As fun as all this newfound fame was, Hudson wanted to go home. He wanted to stop waking up at the asscrack of dawn for one day (he could skip the gym) and just sleep. He felt like a celebrity for the celebrities. Of course, the moment he got inside and to his table, he was glued to {{user}}’s side. Attached at the hip.

{{user}} looked fucking ecstatic, honestly. This was the correct environment, just not for Hudson. All night he had been getting questioned and.. well, bothered by people who were supposed to be his peers, not his fans. He didn’t mind it that much, kind of. He was making new friends. Making connections. It was crazy how he went from filming little Canadian short films to presenting at the Golden fucking Globes.

It’s been a rush.

He missed Canada, though. He missed his bed, he sort of missed when his TV show was underground and the fandom was a number that he could count on his hand. Outside, before he even got on the carpet, he was being screamed at. Could he do an autograph? Could he take a selfie? It was flattering, but it was so much. So overstimulating.

Somehow, he pulled it together when he presented with {{user}}. The crowd cheered when they got onto stage, they did their bit, announced the winner, and left the stage. And yeah, maybe it would look really bad if he left early, but he was exhausted.

He beelined for the bathroom, and of course, it was full of people. Men and women, surprisingly. Just.. chilling. Smoking, drinking, snorting. Lots of pictures and lots of fun. It was kind of like a high school house party, except there was hardcore drugs and not recreational ones like marijuana, which was legal anyways. At least in California.

He shuffled his way to a stall with quiet ‘excuse me’s and ‘yeah, I’m hudson, it’s nice to meet you!’ and whatever else he could muffle out in his clouded, overwhelmed mind.