Archive of Our Own ^beta

The scene: Hutch’s apartment, Starsky standing near the door as if prepared to run, or maybe as if afraid to be kicked out. Hutch, nearer the kitchen, holding himself back from pacing, agitation coiled tight into the line of his body. When Starsky speaks, it is with a false lightness that even a stranger would have been able to see through. And it’s not a stranger he’s speaking to, it’s Hutch, which makes the pretense particularly laughable.

S: I thought maybe we could go out, grab dinner?

H: Oh yeah? Not afraid of being seen with me in public?

A pause, a blink of astonishment. Starsky rocks forward as if to take a step further into Hutch’s space, but he stops himself.

S: What in hell are you talking about?

H: You know what I’m talking about.

S: Usually, yeah, but not today, not right now. You were weird with me all afternoon. I guess I thought I’d come check up on you, if that’s not a crime.

H: All afternoon? You’ve been weird with me for weeks now, pal.

There is no denial. This is the truth. It hurts, the truth. It hurts them both, what they believe they understand about the other.

S: I came over here to talk to you about that.

H: I thought you came over here to invite me to dinner.

S: That too. Although— I think maybe I was hopin’ being in public would make it, I don’t know, easier to talk about? But that’s not… I mean, this is not gonna be easy to talk about. I’m all twisted up, I’m— I’m not good at this, and we’re already starting from a place of you being annoyed with me which isn’t exactly a good sign.

H: Do we have to talk about it? Can we not just take it all as said?

Hurt, genuine and deep and full of insecurity. Starsky isn’t as sure of himself as he often pretends to be. Hutch knows this like he knows all the rest of it. He thinks he knows where this is going. He is very wrong.

S: I think I need to say it, even if— even if I don’t like how you respond.

H: That’s the thing, I already know. I saw you thinking it, Starsk. I saw the moment it crossed your mind, weeks ago.

S: Did you really? Cuz I didn’t know I’d thought it when I thought it, I— I’ve been working through it all, trying to figure out… I mean, it’s not a straightforward thing, Hutch, you gotta understand that.

H: We’re okay, you don’t have to twist yourself up over this. Whatever this even is. Nothing’s wrong, we’ll push through and things will go back to how they’ve always been.

S: And that’s what you want? Come on. Let’s not talk circles around this. Tell me what you mean so I can tell you if you’re full of shit or not. Please. I hate it when you’re mad at me.

H: I’m mad at you all the time.

S: This one’s for real, though, and it’s driving me up the wall. Tell me what happened this afternoon. You went all— huffy at me and I honestly don’t— I honestly don’t know what I did. Please.

H: You flinched when I put my hand on your shoulder.

The quality of the room is one of anticipation, stillness, both men still guarding their halves of the room as fiercely as they might guard territory in the jungle. Neither backing down, neither advancing. But even in that stillness, a keen eye would see Starsky falter, genuine shock flickering through his eyes, the shift of his shoulders, the light rocking of his feet against the floor.

S: What? What? I did not.

H: Something I’ve done a thousand times, something I do without even thinking about it. You about jumped out of your damn chair to get away from me.

S: I swear, Hutch, I didn’t—

H: Come on! You want the truth? You want us not to talk in circles around it? This is about John Blaine!

A guilty flash of the eyes. Involuntary admission of a shameful truth. Bullseye. Hutch had meant it when he said he didn’t want to talk about this, and Starsky had meant it when he said it needed to be said. But now Hutch is the one doing the saying, and Starsky is tripping over himself to catch up.

S: I didn’t flinch.

H: You were so— you couldn’t fathom the idea of not knowing John was gay, because you knew him so well. You were close. You were very close. How could he have been gay without you knowing? I saw you look at me, it was that day, after he’d died. I saw you look at me and I saw you think it.

S: I— wait, come on, what are you even—

H: You thought, you probably thought, well, hang on. If the queers are out there hiding in plain sight, if you can’t tell just by looking at ‘em— they could be anybody at all. And then you thought, hey, Hutch is a pretty sensitive guy, he cries at sappy movies and he’s obsessed with keeping in shape and he sure does put his hands on me all the damn time—

S: No!

Genuine horror, wide blue eyes, a step closer, hands flailing in the air.

S: Shut up with that, Hutch, I can’t let you think like that, I can’t have you believing that! I did not— I don’t think you bein’ a health nut makes you gay, you big dummy, you’re doin’ an awful lot of projecting for someone so enlightened and above it all—

H: I never said I was above it all! I just said it doesn’t— I don’t see it as such a big thing, the way you do. It doesn’t have to be some big life changing… you still knew him. You get that, right? John was the person you knew, he was himself with you in all the ways he knew how. He cared about you, you cared about him. That was all real.

