First

“It all becomes one.”

When had he realized he loved Starsky? 10? 20? 30 years ago? Sometimes he believed it had been from the instant they met. Sheepish grins across a crowded room, as they shuffled feet and bags and waited for something to happen. But he knew that couldn’t be it. Not really. He remembers the first glimpse. Tight jeans and down at heel sneakers. A well worn kit bag and dark hair cropped close to his head suggesting a man with army experience, as did the taut, wary stance. A stance that seemed at odds with the open look on his face, but revealed more than the wide smile did.

And the fact Hutch remembers all that so intensely, that Starsky made such an impression proves to him that a connection was made; but realistically it couldn’t have been love. Not then.

And not later, when they lay across from each other on dorm beds, discussing the day’s assignments and the night’s assignations. Not when they spotted for each other at the gym or supported each other with exam revision.

By the time they graduated? Stiff, embarrassed and proud in tight new blues. Shoulders back, chest out – strutting with exhilaration and achievement. Clasping hands in congratulation and celebration, faces split by wide grins and weary exhaustion. He’d felt the first stirrings then perhaps. He had wanted to hold Starsky in an embrace that didn’t end; wanted to find some way to share the glorious happiness that buzzed through his veins, the sheer unadulterated optimism that he could never remember feeling before. A buzz that he felt vibrating in Starsky bones when they hugged. A hug that lasted longer than any he had known.

He knew he loved then. Felt the sharp prickle of it in his heart. But it was so different to his emotions for Vanessa, for family, for anyone else, that he knew it to be pure, free and innocent. Love without burden, barrier or baggage.

And then came work, and struggle and conflict and divorce and death. And the sparkly bright ring of emotion became, not tarnished, not dulled but burnished with the patina of wear. Layer after layer of experience, trust. Comfort.

With Starsky there was security and safety. An impermeable shield.

Did he know then? He thinks so. Sometime between the beginning of days and the dusky twilight he’d realized that love could take many forms and for a while the ring became a trap; scary and dangerous.

He’d reach out to touch a drunken Starsky and want to hold. Want to turn a casual tummy pat into a slow caress. Wanted to burn with passion. To spread the heat across Starsky’s body. Fought images of tumbling, tussling arms and legs locked, entwined. Dancing tongues. Wanted to devour Starsky and surrender himself to the fire.

He’d been afraid then. Distant. Angry. Judging Starsky, his life, his loves, his ladies.

Pushing. Testing. Hurting.

The day a bullet tried to shatter all is when Hutch realized that the band had stretched and molded and renewed itself. When he realized that his love didn’t have to be frightening. That he could fold himself around it. Pad it and support it and allow it to do the same for him. Knew he could love Starsky without loving him. Knew that it was enough to gaze upon his face, to laugh and push and tease and play and live. He didn’t need to kiss and caress.

So why now? A lifetime passed, years containing marriage and children; loss and laughter; stupid day to day glory and glorious day to day stupidity. Why today, did he gaze across at a blank faced Starsky and, reaching out an arm to console instead caress a cheek? Why does the hand that should pat a shoulder allow a thumb to wipe away a tear? Why does the embrace that should see forehead touch forehead instead tilt to see lips meet lips? Why does the juddering inhalation of air feel as if he’s breathing for the first time in 30 years? How can he share a first kiss at the age of 64? How can it have taken so long?

And eyes. Cold blue eyes that look into his aren’t angry or repulsed, aren’t scared or confused; just saddened.

So long.

A whisper: So long.

A heart beat. A heart break. Then lips are murmuring against his own.

And it isn’t the passion of imagined years, warmth and rising blood. It isn’t heat and scalding. Isn’t holding and stroking and touching and fire.

It’s a swelling that starts within and expands and grows until it consumes all. A heavy, brassy glow. Pushing in and pushing out. A light that flares to fill every shadow, every hollow in a golden haze. Harsh and brilliant intensity that illuminates every corner, enlightens every question.

A light that will fill his bones for eternity. A shelter and a home. An honesty and trust and a sorrow for missed opportunities that is soothed as it arises. This could have been forever yet it is infinity.

White. Bright. Alive.

A second is all it took. Or 30 years. A moment. Today. Tomorrow.

It all becomes one.

The end.