Chapter Text
Hudson Williams does not remember how he got into the back of the moving vehicle, legs spread wide, body almost sliding off the backrest.
He distantly recollects flashing lights. A glass of whiskey, maybe three or more. Famous people— too many famous people. Some invasive paparazzi. Frenzied fans and… that’s where his memory fades.
The sway of the car and the overpowering vanilla car perfume spin his head and turn his stomach, though not to the point of nausea. His head feels heavy as if a lead plate sits on it. He lets out a soft groan and startles when a responding groan comes from his left. He turns his neck slowly toward the sound. Connor is right there beside him, looking possibly worse than he does.
Fame is a powerful drug and Hudson has taken too much of it. One second, they are quitting their day jobs, and the next, they are plunged into this bedlam, surrounded by extraordinary new people: photoshoots, late-night interviews, fashion show invitations, and countless public appearances. It is chaotic. And with how overwhelming things can get, Hudson is grateful he doesn’t have to face it all alone. He has his best friend. His Connie baby.
“Hiiii,” Hudson drawls.
Connor responds with another groan, his head falling listlessly against the window. Hudson closes his eyes, surrendering his weight to the vehicle. Lets the responsibility of being a superstar, a role model, someone who is faultless, fall off his shoulders just for tonight. As he drifts away, he wishes for a simpler time.
A time when he was just Shane Hollander.
**
Hudson awakes to a semi-dark room and a hand on his back. His head is cushioned on something warm, firm, and alive. He snuggles deeper into the warmth and registers a soft chuckle from above.
“You are awake,” Connor says, his voice deeper than usual. It’s not strange to wake up huddled together in Connor’s bed. But his hand on Hudson’s back, thumb stroking along his spine, is a new development. “You fell asleep too fast. You are okay?”
“Long day. What time is it?” He mutters, wondering how Connor got the time or lucidity to strip out of his clothes.
“Uhh 11 pm. You are sure you don’t need doctor?”
“Huh?” Who goes to the doctor for a hangover? All he needs is an aspirin and a bottle of water. “I’m sure. Just exhausted.”
“Sorry. We can rest better after tomorrow.” After the Golden Globes, where they will be presenting an award. Connor Storrie and Hudson Williams, formerly waiters, now Hollywood heartthrobs.
“Sure, okay.”
Connor’s hand moves from his back to his neck, caressing it gently before easing his fingers into the hair on his nape. Hudson stiffens. They are touchy but not like this. He doesn’t exactly mind it and maybe it is the alcohol swirling through his head talking but he is far too blitzed to make any sound decisions right now.
So when his best friend tugs on his hair, Hudson follows the silent command and tilts his face upward. He catches Connor’s eyes in the dark, heart racing before their lips meet in the middle. It starts slow as everything does with them, then quickly turns hot, wanton, and clumsy. Connor fumbles at his clothes and Hudson notes, in his drunken and sex daze, that they are not the same clothes he wore to the party. Connor must have changed him. The thought pleases him. He smiles into the kiss and presses his erection against the very noticeable one growing thicker against his legs.
He’s not new to this. New to Connor’s body. They’ve done this dance before albeit with a crew but still, it’s a familiar one.
“So eager,” Connor whispers against his lips and Hudson wants to tell him to shut up but he moans instead because he is indeed eager. Quite intoxicated, yes. But also very eager. He fully straddles his friend, bringing their clothed dicks together. The friction is delicious and has him almost spilling into his pants like a fucking teenager. He pauses, nails digging into Connor’s shoulders as he takes deep breaths to collect himself.
“Slowly please,” he whispers, barely finishing before Connor captures his lips again.
“Fuck Shane.” He breathes as one hand crawls underneath Hudson’s shirt to grab a handful of his pecs. Hudson is thrown off by the name, pausing for a moment to watch his friend’s face. Shane? Is this what Connor wants? Will slipping back into the roles of Shane and Ilya make whatever this is easier? Perhaps it will. When tomorrow comes, they can feign normalcy.
If pretending will make this okay, Hudson can play along.