S: I know.

H: Do you?

S: Yeah, I know! But— excuse me if it changes things. If it felt for a minute like it changed everything. I don’t exactly associate with a lotta—

H: It’s not like you don’t know plenty of ‘em in this city, Starsk.

S: Like who?

H: That a serious inquiry?

S: Yeah, Hutch, like who? I’m not saying I’ve never talked to a gay guy before on a case or whatever, but my social circle isn’t exactly overrun with—

H: Ray.

S: What—

H: Ray, you know, always tattooing some pretty lady’s upper thigh when we swing by on a case? We both know she’s gay, don’t we? She’s got girlfriends, she just doesn’t advertise it. Not to mention the guy that runs the dry cleaner’s near Venice Beach, and your buddy Merle, though I can’t be sure about that one, just a guess, and if we really wanna air out the dirty laundry, let’s talk about Huggy for a second—

S: Whoa, wait a damn minute, how in the hell are you so sure about all these people bein’—

H: How are you not sure? Starsk, damn it, they’re just people, they’re everywhere, they’re just living their lives same as you and me, they’ve got shit going on that has nothing to do with what they like to do in the bedroom. They’re our friends, or people we run into on the job, they’re just… who cares? Why do you care so much? There are tons of people who— and they’re just people— they’re just people!

A weighty, frightened silence. Hutch is wrong about what Starsky had come here to talk about. He’s wrong, but maybe in a deeper way he’s right. Maybe this needs to be said before all the other things that need saying. It’s awkward, though. Wrong, in some undefinable way. Maybe they’d both thought there were certain things that didn’t ever need to be put into words, and to find that there’s pain in the not-saying of them…

S: Hutch. There’s nothing in this world you could tell me that would make a difference between you ‘n me, if— if there’s anything—

A cough, uncomfortable. They’re never uncomfortable around each other, that’s the worst of all of this. That’s what’s pulling them down, sinking them into despair. They have to fix this. Starsky, his eyes bright and earnest, searching for an answer but afraid to ask the question. Hutch, wondering how the hell they ended up here.

A deep, beleaguered sigh, an internal debate. And then a simple answer to a complicated question:

H: No.

S: No?

H: No, Starsk. Not— not mostly. A long time ago— maybe. But I figured… probably not worth the danger. I— women are great. Women are... I’m not…. no.

S: Okay. Okay, that’s cool. That’s fine. You don’t have to…

H: I know I don’t have to. Do you want to know?

S: I want to know you. That’s been true the whole time we’ve known each other. I don’t— it makes my stomach hurt just thinkin’ that you’ve kept anything from me because you thought I’d see you different—

H: I haven’t been hiding some big sordid— god, this is so weird. I don’t talk about this shit. I was seventeen, it was— a brief thing, I didn’t know what the hell I was even doing, and then I put it aside and I don’t think about it. There hasn’t been anybody else—

A nervous, anticipatory silence.

S: Was there? Somebody? A particular— somebody, like a… a…

It’s almost funny, how hard he’s trying. How much he can’t find the strength for the word.

H: A boyfriend? A lover? Yeah. You met him, actually.

S: I’ve— what?

H: Jack Mitchell.

S: Are you kidding me?

H: I toldja, we were kids. We didn’t know what the hell we were doing, it wasn’t— neither of us were sure about what, you know, we were— why are you laughing?

S: God, Hutch, really? Jack Mitchell?

H: If this is your way of making fun of me? That feels like foul play, given the… well, frankly, the vulnerability of this conversation— not to mention, the man’s dead, Starsky—

S: No, nah, it’s just, I can’t believe it! I was so jealous of that guy I cannot even tell you!

Starsky moves, does not seem to notice that he’s broken through the stalemate at last. He perches on the arm of Hutch’s couch, his spine curved down, one hand scrubbing over his face. Already this isn’t how he wanted it to go. Already he’s fucking up this, the most important thing he’ll ever do.

H: You were not jealous of him. You thought he was a serial murderer.

S: I thought, with reason, that he was a viable suspect. But I was also jealous. You kept goin’ on about him being your best friend, you were so— you liked him, you lit up around him. I dunno. ‘S stupid.

H: It is stupid.

S: Gee, thanks.

H: You know what I mean. I’ve never had a friend like you before, and I never will again. Never thought that was something that needed saying.

S: Maybe it’s nice to hear, I dunno. You had a life before me, I had a life before you.

H: Not a life that means shit to me, compared to what I have now.

Too honest? Hard to tell. Starsky looks at Hutch, bewildered and heartsore and hopeful all at once. So many things Hutch is not allowed to think about, things he’s successfully buried in the sand, and right now he’s thinking about them. Damn it, he’s thinking.

