If a man says half himself in the light, adroit
Way a tune shakes into equilibrium,
Or approximates to a note that never comes:
Says half himself in the way two pencil-lines
Flow to each other and softly separate,
In the resolute way plane lifts and leaps from plane:
Who knows what intimacies our eyes may shout,
What evident secrets daily foreheads flaunt,
What panes of glass conceal our beating hearts?
— A.S.J. Tessimond Betrayal (1934)
Hutch awoke on crumpled, sticky sheets, the smell of spunk and sweat crowding his nostrils. He lay lax, completely sated, so much so that he felt that curious post-coital joy that came over him sometimes, as if his body wanted to reward him for his efforts at procreating. Only, the poor little guys never did see the fruition of their dogged swimming, always coming smack up against the rubber boundaries of one contraceptive device or another. Hutch started to smile at the image, until the sudden memory of just who he had been doing last night finally flashed into his bliss-sogged brain.
Starsky. Oh, God.
The other side of the bed was empty, and Hutch's blood started pounding in outright panic, making his hangover scream bloody murder in his head.
"Starsk?" he called out, sensing as he did so that his partner was nowhere in the apartment. He must be long gone. Hutch confirmed it by stumbling out of bed and roaming the place, a sinking dread in his gut. No Starsky.
Hutch moaned and dropped onto the couch, the rough fabric scratching against bare skin. He put his head in his hands and tried to push away reality.
What have I done?
The night had started out innocently enough. It was his first week back after his illness. A case well-solved, a beer at The Pits, and then Starsky had befriended a stone fox named Sunny who wanted them to come to a party with her, 'So I'm not a loser without a date.' Starsky had humorously suggested that Hutch, as the third wheel, was the new loser, but Sunny's determined flirtation with both of them made it clear she had no problem being both their dates.
She'd been pretty cozy with them all night at the party, where the three of them drank too much of the free-flowing bounty of their host, some Hollywood wanna-be producer named Gearson. He seemed very impressed that they were real live, actual detective types, and except for a brief awkwardness when Hutch had walked in on Gearson and his couch bunny doing lines on the glass dining room table, the evening had gone pretty well. Hutch had laughed, and drank, and spent entirely too much time eyeing his partner, who was boogying with Sunny out on the deck.
Hutch didn't dance of course, but he was enjoying the opportunity it afforded him to watch Starsky unobserved. He was more turned on by the sight than he cared to admit. Hutch had known a guy or two who had caught his eye, but he'd never allowed himself to view Starsky like that. Starsky was too important. Better than a brother, for he had chosen Hutch, just as Hutch had chosen him.
But for some reason, lately he couldn't seem to take his eyes from the well-worn crotch of Starsky's jeans. Hutch looked away and drank some more of his scotch, only to feel his eyes drifting back again, as if pulled by a magnetic force.
What the fuck is wrong with me? He didn't imagine it was the alcohol, although it was hitting him pretty hard. He still hadn't recovered from the plague that had almost killed him, and found himself swaying like a flyweight who had taken a few punches too many. Hutch put the glass down and determinedly turned away from the enticing view of those pivoting hips and the concisely delineated bulge.
Maybe the plague was to blame for more than his inability to hold his liquor. Lying in that bed, out of his head with fever, unable to breathe, his only lifeline had been a pair of deep blue eyes above a paper mask, and two hands clutching his own tightly, easing the monster that was clawing at his chest. All games were off, in that moment, and Hutch hadn't had even a bad joke to throw at the eternal night rolling inexorably toward him. He had only that one man, the one who meant everything.
So when Sunny grabbed Starsky's hand and hauled him over to Hutch, saying she'd had it with this scene and could they go somewhere more private? Somewhere with a nice, soft, horizontal surface? Hutch smiled and, giving Starsky a challenging look, leaned down and kissed her, hard. Hutch wasn't sure what he saw in Starsky's face in the shadows of the candlelit deck, but Starsky nodded and called them another cab.
Sunny sat between them in the long back seat, chattering, of all things, about how great birth control pills were. Her talk was so incessant that at first Hutch didn't realize that Starsky was unusually subdued. Maybe he was tired. In the past three weeks, they'd been painting the town red. Hutch had been so damned glad to be alive, he'd wanted to experience everything, enjoy every opportunity for living that had nearly been stolen from him. And Starsky had been his enthusiastic conspirator in the project, lining up outings one after another: to restaurants they hadn't tried, to an ELO concert, and just the other night to some comedy club in town that did improvisational stuff that had the two of them clutching guts sore from laughter. And now tonight....
