Beloved

It’s deathfic, so don’t read if you can’t handle it. Make sure you have lots of tissues.

Inspired by the song “Beloved” by Mumford & Sons.

In the morning they wake to golden light streaming through the windows and hold each other in bed, smiling as they remember the night before. The gentle kisses, the soft caresses, the feeling of ecstasy as they made love and called out each other’s names in the darkness.

Then, mundane realities bring them back down to earth as they suddenly realize what time it is. They’re supposed to be on duty in a little more than an hour.

“I’m gonna go for a quick run before I take a shower,” Hutch says as he kisses Starsky’s forehead and ruffles his thick dark hair.

“Okay, guess I’ll jump in the shower now,” Starsky answers as he kisses him back.

Hutch walks past the sofa, then turns and asks, “Need anything while I’m gone, partner?”

“Get me a bagel or somethin’?” Starsky responds.

“Sure thing, buddy,” Hutch answers as he walks out the door.

*****

Starsky is in the shower when he suddenly feels a cold shiver undulate throughout his body as he hears Hutch’s voice call out his name. “Starsk!”

He pulls open the curtain and peers into the bathroom. “Hutch?” he yells, wondering if he has come back for something. But there is no response.

He turns off the water, dries himself, and steps out into the living room. The apartment is empty. He quickly gets dressed and goes over to the window. It’s foggy outside. That’s strange, it was supposed to be 80 degrees and sunny today. Suddenly, he hears the distant sound of police sirens and the wail of an ambulance.

He spins around and runs towards the door and down the stairs. Something is wrong, something has happened to Hutch. He doesn’t know what, or how he knows it, but he can feel it in his gut.

When he gets to the street, something tells him to head west, and he instinctively runs towards the alley two blocks away. It’s there that he spots Hutch through the fog, slumped against the graffiti-covered concrete wall in a heap.

“Huuutch!” Starsky yells, fearing the worst, his heart beating so quickly that he can feel it pounding in his ears. When he reaches him, Hutch is barely conscious and blood is pouring out of the wound in his chest. What the hell? Has he been shot? What the fuck happened?

The wail of the ambulance gets louder, closer. Starsky kneels beside Hutch and gathers him in his arms, leans his head against his partner’s. “I’m here, I’m right here. It’s okay.”

Frantic now, his heart about to beat its way out of his chest. The pounding in his ears almost drowning out everything else; the sounds of the world receding until there is nothing but the vacuum of silence in a vast universe. Hutch looking up at him, looking into him, blue eyes open, gasping for breath.

Suddenly Starsky feels the cold shiver again. “I love you, Hutch,” he says through trembling lips as his partner’s eyes close and his body sags in Starsky’s arms. Jesus Christ, this can’t be happening, this can’t be real. Goddammit! This isn’t supposed to happen!

Starsky has never told Hutch he loves him. Not in words, anyway. He’s told him countless times in countless other ways: in actions, touches, looks. But he’s never said the words before.

Then tears, so many tears. Flowing fast and free. Shaking. “No!” Starsky says, but does he say it out loud or only in his mind? The ambulance races down the alley, stops; the paramedics get out, rush to his partner’s aid, too late, too late, he’s gone. Did you know the victim? Did you see who stabbed him? Blur and confusion. Stabbed? Starsky hadn’t even noticed the knife that is laying on the ground, carelessly discarded by the perpetrator. Beside it, some bagels have spilled out of a paper bag and lie scattered on the dirty asphalt ground.

“I saw a junkie run that way.” Whose voice is that? Starsky wonders. He can’t see through the tears. A witness is talking to the two uniformed police officers standing nearby. Another officer gently tries to tell Starsky to let go, let go of the victim, the paramedics need to put him on the stretcher and load him into the ambulance.

Unfamiliar hands grasp his arm, trying to pull him up, but he holds onto his partner and refuses to let go. He’s not thinking, not making conscious decisions, everything is too surreal. “My partner, he’s my partner.” “Let him ride in the ambulance with his partner, we’ll question him at the medical examiner’s office.”

*****

Nothing is making sense. They want Starsky to say goodbye. Why would he say goodbye? He and Hutch should be in the hospital and the doctors should be wheeling Hutch into the operating room. What is this place and why isn’t Hutch in surgery? Suddenly Dobey is there, his hand on Starsky’s shoulder. Telling Starsky he’s sorry. Tears. Why is Dobey crying? Starsky has never seen him cry. “He’s gone, son. I’m gonna call Huggy to come here and drive you home.”

He’s back at the apartment now and Huggy is there but Hutch is not. Hutch is gone. He’s not coming back. That’s what Huggy keeps trying to tell him. “It’s late, Huggy, you should go home. I’m gonna get some sleep, I just wanna sleep. Maybe things will make sense in the morning. I just wanna go to sleep so I can wake up from this terrible dream.”

But when morning comes, there’s no relief, no escaping from the reality, from the FINALITY, of the situation. He opens his eyes, rubs them, but they’re almost swollen shut. What happened to my eyes? Oh. It’s from all the crying. He remembers holding Hutch in the alley and looking into his partner’s beautiful blue eyes. Seeing the love within them. Then seeing them close. And as if his eyes aren’t swollen enough, the tears come again.

