The Ides of August—1987

Saturday is cleaning day for Starsky and Hutch but Hutch finds a way to distract Starsky from the job at hand.

Originally published in the zine Turned to Fire in 1994.

The prequel to this story is The Ides of August—1986.

The lamp, the dock, the Kleenex, the book, the mashed tube of KY—everything off the nightstand and onto the bed. Spray the polish—fake lemon scent—rub the cloth all over the top, the sides, the legs, all the damn scrollwork. He hated cleaning. There wasn’t really a point to it; it’d just get dirty again. But he had to do his fair share, he supposed. It could have been worse: Starsky’d agreed to do the bathrooms and kitchen.

“Goddamned spring cleaning.” Well, not exactly spring cleaning; somehow, they’d been too busy for a real spring cleaning. Mid-August, more like an early fall cleaning. Too blessed hot to be doing this—even if the air conditioner was going full blast. Everything back onto the table. “Christ. He’s even got me dusting the damn KY.”

He gazed at the brass bed with naked loathing, while thoughts of pouring the brass polish down a certain throat formed joyous pictures for his mind’s eye. If he took long enough with the rest of the room, maybe Starsky’d finish up downstairs and come give him a hand with the bed. He rolled across the mattress. He’d even been instructed to flip it over. Christ, where does Starsky get his ideas for proper housecleaning?

Now the collection of items on Starsky’s night table. Picking up the stuffed lion there, he shook the dust off it with more vigor than was strictly necessary. “What a waste of a Saturday. Shit, Merlin, I can definitely think of better things to do with our time.”

“One of the first signs, you know.” An amused drawl from the doorway froze him in the act of smoothing the chocolate brown mane. He whipped the toy behind his back. The manic Mr. Clean stood there. He was dressed to kill in a pair of cutoffs, so threadbare Hutch could almost make out the tan line. Actually, they were split almost to the waistband along the outer seams, so the tan line from his bikini swim suit was visible. The thin white t-shirt was plastered to his body by sweat. Decided invitation there.

“Sorry, Starsk, you’re a bit late. I must be certifiable to cohabit with an obsessive-compulsive house cleaner such as yourself.”

“Obsessive, am I?” Starsky shouldered closed the door and dropped their big gray tabby cat. “Compulsive, am I? Well, I was going to give you a hand while the floors dried, but that might appear a little obsessive.” He settled into the cane- backed chair. “So, I guess I’ll just put my feet up for a bit, and supervise.”

Hutch launched Merlin at his partner’s face, but the victim flung up an arm, deflecting the projectile. His laughter rang out, taunting Hutch. “Gonna have to do better than that, lover.”

Hutch bared his teeth mirthlessly at the disgustingly cheerful figure, turning back to his furniture polish, determined to ignore the deliberately flaunted body in the chair. Eyes blind to the satin smoothness of the wood beneath his hands, he saw only the left-side bulge beneath the faded blue, the intriguing dark gap between cloth and tanned inner thigh. He shifted where he sat on the bed, feeling his cock stir inside the nylon jogging shorts that were the only piece of clothing he’d bothered with that morning.

Starsky’s irritatingly aimless whistling cut off abruptly. “Hey! C.D., stop it! Leave him alone.”

Hutch turned to see that Captain Dobey, their cat, had moved his bulk in an attempt to disembowel the hapless toy.

“Damn it, C.D., drop it!” Starsky yelled. As usual C.D. paid him no attention, continuing to maul the lion. Starsky rose to snatch his stuffed animal from the clutches of their overly stuffed feline. Cradling the slightly worse-for-wear lion to his chest, Starsky admonished the affronted tabby. “How many times do I have to tell you: leave Merlin alone. Why can’t you play with your Christmas mice?” Coming to stand by the bed, he turned his ire on Hutch. “What’d you mean throwing Merlin on the floor, anyway?! You gave him to me in the first place; can’t you treat my possessions with a little respect?”

Quietly replacing everything on Starsky’s nightstand, Hutch waited for his partner to step a little closer. The tone of the complaints told him they were merely a distraction—the rising bulk within the cutoffs was evidence of another intent.

“…Asked you time and again not to slam my car doors, but do you…” Cutting off in mid-sentence, obviously trying for the advantage of surprise, Starsky came flying towards him, and the wrestling match was on.

Using his superior weight, Hutch eventually managed to pin his opponent. Straddling the slim hips, he tilted his own pelvis forward, letting their stirring cocks communicate through the layers of clothing. He watched Starsky’s eyes close, felt the teasing hips press upwards.

The pressure sent hot streaks of pleasure through his legs, and up his spine. He abandoned his crouch to settle his full weight on his lover. Together, they found that perfect place where Starsky’s hipbones fit between his own. The side-by-side swell of their cocks was trying to lift him off the heated body beneath him. He released the captive wrists, and dragged the superfluous t-shirt off over the curly head.