"This is it, driver, up here on the right," Hutch said as they cruised slowly down Ocean Avenue. Hutch felt an inner tremble of excitement at the possibilities of the evening ahead. He paid the cabbie and then helped Sunny out. Starsky came around the other side, his face a little serious.
It gave Hutch pause, and he spun his partner a questioning look. You not up for this?
But Starsky shot him a quick grin. "Last one upstairs has to sleep on the wet spot." They were all laughing as they bolted for the door, getting caught in a tangle of arms and legs as they all tried to go through at once. Hutch had the advantage of his longer legs on the stairway, but soon found he was too out of breath to continue the breakneck climb. He walked the last flight and found them both waiting at his apartment.
Starsky gave him a look of concern, but Hutch waved it off. He hated the reminder of his illness, and didn't want it to spoil the jubilant mood.
"After you," Hutch said to Sunny, waving her in the door. He gave Starsky a wicked grin and stepped in front of him, leaving him to close it behind them.
Sunny immediately walked over to his plants to ooh and ahh at the jungle of leaves spilling out over the long table by the greenhouse. Hutch went to the fridge and brought back a couple of beers for his guests.
Sunny cracked hers and spilled a little on her blouse as she took a sip. "Oops," she laughed. "Guess this shirt is a goner." She winked and slowly unbuttoned it, revealing a camisole underneath.
Hutch admired her figure. She had small, pert breasts that pushed at the lace, her erect pink nipples evident through the translucent fabric. She offered Hutch her shirt and he draped it on a kitchen chair, then took her shoulders in his hands and bent to kiss her. Her mouth tasted like beer, and something sweet she'd been munching on at the party. He smiled and took the kiss deeper, and Starsky came up behind her to slip his hands around her waist, his knuckles grazing over Hutch's belly.
Hutch's cock came alive, pushing at the zipper of his cords. Starsky pressed up behind Sunny until she was sandwiched tightly between them. She moaned against Hutch's lips and rocked her hips forward and back, giving them a delicious preview of the evening's plans.
Hutch lifted his lips from hers and met Starsky's eyes over her head. There was a breathless pause, and then the three of them were scrambling out of their clothing, laughing and teasing each other when hasty fingers fumbled with zippers and buttons.
Feeling a little dizzy, Hutch staggered, nude, over to the big brass bed and yanked down the covers. He felt Sunny's warm hands on his ass before they slid up his back.
"You're both so beautiful," she whispered. Hutch turned and caught her around the waist, spinning her until he released her onto the bed.
"You're next, buckaroo," Hutch said, and hulked in a cowboy walk over to Starsky, who had been the last to get undressed. The only disadvantage of too-tight jeans, Hutch thought. Starsky looked oddly unsettled as Hutch approached him, but then smiled and feinted, trying to dodge around him. Hutch managed to hook him around the waist, reveling in the feel of the taut flesh under the skin of his arm. Then he reeled him in and they both tumbled backward onto the bed, Sunny scrambling out of the way to make room.
Starsky landed across Hutch's abdomen, and the breath left him in a rush, suddenly provoking a coughing jag. His lungs weren't fully clear yet, and this uncontrollable coughing jazz was just something that happened on occasion. This time, already dizzy from the alcohol, the lack of air made him feel a little faint, and he collapsed back on the bed, still hacking.
"You okay, Blintz?" Starsky asked. The concern in his voice made Hutch force himself to stop the spasms, taking quick shallow breaths until the impulse left him.
"Fine. It's all good," Hutch said, then smiled apologetically to Sunny. "I've just gotten over a bad flu," he explained. He ignored the pained look on Starsky's face. "But don't worry, sweetheart, I'm not contagious."
"Why don't you lay back, tiger, and let the two of us do the work," Sunny offered sweetly, and she quickly straddled his waist, her soft ass pressing against his erection. Hutch groaned a little and set his hands on her hips. She leaned down and kissed him briefly, then reached back and grabbed Starsky's hand, pulling at him to join them.
