tenderhearted.

but like. no yeah do you think years from now they’ll be at some slick gaudy after party and they’ll see each other from across the room, and it’ll be like oh i haven’t seen you in two years apart from glimpses when they’re on the same carpet — somehow they always end up pulled in different directions. and they’ll embrace and hudson will give connor a kiss on the cheek because of course he does. and it’s easy like it always was, the conversation flows and they find themselves cracking up at things nobody else but them would find funny. and someone asks, to both, to one of them, “do you miss it? you two seemed pretty close, back then. like, i can’t imagine having to kiss my friend so much for three years straight.” and connor laughs, shrugs. “it was fun. i mean, it was work, but it was fun. i miss it. do you, huddy?” and man, connor hasn’t called him that in awhile, at least, not in person. his eyes still light up when he says it, just like they used to. and hudson sips his drink and scoffs a little, trying to feign nonchalance, acting like his chest doesn’t ache even now, thinking about those days they spent nipping at each other’s heels, playing and being in love, in their own way. “of course,” he says. “who wouldn’t miss kissing you? you have a good mouth.” it’s a throwaway line from a million years ago, and he doesn’t put on the accent, but he knows connor will remember. and connor does, of course — he can see the recognition in his eyes. a gift passed between them, a secret code no one else would know but the two of them. hudson makes a whole show of leaning over for a kiss, pursing his lips, and connor bares his teeth in a smile and shies away at the last second. everyone laughs, the others around them a little too tipsy to notice the way hudson’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the way connor’s hand lingers on hudson’s thigh, gripping a tad too hard to be friendly.