“Ilya,” he chokes. “More.”
Connor complies and takes it slow this time. His lips move gently along with his hands. They are everywhere all at once. In Hudson’s hair. Under his shirt, easing them off. On his hips, guiding his movements slowly even as he’s tempted to go faster to feel more. He wants more. Will always want more. But he follows Connor’s lead, dragging on the moment for as long as they can.
He meets every slow thrust. Catches every kiss. The pressure builds and so do their movements. Their kisses turn frantic. Their touches, desperate.
“I’m close,” Hudson pants against Connor’s lips.
“Come for me, baby.”
“Co—Ilya,” he cries as he spills into his pants. Connor’s grip on his hips goes tighter as he nears his orgasm too. He kisses Hudson's chin, his neck, and then sinks his teeth into his shoulder as he shudders and cums too. He hugs Hudson close to him, leaving more kisses along his chin before kissing him fully on the lips again, muttering incomprehensible words.
They fall limply back on the bed. Hudson feels sticky. He’d like a warm shower but his body protests when he tries to move. What now? Will they have the talk? Hudson isn’t in the mood or even the right frame of mind for that. He’s more sober now but still not sober enough.
“I will take care of you, sweetheart.” Connor murmurs, voice slightly accented. “I will clean you up.” His knuckles brush gently under Hudson’s eyes. “Sleep.”
“Thanks Con,” he grunts and is swiftly pulled under.
**
The second time Hudson wakes up, it is bright. He squints against the light spilling through the curtains and the onset of a migraine. Fuck, he shouldn’t have drunk so much last night. Last night! He scrambles to a sitting position, holding the blanket to his chest like a deflowered bride. He was drunk but not too drunk to forget what transpired.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
He drops his head into his palms. What has he gotten himself into? He should've exercised more restraint than that. Well, in his defense Connor started it. That’s not a good enough excuse but they were both drunk. Nobody can be blamed but alcohol and its temptations.
“Ugh!” He blows out through his nose, dragging his hands through his hair. Okay, he can do this. He is an actor. This is Hollywood. It’s a cesspool of sex, drugs, and crime. And sometimes, that means getting drunk and helping your best friend with an orgasm. A mutually beneficial orgasm. He can act like last night was no big deal. Act until it actually becomes inconsequential.
He needs a smoke. Now.
He reaches over the side of the bed toward the nightstand where his cigarettes should be and freezes. The drawer is different. It is bigger and holds a fancy lamp that wasn't there before. For the first time since waking up, he takes a proper look at his surroundings. This is a completely different room. Where the fuck is he?
He jumps out of bed, staggering and almost face-planting. He barely catches himself, shaking his feet out of the sheets pooled around his ankles. He bursts through the bedroom door and finds himself in an ornate loft which leads to long winding stairs.
Hudson carefully takes the stairs. As he descends, he catches a whiff of pancakes in the air. His stomach growls in appreciation. If he’s about to get murdered, at least he won’t die hungry. He is so focused on following the trail of the food that he sees the angry dog advancing towards him too late.
The mutt tackles him to the floor, growling. Hudson shushes it but it barks louder. Angrier. Great! He’s wrestling an attack dog in a stranger’s house.
“Anya down.” A familiar voice calls. The dog immediately steps back. It growls one last time before turning and cantering to a different part of the house. Hudson watches it disappear before turning to his saviour.
“What the fuck was that?” He heaves.
Connor’s brows tick in confusion then a smile overcomes his face. He pulls Hudson up by the hand but doesn’t let go even when he’s on his feet. “Maybe she just wants to play. She was probably just happy to see you.”
“That didn’t look very happy to me.” He mutters, trying not to focus on what Connor’s thumb is doing to the back of his hand. He swallows. “Uh— Where are we anyway? Woke up with a massive headache. Cigs nowhere to be found. And this house. What the fuck?” Connor’s thumb pauses. His face crumples in confusion.
