm bends funny, which Hudson rubs with a thumb and then kisses while shushing as an apology. He looks down at Connor because holy shit he’s so fucking pretty and decides to tear off his own shirt, already rumpled from half-sleep and stress dreams. Hudson flattens out, cheek to chest, and there it is. Fuck. He breathes deep, going limp.

“Fuck,” Hudson says resolutely, out loud this time.

“Missed you too,” Connor repeats, but so fucking gentle and with fingers tucked into Hudson’s hair like they belong there. A softness only Hudson gets to hear.

Hudson noses his way up Connor’s sternum, inhaling slowly through his nose and huffing hard out his mouth, over Connor’s outstretched neck, finding a spot behind his ear that makes Hudson’s vision swim. Connor shivers on the exhale, bucking his hips a little, but Hudson is on a mission. He pushes Connor’s arm above his head, bracing it there against the mattress with firm fingers. He kisses him once inside the elbow, once along his bicep, and then buries his nose into Connor’s armpit.

Hudson moans, loud, and grinds his pelvis down at the same time Connor tries to jerk away.

“Fuck! Dude, that tickles, knock it off.”

“Oh my god,” is all Hudson can mumble because oh my god, Connor smells fucking incredible, sweat and whatever generic soap he uses and sweat and his deodorant, citrus and maybe sandalwood. And sweat. But also something deeper and heady that’s just intrinsically Connor. Pheromones or some shit. He’s pretty sure he’d get elbowed in the skull if he licked Connor’s pit like he wants to right now, but he definitely thinks about it. It’s hard to articulate, even in his own head, but the way Connor smells is sort of like the vertigo you get when your ears are waterlogged from swimming in the summer, but also how it feels when Xanax hits. Soft around the edges. It makes his mind stay still. He hums, and Connor attempts to flee again.

“Seriously, stop. You know how ticklish I am, we pinky promised about this back in Muskoka.”

“Seriously,” Hudson mimics, “get in on this.” He clambers up and presents his own armpit to Connor, who looks downright scandalized, but he knows better than to argue when Hudson’s like this, and anyway he’d tolerate damn near anything so long as Hudson asks sweetly enough. A power he is not responsible enough to wield.

“Okay, but if I-” Connor’s eyelids flutter closed. “If… oh, hell,” he breathes. Trembles just a little below him. “I hate when you’re right. You’re insufferable when you’re right.”

Hudson can only smile stupidly as Connor blinks up at him, pupils blown wide. They’re so fucking weird and Hudson loves it more than anything else in the whole entire world.

“What the fuck is wrong with us,” Connor asks, because they can read each other’s minds probably.

“Don’t care.” Hudson threads their limbs back together, suddenly too far apart. He kisses a couple of his favorite moles across Connor’s collarbone, then slots his chin into the crook where neck meets shoulder. He can’t breathe all that well, but it’s worth it, he thinks. Anything to be closer. Never quite close enough. Hudson wants to live inside Connor, and not even in a sex way. Well, sometimes in a sex way. Their cocks are hard now and perfectly aligned. Hudson shifts as the wind creaks the windows.

“I didn’t even realize I was homesick,” Connor kisses into his hair after a while of their heartbeats slowing down.

“Yeah. Exactly that,” Hudson sighs, feeling unspooled.

“We have a few hours,” Connor says, a little rough against his ear. “You wanna…?” He twitches his dick instead of asking the question. Hudson will say yes, emphatically fuck yes, but…

“In a minute.”