S: Okay. God, I’m so sorry, Hutch.

H: About?

S: Jack. He— meant something to you, something more than I even coulda known at the time. I wasn’t exactly a shoulder for you to cry on when he—

H: I wouldn’t have let you be anyway. I didn’t really know the man, he— he was a memory. A piece of a version of me that died a long time ago.

S: I don’t want any version of you to die. I don’t want you letting go of pieces of yourself just because it hurts you.

Oh, if only Starsky knew. But he can never know, that’s the whole problem. He can never know. Except— Hutch has just told him, hasn’t he? And here he sits, earnest eyes blinking sadly at Hutch, as blatantly affectionate as always. He hadn’t cringed away, or socked him in the mouth, or run out the door and slammed it behind him.

H: Not even the part of me that prefers other men? Not as casual as a bad cold, didn’t you say?

S: I told you, nothing could ever make me look at you different. I meant it. And I didn’t mean it like that, what I said before about John. I was freaked, I was… I don’t rightly know what I was.

H: You were prejudiced. Against gay men.

S: Yeah I s’pose I was. I suppose I am. It’s not like I wanna be. And I also don’t want to be even more jealous of a dead man because I know he— I know you loved him like that, half a lifetime ago, but I guess we don’t always get what we want, do we?

H: You’ve got nothing to be jealous about. Hell, you’ve always ranked above anybody else with me. It’s why Van hated you so much.

A beat of silence, for an unmissed, usually unthought of presence. Why in the hell had Hutch brought her name into it?

S: She really did hate me, huh.

H: Yeah. It was— it was bad. I hated that the two of you couldn’t get along. In retrospect it was never going to work out.

S: I was holding you back, I was… not sophisticated enough for the likes of the two of you. She had big plans, I was some salt-of-the-earth city scum, dragging you with me through the muck.

H: Nah. I mean, sure, that’s maybe part of what she thought. But— end of the day, she was actually the jealous one.

S: Of— what, of me?

H: Oh, big time. She accused— wow. I never thought I’d tell you this, I thought I’d take this to my grave.

S: What?

H: She accused me of having an affair. With— with—

S: Oh god. With me. She thought—

H: Yeah. Well, I don’t know if she really thought it, she just— she was trying to hurt me. I was so furious at her for implying something like that. For putting your name in her mouth, disrespecting— talking about the most important thing in the world to me like it was some dirty, shameful— she threw it at me in an argument and I yelled at her louder and scarier than I ever had before. I didn’t touch her, but I made her cry.

S: Jeez, Hutch.

H: I know. I think about that day a lot, I’m still so ashamed. And it was… I mean, she was wrong, what she was saying wasn’t true, but she wasn’t wrong in the bigger sense, you know? I did love you more than I loved her. That’s why she was so angry and upset.

S: Kinda sounds like I’m the reason your marriage fell apart. Which, well, uh— Hutch, that is pretty gay, you gotta admit.

Laughter, loud, almost too loud, a breaking of tension, a fluttery feeling of relief.

H: You are such an idiot.

S: About a lotta things, yeah. I think I am.

H: Me and Van, that wasn’t your fault. You were one of about a thousand things we found to argue about. But the point stands. If I’d had to make some kind of a choice… she wouldn’t have won.

S: Wow.

H: Yeah.

S: I think I already knew that. ‘S so weird to hear you say it.

H: Hell, I figure if we’ve broken through the glass and into the room where all the taboo subjects live, we might as well go for broke.

S: You’re braver than I am about this kinda stuff. I came over here to talk to you about alla this but I— I almost chickened out a dozen times on my way to your door.

Hutch is still standing, but he moves to lean against the counter, the lines of his body softening, some tension releasing from the tightness of his spine.

H: It’s been eating at you, same way it’s been eating at me. One gay police officer, one gay man we both knew and respected, and it’s… got us spooked. More’n I would have thought of either of us.

S: Yeah. I guess I’m a little ashamed, still, of how bothered— I don’t know. It shouldn’t have rattled me the way it did.

H: It’s okay, Starsk.

S: Yeah?

H: Yeah. Between you and me, anyway. It’s okay. It’s always okay.

Starsky scrubs a hand over his face again. He looks so relieved that Hutch abruptly feels guilty as hell. Had Starsky really thought anything could break what they had? Hutch had thought he was the only one afraid of that.

H: Well, we’ve cleared it up, then.

S: Oh, we have, have we?

H: Sure. You were a little taken aback, but you took some time and you’re okay. You’re not disgusted by the thought of your partner bein’ queer, which I’m not, even, not really. And I’m not ashamed of who I am, whatever you wanna call it, and what I’ve done, and you’ve thought it out and you’ve come to a new perspective about it all, and we’re okay. We’re okay, right?