“Thank God I saw you.” Hudson goes on. “I really thought this was a kidnapping situation. Where did they bring us?” He pulls his hand out of Connor’s hold and walks around him to possibly the biggest kitchen he has ever seen. His eyes zero in on a stack of pancakes on the counter. He picks one up and takes a bite. “Yes, that's the stuff.” His eyes roll into the back of his head. “I don’t remember the last time I ate something. It’s wake up, show up, smile, network, and then back to bed.” He takes another bite and looks up. Connor is standing across from him with his jaw on the floor. “What?” He says around his food.
“You are,” he throws his right hand in Hudson’s direction. “Different.”
Hudson chokes on his food. He coughs. Clears his throat. Are they about to have the talk? “Different?”
“You’re eating pancakes, Shane.” He says it like an accusation. An incomprehensible crime.
The name makes Hudson clam up. To be honest, he feels a little irritated. “Are we still going by our characters’ names? Is that what the accent is about? And what, I’m not allowed to eat your pancakes?”
Connor sighs. He comes closer and cups Hudson’s jaw. “Sorry. Is not a problem. I am worried about you. You get weird when you break routine. Very crazy.”
Hudson is paralyzed by his best friend’s touch. This feels wrong. He suddenly does not want to play this game anymore. He thought the Shane Ilya bit was just for a night. He cannot keep this up. He steps away from Connor, ignoring the pained turn of his lips. He takes a deep breath, ready to launch into a speech about how maybe there shouldn’t ever be a repeat of last night when he descries a mug from the corner of his eyes.
It’s not an impressive mug. Quite small in size but the thing that catches Hudson’s attention is the picture on it. It’s him and Connor sucking face with an inscription, just married.
Hudson grabs the mug, staring at it intently like it would help him understand what the fuck he’s looking at. He does not remember taking this photo with Connor. He remembers every shoot they’ve done together.
“Shane?”
“Can you stop calling me Shane!?” He snaps. It’s barely visible but he sees Connor’s flinch. “I’m getting the hell out of here!” He retraces his steps towards the stairs. He needs his phone at least to call an Uber. His passport. He needs to get back to Connor’s apartment for that.
As he stomps his way through the house, a frame lining the wall catches his eye. He didn’t pay much attention to the photographs before. His heart stutters as he stares at his own face smiling back at him. Then another. And another. There are photos of him doing the most mundane things. Some of them feature him, Connor, and the dog that almost bit his head off a few minutes ago. There are framed photos of him in a suit at a wedding. Oh, it looks like his wedding with— Connor? Another picture shows them holding the Stanley Cup in matching jerseys, with ‘C’ and ‘A’ on the front.
Hudson is quaking as he goes through them one by one. The more he takes in, the more understanding dawns on him. The man who looks like his best friend genuinely believes he is Shane.
He slowly faces Connor’s look-alike who looks on the verge of tears. “Ilya?” He whispers, lightheaded. Right on cue, the brown and white mutt reenters the room. She growls low in her throat but stays by Ilya’s (?) side. “Anya?”
“Shane,” Ilya’s brows knit tighter. “I think— I will call hospital now.”
That might help. He is clearly losing his mind. Maybe this is a dream, one where he has been transported into a fictional reality. The pictures surrounding them of their wedding, the cottage, and dinner with the Pikes are things he has only read about. But they feel more tangible now. This could very well be an alcohol induced hallucination. Perhaps he’s in a coma.
But why the hell would his comatose brain decide on domestic bliss with Ilya? Connor, he could understand because that’s his best friend but Ilya?
A sudden realization hits Hudson. Last night was all Ilya. Ilya thought he was making love to his husband. The ring on Hudson’s finger that he dismissed as an accessory from last night doesn’t look that fashionable anymore. A wedding ring?
“You are freaking me out, Hollander.”
“I’m fine. It’s just—,” How does one begin to break this down? How can he tell this man, imagined or not, that he is not his husband but a version of him from some alternate universe? How would Ilya react to that? Hudson does not want to find out. This is a dream anyway. He just has to wait it out. He takes a deep recentering breath and puts on a smile. “I’m fine.” He has played Shane before. He can play him again. “Promise. Just exhausted.”
