~

and then flip forward to the show release. back together again, remembering shooting, remembering how they felt and touched and tasted, thinking about it again, worrying the show will be no good, that they imagined this beautiful moment they shared, that nobody is going to watch it and they're never going to get to do this again. they never saw what they look like on screen but now they're sitting in a packed theatre in montreal arms touching fingers linked together and it feels more real on screen than it did in the studio. they look good. they look hot. people love it. and there's press and more interviews and the instagram followers are climbing and people are freaking out about the trailer and they can't let themselves hope it's going to go well but then somehow it does. HBO picks it up and it's like dropping a stone from an airplane and they're falling so fast together, adrenaline high and sleep low and they're crushed together, clinging to each other in interviews. wound up so tight on the endless press circuit in adjoining hotel rooms thinking maybe I should go knock. maybe if we just slipped back into our shane and ilya skins it could take me out of my head a moment. but they don't.

and the instagram followers keep climbing. the show is a smash. everyone is talking about their butts and bodies and chemistry. they have agents for everything now and there's so much noise and there are people tripping over themselves to cast them and it's everything they ever dreamed of and it's so overwhelming. it's December 2025 and the end of the best year of their lives and they have to spend it together, have to say goodbye to this magical year in the same place. plane to vancouver and parties with hudson's friends and then midnight comes and everyone is cheering for them to do it, kiss him, so what the hell. sure. it's barely anything, not like hot wet and full of tongue like it was, and maybe connor pulls away first, embarrassed, not wanting to show himself up, but hudson has a delayed reaction, chasing his lips, forgetting himself for a moment. but it's new years and they were drunk, so. it doesn't count. maybe they want to spend all night kissing in a dark corner away from everyone watching but they can't. so they don't.

a hundred miles an hour now. International flights and the golden globes and fashion shows and brand deals and the oscars and can't go on instagram anymore because it's too overwhelming and people are following them digging up old things from their past theorising and endless commentary and it's too much. but it's what they wanted, right? only snatches of moments, strolling the narrow streets of venice, hiding from the camera flashes in LA, trapped in a hotel room in NYC. it's so hard now to think about anything but sliding hands into his hair, the soft warmth of his mouth. ilya was always clean shaven but every time hudson sees connor with facial hair he wonders what it would feel like to kiss him like that, rasping against his skin until it's raw. they really can't be alone anymore. hands interlocked, noses pressed to the warm corners of each other's bodies. hand under shirt, slowly caressing skin as they hug goodbye, saying I love you almost every day, desperate to convey the meaning. it's exhausting being so visible and they can't wait to get on set for their new projects but then there's a barren wasteland of time before summer in toronto. late nights staring at phones in hand, waiting for the familiar bzz-bzz, message incoming. I miss you. can I see you? 1am, searching airbnb in far-flung places. maybe just a night or two, just to be together, to be alone, and they know what they're doing without saying it. telling nobody. but then the schedules get ripped up and suddenly someone is in LA while the other is in Toronto and it can't happen. late nights, alone, again, bzz-bzz five times in a row, breathing heavy, texting one-handed, I'm so close, r u, thinking about that beautiful mouth again. they could be kissing, if they were alone together. but they're not. so they don't.