The next few days are a blur. Dobey calls Hutch’s parents. The three men fly to Duluth for the funeral. Hutch is buried in the family plot next to his grandfather.

*****

All he can see is the murky darkness all around him. Fog. There are blurred figures everywhere, floating, confused. No one seems to know where they are. It’s cold here, he thinks, and despite the ghostly figures, it’s strangely empty. Whispers, the voices all sound like whispers but he can’t make out what they’re saying. Then, a light and something, SOMEONE, approaching him. The light seems to beckon to him. It envelops him with its warmth, comforting him. He realizes it’s his grandfather. The light obscures the face and body but he knows who it is.

Grandfather!

Ken, the light answers. Come with me, Ken. We can be together now. I’ve missed you, my boy.

No, he answers. I’m sorry, Grandfather. I’ve gotta find Starsky. He’s my partner. I love him.

He’s not here Ken. He’s not with us, yet. For now, won’t you come with me?

No! he yells and backs away from the light. I need to find him. He looks down and sees Starsky in the alleyway. There’s a slight haze between them, but he can see his partner. Starsk! he yells, but Starsky does not look up. Starsky is clinging to a body, his body, while a police officer gently takes hold of his arm and tries to pull him away. Starsky! he yells again, but it’s no good. Starsky cannot hear him.

Ken, the light says, beckoning to him again. It feels so warm, so reassuring. He wants to be enveloped by it. It’s been so long since he’s seen his grandfather and he’s tempted to go with him. He’s missed him so. But he makes his decision. No, I’m staying here. I’m staying with Starsky.

The light understands and begins to recede. It leaves him be.

Time passes in ways that he does not fully comprehend. Now he sees Starsky lying in the bed. It’s dark outside. There’s a full moon and the sky is filled with an array of twinkling stars. He notices that Starsky is clutching something. What is that? He bends down to take a closer look and sees that it’s his green t-shirt. The one with the pocket. It’s the shirt he’s worn for years, a bit worn and faded now.

His partner is holding it close, brushing it against his face, inhaling its scent. I wore that shirt last Tuesday, he remembers. Starsky must have taken it out of the laundry hamper. It smells of blue eyes and blonde hair, of silky skin and soothing voice. Starsky is shivering now. Is he cold? No, he’s sobbing.

Starsk!, Hutch cries out. It’s okay, babe!, he tries to reassure him, but Starsky cannot hear him. Starsk! he yells, desperately now. But still no acknowledgement from his partner. Frustrated, he cries out his partner’s name once more into the murky darkness. This causes the wandering figures to briefly cease their whispering, stop and turn towards him, tilting their heads towards the direction of the echoing scream. Then they begin to whisper again and continue on their confused journey.

Blurriness all around him, Starsky fading in and out. Just emptiness and cold now.

Daytime. Where am I? Suddenly he recognizes the place. It’s the cemetery where they buried his grandfather all those years ago. Duluth? He sees his mom and dad. His sister. The minister from his parents’ church. Long ago neighbors. Starsky is there, too. Huggy. Dobey. Why are they in Duluth? It’s a funeral. Who’s funeral? Oh. I remember now. Shit.

*****

Each day, Starsky goes through the motions. First, he wakes up clutching Hutch’s green t-shirt. Then he makes a pot of coffee, strong, too strong, but he doesn’t care. He drinks three cups in a row, black. It tastes like mud, but he drinks it anyway. He showers, gets dressed. None of it means anything to him. He just needs to get through the day, that’s what everyone has told him. Just get through each day, one day at a time. He does that, but wonders what the point of it all is.

He wishes he could see a glimpse of his partner, hear his voice, sense his touch. Like in the movies. But there is nothing. He wills himself to see, to hear, to feel. But it’s no good.

Daytime. He looks up at the clouds, hoping to see Hutch’s likeness there. But all he sees are clouds.

Nighttime. He looks up at the moon and the twinkling stars. Can he see a message in their twinkling? Discouraged, he goes back inside.

*****

The blurred figures move all around him, coming, going, circling, moaning, whispering, leaving. It’s so cold and lonely here, but he will not leave. He watches as Starsky gets in the striped tomato and notices how tired he seems. There is no jauntiness in his step. No joy when he gets behind the wheel anymore.

If only he could reach out his hand through the haze and touch Starsky’s shoulder. He tries to, just as he has tried countless times before, since the day he arrived here. How many times has it been? How many days or weeks have I been here? Or has it been months? Perhaps years? He does not know. He has no concept of passing time. And he cannot tell from looking down at his partner’s face, to see if he’s gotten older and sprouted lines, because of the slight haze that always separates them.

Every now and then, he thinks about his grandfather, and how warm and comforting it must be where he is. But he does not want to leave. He would rather stay here in the cold and empty vastness, where he can look down upon his lover, than join the others in the light.