Starsky moved to straddle Hutch's knees behind her, and then slipped his hands under her arms to cup her breasts, rolling the pink nipples between his fingers. Hutch pushed himself up on his arms to join his mouth to Starsky's fingers, his tongue slipping out to tease the captured buds. She moaned and started moving her hips, rubbing herself back and forth over Hutch's cock. Then she leaned down and lifted herself over him to sink down, down, enfolding him in her wet heat in one long, delicious slide.
"Ahhhh," Hutch moaned. His eyes opened a crack and he saw Starsky staring down at him as he carefully nibbled his way across her shoulders and neck, his hands still fondling her breasts. Hutch lifted his hand to where his cock met her flesh and massaged her clit, pressing it back gently to meet his shaft as she moved up and down on his cock.
"That's good, baby," she purred, and arched her back, tilting her head to join Starsky's mouth in a kiss. Hutch watched, his senses filled with pleasure: the feel of her around him, the sight of Starsky's mouth on hers, the smell of sex, heavy in the air, and the sounds of their flesh moving, slick and wet.
Sunny broke the kiss then whispered, "Wanna ride double?" Her green eyes were glowing. Hutch saw Starsky swallow and hesitate. Their eyes met, and for a long moment Hutch thought Starsky would balk.
But Starsky's eyes closed and he said, "Whatever you want, schweetheart," releasing her.
Sunny moaned in excitement and leaned down over Hutch, her knees spreading wide. Starsky climbed off of Hutch's legs and disappeared to the bathroom. He's getting something for lube, Hutch thought, and his balls tightened. He put his hands on her hips, stilling her, not wanting to blow prematurely. Sunny laughed breathlessly and moved to kiss him.
She gasped into his mouth a minute later when Starsky reappeared behind her, and Hutch knew Starsky was preparing her, making her ready for his cock. Hutch slid his hands down her back to just above her buttocks, wishing he could reach far enough to feel it as Starsky entered her.
But he felt it anyway, with his cock, and he moaned with pleasure as the pressure of Starsky's cockhead moving into her was transmitted to him, separated only by a finger's width of flesh. He thought his heart might stop. He thought it might be well worth it, just for this sensation.
The two started to move; at first, awkwardly, then finding the rhythm, an asynchronous slide of sensitive flesh against flesh. Every pass of Starsky's thick cockhead shivered through to Hutch's shaft, making him moan helplessly, wishing he could thrust, but knowing that would upset the delicate dance.
It was over far too soon. Sunny moaned high in her throat and Hutch felt her gentle spasms clutching at him. Starsky groaned and start to thrust harder while she stilled, still convulsing around Hutch's cock. Then Starsky thrust deep and sighed, a poignant sound of pure pleasure, and his half-slitted eyes met Hutch's.
The look finished him. Hutch's cried out and came hard, his eyes still on Starsky's, memorizing the sultry expression on his face as Hutch's cock pulsed inside Sunny's tender warmth.
Hutch was wasted. He kissed Sunny, his hand petting through her hair before dropping down to the bed. He closed his eyes and sighed. Sunny murmured something as Starsky slipped out of her, and then she was rising, climbing off of Hutch to go to the bathroom. Hutch opened his eyes but Starsky was gone, too. He heard their voices in the other room, and felt like a cad for not being a gentleman enough to get out of bed to see if she needed anything; but Starsky was there, he could take care of it.
Exhausted, Hutch closed his eyes again, feeling the mattress dip just as he was about to slip into sleep. "That was wonderful, sweetheart," he murmured, or thought he did. He felt an answering stroke on his arm, and then he was out.
Hutch awoke to the feel of gentle breath on his shoulder, and he turned automatically to slide his lips against the moist source. He tasted alcohol, and sleep, and something familiar he couldn't identify. His cock surged. The warm mouth moved against his lazily, and Hutch shifted to reach out and bury his hand in the silken hair brushing against his skin.
Only the hair was curly, and the mouth was Starsky's, and Hutch came to that abrupt realization at the exact moment that startled blue eyes opened and met his.
Hutch froze and pulled back. The fog in his head, in spite of the alcohol, was swiftly burning away at the look in those eyes.
"Starsk?" Hutch said, his voice thick with sleep.