S: Well, yeah, except for you’re still mad at me, I can tell.

H: I am not.

S: Well, you’re something, then. We’re not on the same page, and even if I can’t understand you well enough to get what it is, I get that it’s there. Broken glass, partner. Taboo time, lay it on me.

Hutch is deciding how careful to be. There are still things he must never say, must never look at directly in the light of day. Bravery and trust can only take you so far, and today it’s taken the both of them farther than ever before.

H: I guess I’m just still thinking how weird it is, how bad this whole thing shook you up. I still don’t really see why— I guess it feels weird to be so far apart on our thinking on something like this.

S: We think different about all sorts of stuff.

H: But we feel the same.

A pause. This is a truth, it settles over them both like a comforting, warm touch. They do feel the same, even if they don’t know how to articulate it all.

S: Yeah. I just— it did get to me. It got under my skin, a lot. A lot. So much so I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, trying to sort through it all. Still not sure where I’ve landed. I read a pamphlet.

H: You read a pamphlet?

S: Yeah, they had ‘em at the community center.

H: A pamphlet.

S: Sure. There’s this illustration of these two older men sitting on a park bench holding hands. And uh, two young gals having a candle-lit dinner, smilin’ at each other like they’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all their lives.

H: Okay…

S: I’ve lost you, haven’t I?

H: I find it difficult to believe anybody can ever keep up with what goes on in that head of yours.

S: Being this intelligent is a burden.

H: You wanna beer?

S: God yes, I need a drink if we’re gonna keep talking about this.

It seems as if they must be through the hard part. Or at least Hutch feels as if he’s through the worst of it. Starksy— does not feel that way. Starsky feels as if the prelude to the real point of it all has gotten away from him, wandering off in all sorts of directions he hadn’t anticipated. He’d tried to prepare for this conversation, and Hutch had managed to knock his feet out from under him pretty much right away. They know each other better than most two people ever could, and yet there’s always another surprise.

H: Here.

S: Thanks. Uh. You wanna sit down, maybe?

They sit on the couch side by side, and both wonder if the other is considering how close to settle, if they should create distance or defy the awkward instinct that demands caution. They end up somewhere in between, sitting each towards the center, but not close enough so their legs are touching. Angled inward, staring down at the cold bottles in their hands.

H: So, a pamphlet.

S: Right. Yeah. It just made me see something I’d never seen before. Or maybe hadn’t wanted to see. I guess I always thought of homosexuals as… well, I thought of it as men who had sex with other men. And that was as far as my definition ever went. I never thought of ‘em having, uh, I guess, relationships. Gettin’ real close, feeling the way it feels when you love someone. Didja know Terry had this cousin?

Invoking Terry’s name here in the room, after Jack Mitchell and John and Van, so many dead or long absent loved ones, so many complicated relationships cut short— it shocks Hutch for a moment, and then abruptly it doesn’t shock him at all.

H: A gay cousin?

S: Uh huh. She talked about him once, it wasn’t a— a big deal to her, I guess. She mentioned it all casual-like. I was weirded out but I didn’t wanna insult her or make it into something so we just moved on. Lately I’ve been thinking she mighta been testing me a little bit. To see if I was the kinda guy who’d mind something like that. I guess maybe I failed her on that one.

H: Come on. Terry loved you.

S: Yeah. Well. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about that. And about Terry a lot. What— what it was like, with her.

H: What— what what was like?

If only conversations had roadmaps. If only Hutch knew what Starsky was building to. If only Starsky could consult the path so as not to lose his way. It’s frightening, out here over the ledge. Frightening for both of them.

S: I’ve just been reminiscing, and— and looking at those men holding hands on the bench, in the pamphlet. And— Okay, so, with Terry, it was— the sex was good, the sex was real nice, she— we used to laugh together in bed, we’d goof around and talk and we didn’t take it so serious, it was one of my favorite things about her, you know, but when I think of her now, and when we were together, it wasn’t— when I was excited to get to see her and spend time with her it wasn’t really about goin’ to bed with her, right? Not mostly, anyway. Not just that. It was just that I liked her, that she was one of my favorite people ever, and being with her made me smile, and— and that’s not, uh, I mean, like I said, I never really gave thought to the idea that two people— that any two people, maybe, that they might have something— god. This is hard to say, this is—

H: I get it, Starsk. You only ever thought of gay people in terms of— a sexual desire that made no sense to you. That felt wrong or even disgusting—

S: No, see, it’s more like— sure, the thought of men, of wanting to touch a man the way you wanna touch a woman, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. But— but the point is, you don’t have a choice, when you meet someone and you feel that way about them, it’s beyond choice, it’s not a preference. It’s not just some physical whim. Back a couple weeks ago, when John— when it had just happened, I kept thinking, why didn’t John just ignore the fact he felt hot for other men, and stick with what he had, stick with what was good, and normal, and safe, damn it. But that’s not how it works, obviously, that’s— that can’t be how it works.