Ilya’s worried eyes flit across his face. Then a suggestive smile breaks through. He takes a few steps forward and presses a kiss to Hudson’s forehead. Hudson tries not to flinch. “Did I overwork you?” He bends lower, planting a kiss on Hudson’s lips.
An embarrassing squeak leaves his mouth as he hops three steps away from Ilya. Whatever happened last night cannot repeat itself. It feels strange now kissing Ilya, knowing he belongs to Shane. Knowing he thinks he’s Shane. Ilya seems hurt by Hudson’s rejection.
“Sorry. I— uh—,” he stutters. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”
With that, he turns and hightails it up the stairs. He finds the bedroom he woke up in and starts searching for a phone. He finds one on the opposite nightstand. Hudson is shocked when his face unlocks the phone. This must be Shane's. He goes to Google first. Just as he feared, there are no records of famous actors named Hudson Williams or Connor Storrie. He finds a beekeeper called Hudson Williams in Arkansas though.
He abandons the phone for the ensuite. The bathroom is beautiful. Shane and Ilya sure are loaded. He doesn’t dwell too much on the affluence of his dream husband because he’s too busy frowning at his reflection in the mirror. There’s a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks.
“Fuck!” He swears. “Fuck!!” He swears louder at the sight of his bare arms. All his tattoos are gone.
“Shane, baby?” Ilya’s voice is muted behind the door but Hudson hears the worry in it. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Please don’t come in. I’ll be out soon.”
There’s no response but Hudson knows Ilya is still behind the door, waiting for his Shane to come out. Ilya who is maddeningly in love with Shane. Who would burn the world to keep him safe. Fuck. Hudson splashes some water onto his face. He needs a smoke. He needs a smoke now. He rummages through the drawers but finds nothing. Where the hell does Ilya hide his cigarettes?
Hudson opens and closes more drawers before giving up. He settles for splashing more water in his face. He stares at his pathetic reflection. It’s just a dream, he tells himself. Perhaps repeating the words will make it true. Because if this is a dream, he is merely asleep. And everyone wakes up from sleep eventually. Right?
After the pep talk, he brushes his teeth with a new toothbrush he found while searching for cigarettes. Then he steps into the shower, standing under the warm sprays until his fingers start pruning.
He exits the bathroom with a towel slung low around his waist. Just as expected, Ilya is waiting on the other side of the door. When he reaches for Hudson, Hudson lets himself melt into the embrace because he cannot bear to see another broken look on Ilya’s face.
“You feel better, baby?” He mumbles against Hudson’s neck.
“Yes.” He nods. The lump in his throat grows thicker as Ilya peppers kisses on his shoulders, over the bite mark he left last night. It almost chokes him to death when Ilya leads him to a wardrobe and picks out some clothes for him. A pair of underwear, grey sweats, and a navy hoodie. Just very Shane-like. Ilya stays close as Hudson puts them on. The hoodie falls loosely on him. “Thanks. They are comfy.”
Ilya’s smile overtakes his entire face. It makes him look more like Connor. “I love it when you wear my clothes.” He leans in for a kiss and once again, Hudson gives in.
He kisses back the way he knows. He knows Shane and he knows Ilya through knowing Shane. He knows Ilya likes his kisses a little bruising and loves it when his hair is played with. So Hudson plays Shane to the best of his ability. When they come apart for air, Ilya smiles, lips shiny with spit. He caresses Hudson's cheek, adoration pouring from his fingertips and reverence shimmering in his gold-flecked eyes.
“You like pancakes?” He says.
“Yes, very much.”
“Okay.” Ilya drags his thumb along the corner of Hudson’s mouth. “Okay, let us eat some pancakes. You can rest a bit after.”
“Yeah— sure.”
“The game is not until tonight. And we do not have to go to practice. Perks of being the best and second-best players in the league.” He points to himself and Hudson respectively.
Hudson stumbles to a halt. “What? A g-game?”
Ilya’s brows draw together. “Against Denver. Tonight.”
Holy shit. He is utterly fucked.