Starsky closed his eyes and reached blindly for him, pulling his head back down. Hutch surrendered to the pull without a fight, with only one thought beating in his head, I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming. Starsky couldn't be kissing him, willingly, his mouth hard and avid against Hutch's. The only possible explanation was that Hutch was still asleep, enjoying one of the erotic dreams that had hounded him ever since the plague.
So he went with it, his eyes shut tight as he explored Starsky's mouth with his tongue, tasting his partner, his heart knocking a crazed tattoo against his ribcage.
Their lips parted and Starsky whispered, "Hutch."
Then it was real, for in his dreams, Starsky never spoke. Perhaps because Hutch's sleeping mind just couldn't imagine what Starsky would say. Never could he have guessed it would be Hutch's name, uttered with such desire, such aching need.
"Starsk. " Hutch recaptured his mouth and wrapped his arms around him, rolling on top of him to press his cock insistently against Starsky's side. Starsky slung a leg around his, shifting until their hard-ons were closely aligned.
"Please, please," Hutch begged, he wasn't sure for what. For Starsky not to stop this waking dream. Or maybe for it never to end. He thrust and Starsky moved beneath him, matching his driving rhythm, their cocks slippery with the heated perspiration coating their writhing bodies. Hutch recalled the feel of Starsky's cock against his, divided by Sunny's sweet wall of flesh, and thought how much better this was, with nothing between them but their own slick emissions. He reached under Starsky and took hold of his ass with both hands, pulling them together impossibly tighter, and thrust again and again, before moaning into Starsky's shoulder as he came.
He felt Starsky's mouth on his ear, then on his neck. He was whispering something, too low for Hutch to hear, and then Starsky's cock erupted between them to add to Hutch's offering. Hutch held Starsky strongly in his arms and rolled onto his side, taking him with him. He followed the line of Starsky's jaw to his lips and kissed him again in gratitude, in awed disbelief, planting small kisses on his lips and putting his hand on the side of Starsky's face. There was dampness there. Puzzled, he lifted his head, but Starsky's eyes were closed, his face slack.
Hutch kissed him again, a last gentle press of lips, knowing it was probably his last chance. Whatever had just happened could not be repeated. Hutch knew that. "Thank you," he whispered, and dropped his head against the pillow, staring at the beloved profile, snapshotting the moment in his heart. He watched as Starsky's breathing evened out, and then Hutch could no longer keep his eyes open. With a sigh, he fell back asleep.
After a hasty shower and shave, and an even hastier throwing on of his clothing, Hutch raced out to his car and drove over to Starsky's apartment at mach two. The daylight was harsh against his eyeballs as he stared in dismay at the empty parking space in front of Starsky's building. Then he saw a shadow of movement in the window, and remembered that the Torino was still parked at the Pits.
The panic that had gotten him here deserted him abruptly, leaving him exhausted and slightly nauseated. He climbed out of his car and walked slowly up the steps to Starsky's apartment. Now that he was here, and about to see his partner, he wondered what the hell he was going to say.
'Sorry I came onto you. I was drunk,' sure wouldn't cut it. Neither would, 'Ever since I was sick, I've developed an unnatural desire for your cock. I'm sure it's just a phase. Please ignore.'
But it didn't matter. He probably wouldn't have to say anything at all. Starsky probably had some choice words of his own that would take precedence. Hutch would just have to stand there and take it. He'd fucked up, big time.
Hutch bent his head and knocked.
At first, he thought he'd been hallucinating after all, and Starsky wasn't home. But then he heard a tired "Come in, Hutch," from inside.
Hutch turned the knob and entered slowly. Starsky was lying slouched on his sofa, one sneakered foot resting on the cushion, the other on the floor. His eyes were red and his hair a damp, messy tangle, as if straight from the shower. As always, he was wearing the too-tight jeans that had gotten Hutch into this trouble in the first place. Hutch looked down and waited.
"What is it, Blintz?" Starsky asked. He sounded utterly deflated. Hutch felt the guilt tear through him. I made him do that. All of that, last night...
Hutch swallowed thickly. "I just came to...to make sure you're okay."
Starsky shot him a glance, then his eyes veered away. "I'm fine. Why shouldn't I be?" He seemed to gather himself, "That was some night, huh? That Sunny is a real swinger."