H: No, I’d guess it’s not. For a lot of people, anyway.

Starsky is worked up, he’s upset, but he’s building to something. Hutch is afraid to hear it, afraid he’ll be disappointed in it. But he’s impatient to know, too.

S: They just wanna… two men, like that, a lot of them they just wanna cuddle up on a couch in the evenings, and buy each other gifts for no reason, and meet each other’s families. They want to go out to dinner and say cheesy romantic stuff to each other in the candlelight, and then maybe they wanna go home and do stuff to each other in the bedroom that— that— I can’t really see the appeal of, but what business is that of mine or anybody else’s? And they can’t just do all the normal stuff the rest of us get to have because— it’s— how many times have you and I met up in the morning and talked about the dates we were on the night before? I tell you about some girl, how pretty she looked, how nice she smelled, whatever, we meet up and introduce each other to the gals we’re seeing, we hang out together, we have a good laugh. I just suddenly started thinkin’ that if John met someone he really liked and that made him feel special, he could never tell anybody in his whole life about it or they’d treat him like a monster. Me included, I woulda been— I wanna say I wouldn’t have turned my back on him but I would have been so fucking weirded out, Hutch, I know I woulda been.

H: It’s okay, you know, you don’t have to be some enlightened— you can’t control how you feel, you can’t control your gut reaction to something like that. You’re not wrong about it being a big deal, no casual thing. I wasn’t trying to make it seem like I think it doesn’t matter at all.

S: But it shouldn’t matter as much as it does, that’s my point!

H: Well that’s a bigger issue, isn’t it? You can’t control the way the world reacts, and that’s not— you don’t have to beat yourself up about that.

S: But I feel bad, you know, I feel— I never woulda said, what I said to that guy Whitelaw about keepin’ it private, not campaigning on it— to a woman, running for office about women’s rights, to a Black person campaigning on civil rights, I never woulda told them to keep their mouth shut and their head down and just mind their own business. Even if I don’t understand what they’re goin’ through, even if some of the stuff they talk about makes me feel weird or defensive or uncomfortable, I’m not blind to the fact that the world isn’t a fair place and that standing up and sayin’ something about it is— it’s brave. I admire it when people fight for justice, it’s why I do this goddamn job in the first place, ya know? But I said it to that guy because I wasn’t thinkin’ of it like— like it was a real thing, an all-encompassing thing. But it’s not a fluke, it’s, it’s a personal thing, a real thing, not just… some… some sexual aberration, you know. I just kept thinking why can’t these people keep their habits to themselves, hide away in the dark and play along with the rest of us normal folk in the daylight. I was thinking, when you come right down to it, that the correct response to bein’ gay is shame. That anybody who doesn’t agree to feel ashamed for it is just causing a mess, makin’ it harder on all of us. But that’s a rotten way to— I shouldn’t have thought of it like that.

H: I don’t think being gay is like having a weird hobby, Starsk. Some people don’t want to hide it, and why should they?

S: Yeah, I know. I see that now, I think that’s right. For some people, it must feel like— everything. Like maybe the most important thing about them, or at least as important as it is to me, with the women I date. Sometimes it is about sex, but that’s not the only thing about it, that’s not even the half of it. You know, Hutch, you’re right.

H: I usually am. About what, exactly?

S: Today, at work. I did flinch when you put your hand on my arm.

Stomach twisting, dread, a coppery taste of despair in the back of the throat.

H: I don’t know how to respond to that. I couldn’t— I don’t think I could stand it if—

S: It wasn’t for the reason you think.

And suddenly there is a hand on Hutch’s arms, gripping tight. Eye contact, sustaining and shining with an indefinable desperation. There’s no choice but to believe those eyes. Neither of them have had a single sip of their beers.

S: I swear, I swear. It wasn’t cuz I was afraid you were secretly tryin’ to put the moves on or— like I was disgusted by the idea that you might see me that way, it wasn’t anything to do with you. Or— well, that’s a cowardly lie, really, it’s everything to do with you but not how you must be thinking.

H: You’re twisting me up here, pal, I want— whatever it is that’s making you feel so goddamn guilty, I want you to let it go. It’s okay. Really, we’re okay, nothing has to change.

S: But I’ve changed, I can’t— unthink the thoughts I’ve been having. Maybe it’d be easier if I could, but…

H: Thoughts about…

S: Well, it’s like… I’ve been thinkin’ about how it was, with Terry…

H: You said that, yeah.