He wishes he could find some way for Starsky to hear his voice or feel his touch. Some way for Starsky to know that he’s still here. That Starsky’s not alone. He’s determined that somehow he will find a way.

*****

Starsky spreads jelly on a piece of toast and wills himself to see Hutch’s image in it. He thinks, some people have claimed to have seen the face of Jesus in their toast. But all he can see is a mass of grape jelly. Then he hears Hutch’s voice, “It’s boysenberry jelly,” and he looks up, startled. Hutch?, he calls out, but all he hears in return is the whisper of the wind. The voice was in his mind. The voice is just a memory.

He drives his Torino to Metro. He drives his Torino to the Pits. To the gas station. To interview a witness. But it’s just something he does because he has to. There is no enjoyment in it anymore. “It’s red.” Indignant, “It’s candy apple red.”

Hutch is not here anymore to engage in playful banter with him. He will never say another insulting thing about the Torino. Starsky thinks, What if I heard Hutch’s voice right now? Calling to me. But he hears nothing except the sound of his memories, which are slowly becoming more distant and fuzzy with each passing day.

He doesn’t want to ever forget his partner’s voice, so he plays the memories over and over again in his mind. He suddenly wishes he had written down every word that Hutch had ever uttered. How he wishes he had sketched a drawing of every smile, every flash of those blue eyes!

“Oh, come on, Starsk!” Angry, punching the wall. “Now that’s the Hutch I know.” Hutch laying his head against his chest as he blocks the door, humbling himself, silently asking Starsky for forgiveness.

Ranting about Zebra Threes and Ten Fours. Since Hutch has been gone, whenever Starsky hears the disembodied sound of “Zebra Three” coming from the radio, he barely has the energy to reach over and pick up the receiver. Instead, he has to suppress the urge to yank it out and throw it out the window.

Then one day, a new partner. And then another, when the previous one is pushed away, unwanted. Partner. He despises the very sound of it. That word is reserved for what he had with Hutch. No one else deserves the honor. He decides he no longer wants to be called Zebra Three. That belonged to Hutch and him, no one else. The department retires the call sign. They will not issue it to another pair. Now he’s Ocean 8, and he hates it, but at the same time, he decides that he doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care about anything except Hutch.

He remembers Hutch holding him in the alleyway after he was injected with poison all those years ago. “Oh god, Hutch, it hurts.” “It’s okay, buddy, I’m right here.” He would never let another partner, another person, hold him like that. He has never felt comfortable showing that vulnerability to anyone except Hutch. And he never will.

He remembers their first kiss. He remembers the first time they made love.

Starsky turns on the TV. An old black and white movie is playing. It’s a ghost story, he soon realizes.

Why can’t life be like the movies? he implores. He would give anything to see a glimpse of Hutch’s face behind him in the mirror, or hear his voice calling him in the dark from beyond the grave. The grave. He hisses at the thought. If he could only feel the touch of Hutch’s hand on his shoulder. But there is nothing.

Some days he thinks he can feel a chill in the air, but dismisses it as being his imagination.

*****

One day as Hutch watches Starsky in the shower, he bends down through the haze, places his hand against the condensation on the mirror and is astonished to see a handprint there. How? he wonders. He says Starsky’s name and fog comes out, his breath. Starsky sees the handprint, places his hand over it, calls out Hutch’s name, but does not see him.

But now Hutch knows what to do.

*****

Starsky feels a chill in the shower and turns the water up hotter. It fogs up the room even more. Suddenly, he hears his name through the fog and pulls back the curtain. But there is no one there. Then he looks at the fogged up mirror and sees a handprint. He stares at it, trying to blink it away. Is it real? He walks over to the mirror, water dripping across the floor, and places his hand against the ghostly image. It’s slightly wider than his own, the fingers a bit longer. Just like Hutch’s hand. As he ponders this, the handprint starts to slowly fade away, as does the fog.

Hutch? he calls out, but there is no answer.

*****

Every day, in what seems like an endless march of days that are all the same, Hutch watches Starsky in the shower, breathes his partner’s name, and places his hand against the mirror. And every day in return, Starsky turns the water as hot as he can stand it. Then he pulls back the curtain, walks over to the mirror, and places his hand over the handprint until it fades away.

*****

The endless days turn into weeks and then months. Months become years. Then one day, an older, wearier Starsky decides it’s finally time. When he opens his eyes, he finds himself in a strange and empty place where everything is murky and dark. He’s scared, cold, and alone. He looks down and sees his Torino far below, behind a slight haze, but where is Hutch? He can’t see him. He thought he’d be able to find him here. “Huuutch!” he yells, despairingly. He sees figures all around him, moving, whispering, turning to stare at him, but he doesn’t know who they are or what they’re saying.

Suddenly, one of the figures approaches. “Starsk.” That voice. After all these years, he hasn’t forgotten the sound of it. The figure emerges through the murkiness. It’s his blonde beauty, standing in front of him. A gasp escapes him as Hutch embraces him. They hold onto each other tightly for what seems an eternity.

Then they slowly turn and walk together towards the light, arms wrapped around each other.

Me and thee. Forever.