Hutch closed his eyes. "Yeah, I guess we really put the cherry on top last night." He flushed when he realized what he'd just said. "I mean."
Starsky shrugged. "Look, Hutch, don't take this the wrong way, but I think I'd like to skip our usual Saturday morning thing. Had a little too much last night."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay," Hutch said heavily. He turned walked toward the door. His hand rose to take the knob. He stopped. A phrase ran through his mind, he couldn't remember the source. 'So shines a good deed in a weary world.' Hutch raised his head and pressed his hand against the door.
A grunt came in reply.
"Just so you know...what I--what happened, last night...I know you only did it for me. To help me...I guess, get over the post-plague blues. But I want you to know..." Hutch swallowed and ended hoarsely, "...it meant more to me than that."
He dropped his hand to the knob and was turning it when he heard Starsky's foot thump to the floor.
"What did you say?" Starsky's voice was strange, strangled.
"I said I know why you...you were so nice to me." Hutch tongue twisted on the euphemism.
"Not that. The other part," Starsky said urgently.
Hutch put his hand over his eyes and dropped his head. "I guess, a confession. Why I got so hot for that troy idea. Why I made you...do what you wouldn't think of doing, normally." Hutch felt the heat rise on his neck as he confessed, "Ever since I got sick I've been...thinking about it. About...you."
He waited, his back burning as if Starsky were staring holes through it.
"Hutch," Starsky said quietly, "turn around."
Hutch shook his head.
"Please, Hutch, I need to see your face."
The 'please' was what got him. Starsky didn't say it, never to him. They didn't need amenities between them. What one asked for, the other gave. So Hutch turned, even though he was certain that the entirety of his foolish, hopeless need was tattooed on his face in giant red letters.
Starsky peered at him, staring closely at Hutch's face as if looking at a crime scene, as if poring over clues not evident to the untrained eye. And then, slowly, hesitantly, he smiled.
Hutch caught his breath.
"Why didn't you say so?" Starsky asked softly.
"S-say?" Hutch stuttered in disbelief at the possibility implicit in that smile.
Starsky didn't answer directly, but approached Hutch, a prowl in his slow step.
"Last night, Hutch. When I was...going into her, I looked down at you and you know what I was thinking?"
Hutch swallowed and shook his head. He really had no idea, which was unusual for him.
"I was thinking...imagining, 'This is Hutch. I'm fucking Hutch.'"
Hutch closed his eyes to shut out the room that was suddenly spinning around him. But that only let him see more clearly the image that Starsky's words painted. Hutch's insatiable cock rose in his pants.
"You want...want that? From me?" he whispered.
"Hell, yeah. Don't you? From me?" Starsky's voice came from close before him, and Hutch opened his eyes to find Starsky just inches away. The heat and smell of him rose to greet Hutch, and his mouth watered.
"Ever since you were sick, it's all I can think about. For weeks now." Starsky's voice dropped. "That's why I suggested it to Sunny. That we do a threesome."
"You? You suggested it to her?" Hutch asked, disbelieving.
"Yeah." Starsky looked embarrassed.
Hutch's heart fluttered like a bird taking startled flight. "So maybe we should cut out the middle man." He put his hand on Starsky's cheek, tilting his head up. Starsky's eyes met his, and Hutch read it all through those clear, deep blue panes. Jesus God. He loves me.
Starsky's hands rose to his shoulders, and then, dreamlike, Hutch lowered his head for a kiss. With a few inches of tilt, his lips were on Starsky's, his arms reaching around to grab him tightly. He squeezed the muscular body so hard that Starsky's breath escaped him, puffing into Hutch's mouth. Hutch lifted his lips, threw back his head and laughed with relief.
"What's so damned funny," Starsky said grumpily, but there was a smile in his voice.
"And here I thought you were just doing a good deed," Hutch explained with a rueful smile.
Starsky snorted. "Then you better not let it go unpunished." He pulled out of Hutch's embrace and grabbed him by the elbow.
"Too kinky. Think we can start out simpler?" Hutch asked as Starsky dragged him determinedly toward the bedroom.
"What did you have in mind?" He pushed Hutch backward gently until he tumbled onto the bed.
"'One good turn deserving another,'" Hutch replied as he pulled Starsky down to join him.
"And another...and another...and another."
San Francisco, CA