Starsky sets his beer down on the coffee table. Like he’s gearing up for something, like he needs both his hands free.

Or maybe he just sets his beer down.

S: About how much I loved her. What that felt like for me. How it… lived inside my body, that feeling, that love. How I experienced it. What it was actually like, what I valued about her and us together, why it mattered to me the way it did. And… and… when I think about finding someone and settling down, how I want it to feel, what I imagine it would be like. What I want outta life.

H: And that makes you think of John and Maggie? You thought they had that, but it was built on a lie.

S: Well, yeah, and more to the point, the fact that John couldn’t have the things I hope for. The things I’ve always planned on having. He wasn’t allowed. The world told him he wasn’t allowed to have something like that, and what bullshit is that, honestly? Just because it makes people feel uncomfortable, he never got to love someone out in the open?

H: Well I don’t wanna alarm you, Starsk, but that right there is pretty damn progressive of you.

S: I’m not even sure that it is. It’s not some selfless, do-gooder thought. It’s…

H: It’s what?

They’ve moved closer together. This happens to them, without intent. They orbit each other, they draw each other in. An attraction that neither has ever wanted to label, some sense of rightness whenever they’re close. They’ve never said so many words about something so serious and vulnerable and frightening, they’ve never been out on such a ledge; all these years of working together and they both thought there was nothing left to learn. Starsky’s knee brushes against Hutch’s, there angled towards each other on the couch, and neither pulls away.

H: It’s what, Starsk?

A clenched jaw, eyes darting down, away. Anxiety roiling in the space between their bodies.

S: So, you know how it is with a girl you really care about, right? You’ve been in love before. You, you meet someone and you like them, you wanna be around them all the time. Even if you’ve spent all day with ‘em, you’re excited to see them again the next day. You think about them when they’re not with you.

H: Sure, yeah.

Hutch is thinking of Gillian, those early giddy days. Even Vanessa, before things turned rotten.

S: They make you laugh, this person. And you make them laugh, and the sound of their laugh is your favorite sound in the whole world. When they’re having a bad day and you can get ‘em to smile anyway, you feel like you’ve won a million bucks. And you know that person, you learn everything about them. Stuff about their childhoods and their families and, and, what types of food they like best and their music and their passions and their hobbies, the things that scare them or frustrate them, you’re so happy to learn all that stuff, it’s genuinely interesting to you not because it’s actually interesting but just because it’s them, and they’re interesting to you, every little thing about them. And it’s not all fun and games, either. It’s not just that giddy new feeling where you wanna take them to bed and not leave all weekend, it’s deeper than that, it’s more. You learn— you learn the things about them that annoy you, all the not-perfect things. Like— like— like—

A stutter, a hesitation. Then, courage—

S: Like their insistence on driving around in a junker of a car when they could afford something better, and their disgusting breakfast shakes and how they always borrow your pens and never give them back, the mightier-than-thou tone they get when they’re sitting up on their high horse about somethin’ or other—

Oh god.

S: But even when you wanna wring their neck, it feels so good just to know a person like that, to know a person and be so comfortable with them that you know nothing either one of you could ever do would change things, not really. You’re forgiven before you’ve even done anything wrong, and you’d forgive them anything too, you— you work well, you’re a team. You can practically read their mind and yet you’re never bored, you’re never sick of hearing what they’ve got to say.

Oh god. This isn’t.

S: That’s what love, I mean, that’s what it is to be in love with someone, I think. In my wildest dreams, it’s everything I want it to be. When that person is sick or hurt you wanna take their pain away, you wanna take it on yourself because it hurts so damn bad to see them suffering, you care about them so much you’d do anything, you’d dive in front of a bullet, you’d throw your career away, you’d run yourself ragged to protect them, to keep them safe. No question. No doubt. Every fucking time. You wake up every morning excited about your life because that person is a part of it, and you get to see them, you get to spend your day with them, and damn, how did you get so lucky?

Oh… god. This is.

S: And if that— if that’s what love is, Hutch, if that’s how it is, then— how can I honestly look myself in the eye and tell myself I’ve ever felt half as much for any woman, as I feel for— I mean, if that’s what love is, for the past ten years, the person I’ve been in love with—

H: Starsk.

The name lands with a thud, harsh and loud. A shutdown. He can’t say it. He can’t be allowed to say it. Starsky doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he’s twisted himself in knots, but this is not real.

S: I’m being serious here. I’m trying to tell you—

H: We’re friends. We care about each other. A lot. You’re my favorite person in the world, and I love you, you know I do. None of that makes us queers, Starsk. If that’s what you’ve been twisting yourself up about, you don’t have to worry about that.