With the pesky shirt out of the way, he bent his head to a dusky nipple. Springy chest hair tickled his nose as he swirled the tip of his tongue about the knob of erectile tissue. Frantic hands pulled at his back, as Starsky broke the impassioned silence. “Jesus, Blondie. Kiss me, please, lover. Now!”

As he lifted his head to obey, trembling hands grasped his face, guiding where no guidance was needed; Starsky drew him as a salmon to its spawning ground. The hands on his head smelled faintly of floor wax, and as his hands rose to mirror his partner’s, to sink into the warm ringlets, he thought vaguely his own must smell of Lemon Pledge.

Their mouths fastened inevitably together. Against his chest he could feel Starsky’s breathing: ragged and uncontrolled. Passion overtook them, merciless, ruling bodies and minds. Tongues twined, attempting to grip one another impossibly. Starsky’s hands had abandoned his head to knead his buttocks, moving to yank on the slippery nylon covering. Suddenly, there was nothing more he wanted than to bury himself in the secret heat of this dark prince’s body.

An insistent push from Starsky sent them rolling across the bed, knocking Merlin to the floor in the process. Merlin’s protector seemed oblivious to this in his concentration on removing the offending nylon. Hutch let his partner pull free of their kiss, raising up to assist in the removal of barriers.

Starsky was kneeling up to reach for the tube of lubricant and Hutch couldn’t resist slipping his hands up the tattered legs of the cutoffs, following the sweet indentation of the satiny flanks, to press all ten fingers deep into the rich cushion of muscle. Squeeze and release, ease apart and press together. Starsky unfastened the denims, the whir of the zipper loud in Hutch’s ear. Granted more freedom, he slipped his hands deeper. Trembling with the effort of leashing his strength, of holding back his orgasm, he sought the volcanic heat emanating from the valley. Fingertips hooking over the edge, he felt the powerful muscles clench, holding him in place.

Starsky’s hands gripped his shoulders, and Hutch felt his fingers released from the focus of their desire.

“Hutch.” A strangled gasp. “Open for me. I’ve gotta get inside you. Now.”

Hutch froze in the act of lowering the cutoffs, panicked gaze meeting his partner’s.

“Oh shit!” the desire in his

The sharp expletive rang in Hutch’s ears; Starsky must have read eyes. It wasn’t often that they crossed purposes in bed this way.

They had no accepted course of action for this situation. Hutch wasn’t certain which of them was more desperate. The moment stretched endlessly, each locked in their too-similar desire. He fought his body, forcing it to agree with his heart, and bend to Starsky’s wishes. But even as he reached for the KY, Starsky forestalled him, moving, discarding the shorts.

With shaking hands, Starsky slathered the lubricant on his partner’s erection. The cool gel coating his shaft did nothing to bank the flames of Hutch’s desire and with a sigh of grateful relief, Hutch accepted the squirt of gel in his palm, spreading the slippery stuff thoroughly around and into his lover’s anus. Satisfied, he rose to his knees, looking into the fevered eyes. “Want you now, Starsk… babe.” He reached to lower the other man onto his back

“No.”

The terse negative halted him. Had Starsky regretted his unselfish action? Shit. Hutch didn’t know if he could…

“Lie down,” Starsky ordered. “I’ll get on you.”

“Sure, love.” Hutch subsided, shifting his hips nearer the center of the bed, bending his knees, planting his feet. “You lead.” He could feel the KY run like sweat down into his pubic hair as it melted in the heat of his flesh.

They linked hands, fingers plaited—Starsky using the hold for support and balance as he positioned himself over his partner. Lower back braced on Hutch’s thighs, Starsky paused. Hutch gritted his teeth, longing for the possession, then felt his right hand drawn to his cock. Together, they guided the sword to its sheath, sliding it between fingers into a tighter grip of muscle.

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, they joined together. Their eyes locked, and it no longer mattered that Hutch had entered Starsky’s body, for it was as though they shared the same flesh. Hutch was as much possessed as possessor. They moved together, all of their muscles straining together in a rhythm unique to this joining. Hutch found himself breathing in cadence with the man above him. Felt the strain in his legs and the aching fullness within for himself. That the climax should shatter them as one was no surprise; it was as inevitable as the matched beat of their hearts.

Their semen splashed their chests and bellies, and flowed hotly between them. Their clasped hands gripped too tightly, displacing bones and biting flesh with matching gold bands. Their cheeks grew damp with salty tears as they were swept up into a dance of the heavens.

When the darkness lifted, Hutch was alone in his body; Starsky sat bonelessly slumped above him. Hutch reached tenderly to ease the nearly unconscious body from him, settling them both on their sides. He was murmuring soft love words into the sweaty curls, not sure if they were heard, but needing to speak them anyway. With gentle strokes, he calmed the fine tremors in the lax body. Slow kisses sealed the delicate lids for sleep.

A deep purring chord drew his attention to the cane-backed chair where C.D. sat leisurely grooming Merlin’s mane. Hutch squeezed his eyes shut, trying to escape the unsettling effect of the glittering hazel and green gazes.