S: See, the thing is, Hutch, I’ve got friends. I know what friends are. You ‘n me are something else.

H: We’re best friends. We’ve been through a lot.

Not particularly convincing. The words ring hollow and light and almost embarrassingly trite in the air between them. Best friends. Partners. All and more. Me and thee.

S: Yeah, we’re best friends. ‘S how I’ve always thought of it. I’d give my life for yours in a heartbeat, and I know you’d do the same. I don’t know who I am without you by my side. Sometimes after a long day where I’ve been stuck in a car with you for twelve hours and I just about wanna kill ya by the time we get to go home, I get back to my place and I realize that I miss you already. I wanna call you, hear your voice. And I do, and then we go out for drinks just for the pleasure of talking to one another, because I’m your favorite person in the world too. I love you more than I love my own brother, I’d choose you to spend time with, over any other person in the world. That doesn’t make me a f— that doesn’t make me gay. I never once in all these years thought it did, it never even occurred to me.

H: So then what— why’ve got yourself twisted up in all this—

S: Look, it’s just this past week, the idea of it, of— it’s not a sex thing, I’m not sayin’ it is, or that I even know how to feel about all that. I’ve never in my whole life been out and about in the world and saw a man and thought about what it would be like to touch him, but— I think you’re beautiful, Hutch, I seriously think you’re beautiful. You’re not just… some guy, you’re not just some anonymous body, you’re you, and I think I love everything about you. When I thought I was gonna die when I was poisoned, when Vic Bellamy got at me, when all that went down, I remember how it felt t-to be held by— I just remember wishing you’d never stop. I know you, I watch the way you move, I trust your mind and I trust your body too, to move fast enough to protect me, to aim right when we’ve pulled our weapons against someone who’s trying to kill us, to be there, dependable and consistent. I like how you smell, because it’s you and it’s familiar and it’s safe, and I admire— god, this is— so weird to say. I don’t know how to do this. I’m sorry.

H: Don’t say sorry, Jesus, I… I mean… that’s a hell of a thing to lay on a guy, but I don’t want you to be sorry for it.

Starsky’s beautiful too, he’s so beautiful, but to say that is to break a rule so unspoken Hutch hasn’t let himself articulate it even inside his own mind, in years. Don’t think about it, don’t speak of it, don’t look at him too hard, for too long, don’t let him notice—

S: I flinched earlier today not because I didn’t want you to touch me, but because ever since I started thinkin’ about all this queer stuff, the second I accepted that maybe it wasn’t the end of the world to be different like that, it’s like this wall came crumbling down. I cannot stop thinking about what it would feel like to have you touch me like you wanted me. Like I would touch a woman I wanted to hold, wanted to take care of. And I’m not disgusted, thinking about that. I don’t understand it, not really, not yet, but I’m not— the thought does not disgust me.

A long, not so terrible silence. Anticipatory? Maybe. Hard to say.

S: It’s your turn to say something before I keel over dead. Please.

H: Finally run out of words, huh?

S: I’m runnin’ in circles up here in the noggin, it’s exhausting.

H: Well, your brain isn’t accustomed to so much exercise.

S: Ha, that’s nice, that’s real nice, mocking a guy who’s got his bloody heart held out in his hands, here.

H: I’m not mocking you.

A pause, a heartbeat, a flitting thought, a what if. Stillness.

S: I know you aren’t.

Hutch wants— fingers, brushing through hair. Palm cupped around the back of his neck. Nothing’s ever come after that before, nothing more has ever built from that companionable, safe, demonstration of affection.

Because neither of them has ever thought— Starsky doesn’t want that, and Hutch has buried his own wanting down so deep that it amounts to much the same thing. That’s still true, isn’t it? It has to be, or they have to get back to it being true, or everything will break.

H: Well. Starsk. Lack of disgust seems like a pretty small foundation to build on, if I’m honest.

S: But it’s not a small foundation at all, it’s everything, it’s all of it, you ‘n me! It’s not about the sex, that’s what I’ve been saying this whole time, it’s—

H: More than that, yeah. I hear you. I know, I know it’s more. But you’re a man, Starsky, I’m a man, both of us are red-blooded— damn it, you know what I’m saying. You just about told me you’re in love with—

S: You interrupted me. You didn’t let me tell you.

H: Maybe I think you deserve to hear it first.

S: Oh, Jeez. Really?

H: Yeah, moron. Really.

S: Interesting strategy for a love confession, calling me stupid.

H: I didn’t have a chance to write a script beforehand, you’re the one who kinda ambushed me with all of this.

S: I did, didn’t I?

H: I’m thinking it needed to be said, no matter the result.

S: Yeah. I kinda feel like I’m gonna die of not knowing what the hell’s gonna happen next, but I feel a hell of a lot better than I have since John died.

H: A weight off your shoulders.

S: Somethin’ like that.

H: Starsky.

S: Hutch.

H: I’m in love with you. Probably always have been, a little. I’m not sorry for it, and I’m happy to have you know it. But it also doesn’t have to mean anything changes from here, you understand? What we have with each other is already better than anything I’ve ever known, and I mean that.

S: Wow. Oh, wow.

H: Eloquent as always.

S: Shut up. That— that’s what I came over here for. Not to hear that from you, but to say it to you. I love you. I’m in love with you. I am, I really am. I have no idea what that means or what I want or any of the rest of it and the reason I’ve been acting all shifty past coupla weeks is because I was waiting for it all to make sense to me. I was waiting to be sure of something that I think it’s impossible to be sure about. I thought maybe you’d realized what had been on my mind and that’s why you were mad at me today, and I just thought, I can’t wait anymore, even if he doesn’t— even if he doesn’t want anything to do with me ever again I gotta tell him. I gotta know.

H: You thought I knew— and that I was mad at you for—

S: I didn’t know what to think. I’m in crisis, here.

H: I want to hold you for a second, okay? Just that, nothing else. I never thought to dream this would happen, you know?

S: Oh, Hutch.

They touch each other all the time. They’ve held each other before, everything from a companionable slap-on-the-back hug, to a tender, desperate embrace; Starsky is thinking about Hutch shivering through withdrawals, Hutch is thinking about Starsky’s body shutting down, flooded with an unknown poison. They are both thinking of a thousand times they’ve reached for one another, instinctive, their bodies extensions of one another’s, no boundaries, a hand clapped on a shoulder, a friendly whack on the back of the head, a knee nudged against a knee under a desk, a shared cup of coffee, stealing food off of each other’s plates.

This, actually, this, is the way they know how to talk to each other best.

To hold Starsky is to hold all of his brashness and bravery and idiosyncratic, undeniable brilliance; to be held by Starsky is to be held by his confident arms, to feel the crunch of his curls against the side of your head, the press of his broad chest, the steadiness of each and every breath.

To hold Hutch is to hold the wiry, trained strength of him, his body a sculpted thing beaten and stretched into shape, it’s to know the effort of the outcome; to be held by Hutch is to be held by the warmest, gentlest arms imaginable, the force of his normally contained, hidden tenderness radiating out of him like a heat signature.

They stay there on Hutch’s couch and they breathe until they fall into perfect rhythm with each other, steady and slow and lovely. There is heat, anticipation, fear, disbelief, joy, a frenetic energy, a million thoughts and questions about what this could mean, what might happen next, tomorrow, for the rest of time. There are all of those things, but mostly there is peace.

H: Hey.

S: Hey, yourself.

H: Our backs will seize up if we stay like this much longer. We aren’t as young as we used to be.

S: Mmm, speak for yourself, I’m as spry as ever.

But they pull apart, for now. Their bodies pull apart, but something new, yet another aspect of their unshakable bond, remains. Remains entwined in the air between them as they look at each other, mere inches separating their bodies.

S: What happens now?

H: Do you want— I was thinking maybe we could order pizza or something.

S: Pizza?

H: Never heard you say that word with so little enthusiasm.

S: Maybe it feels like a bit of an anticlimax.

H: Maybe you just got done telling me you’re not sure about your feelings, and I don’t wanna go from zero to sixty, here.

S: I’m sure about some things, Hutch. You know I’m sure about some things, yeah?

H: The most important things. I heard you.

S: Okay. So then you gotta at least let me kiss you. Just the once, even if— well, even if we decide it’s all a horrible idea after that.

H: Are you sure?

S: No. Didn’t we already establish that?

The laughter feels so nice. So natural, like somehow despite everything they’ve said to each other, nothing that’s actually important has changed. The laughter is nice, and Starsky’s hand coming up to cup around the back of Hutch’s neck is nice, and his lips are nice— soft and warm. And the sound Hutch makes, a quiet little hum, perfect contentment, is nice, and the faint scratch of a day’s worth of stubble on both of their faces is nice, and exciting, and different. It’s not much of a kiss, in that it lasts just a handful of seconds, and their bodies are held carefully apart, and neither of them has time to pull any fancy tricks, try anything real, anything that would escalate things. The kiss starts and it ends and it doesn’t really change anything at all, because everything’s already been decided.

H: Well?

S: It’s just you.

H: That it is.

S: And it’s just me. It’s just you ‘n me.

H: Yeah. I think so, Starsk.

S: Well, all right then.

They order pizza.

The rest is for another time.