Different in the Same Place

Stuck in the car with Starsky in a traffic jam, Hutch realizes that if he doesn’t admit the truth, he may lose the opportunity to discover if Starsky really is a good kisser after all.

“And you’re not even a good kisser,” Hutch retorted, grinning savagely, well aware he’d was winding Starsky up.

“How would you know?” Starsky squeaked indignantly, kicking the back of the car seat.

Hutch felt a jolt up his spine. Had he gone too far? He put the Ford in gear, cruising slowly down the road toward the freeway onramp.

“Never kissed you, have I?” Starsky’s newspaper rustled like angry wheat in a tornado. “Maybe you’ve seen me go at it with a girl, but if you haven’t experienced the full Starsky treatment.” He jerked the newspaper up as if some article printed near the bottom of the page was all-important.

Hutch glanced at his friend in the rear view mirror but all he got was the reflection of an article on Peter Whitlaw’s political campaign.

Did a man who spent seventy-five percent of the time with his friend have certain tendencies? Or as Starsky had said, three quarters of their lives. Hutch took a slow deep breath, contemplating the traffic as he merged onto the freeway. Rows of cars in every direction. He and Starsky would be spending more than seventy-five percent of the last twenty-four hours together at this rate. They weren’t going anywhere in a hurry.

An aged Volkswagen with a McGovern for president bumper sticker was so close in front that he could easily see a set of twins sticking their tongues out at him from the read window. Hutch gave them a two-fingered peace sign in return. Behind him, Starsky hummed I Got You, Babe under his breath. Made Hutch want to strangle him and sing along, at the same time.

Because truly, if he admitted it to himself, Hutch didn’t mind. Even a traffic jam was tolerable with Starsky in the car beside him-most of the time. As long as the radiator didn’t boil over, and over heat them both.

He actually liked having extra time with Starsky, whether they were speaking to each other or not. Just knowing Starsky was there made everything better.

The real question was, particularly in light of the revelations about John Blaine, did it indicate certain tendencies? Homosexual in nature.

Gay, in the current parlance.

It had been such a long, long time. He’d tried to put that all behind him, live as society intended a young man to live, with a wife and prospective kids.

That hadn’t worked out in his case, had it? Vanessa was long gone, and good riddance. It had been brutal untangling his own attraction to her from her narcissistic, material nature but he’d done so, and was through with her. The last few women he’d bedded hadn’t been good for his self-esteem, if he were being brutally honest.

Starsky was…. Starsky. A part of him. Even when they argued, he knew Starsky to his soul. Felt Starsky in his bones. Wanted to talk to Starsky when the night was bleak and his courage was failing. Starsky was his everything.

Hutch had known he was in love with the irrepressible, curly haired mushbrain for years. It just was. An undeniable fact.

As he knew Starsky loved him.

Could they take that last step into a romantic relationship? Should they? Did he want to? It would change things, possibly create tension–and not the intentional kind he’d stirred into the mix simply to get a rise out of Starsky.

“Hutch! Pay attention,” Starsky called, tousling his hair from behind. “Put your pedal to the metal.”

Reemerging from his ruminations, Hutch saw the back end of the VW bus receding from his windshield, and he could push the accelerator above five miles an hour. He was still driving far slower than the posted speed limit. “It’ll take another forty-five minutes to get to Venice at this rate.”

“Then turn the radio on,” Starsky suggested, folding the newspaper into a tidy bundle.

Hutch caught sight of those laser blue eyes in the rear view mirror and was cheered. He’d been forgiven. He switched on the local top forty station, letting the blended harmonies of the Bee Gees fill the car.

You know the door to my very soul
You’re the light in my deepest, darkest hour
You’re my savior when I fall

Hutch listened to the lyrics, heat rising in his chest. Exactly what he was just thinking about.

With all that had happened in the last couple days, he had to voice his inner feelings. Now. He couldn’t waste time pretending any longer. Blaine had died trying but ultimately failing to be his true self. He’d lied to everyone, and paid the price.

“Hey, that’s a pretty good song, y’know?” Starsky hooked a knee over the front passenger seat, climbing over from the back with awkward grace, his elbow only shoving into Hutch’s ear once and his luscious rump only skimming down Hutch’s right sleeve for a moment before he was seated. “You hungry? I’m hungry.”

“I could eat.” Hutch nodded, his heart light. More time with Starsky, exactly what he wanted. “You pick.”

“Yeah?” Starsky grinned sweetly as if he’d been offered a gift. “And you won’t complain about my choice?”

“Have I ever?” Hutch countered, because he knew he was supposed to. “Greasy burgers or fish sticks wrapped in tortillas from a grungy truck.”

“Hey,” Starsky elongated the one syllable word like a flutist playing a note. “I liked Pepe’s Ocean Delites.”

“Pepe couldn’t spell.” Hutch raised an eyebrow, spotting the freeway sign ahead. “The off-ramp to Venice is in two and a half miles. Pick now or forever hold your piece.”

“Gives me a whole half an hour at this speed.” Starsky chuckled, eyeing a Toyota pulling off on the shoulder with a geyser spouting from under the hood. “That gives us another car length forward. What about Helene’s?”

“Helene’s?” Hutch echoed. “I thought–” He stopped. It wasn’t as if Starsky had never eaten there. They’d shared her onion soup once when they’d staggered home after a particularly rough night just as she was closing up. She’d taken pity on their bedraggled appearance and brought up bowls of onion soup on her way home. Simple fare had never tasted so good. They’d ended up patching each other’s gashes before falling into Hutch’s bed, Starsky wearing the t-shirt he’d left at Hutch’s and kept forgetting to take home.

“Yeah, kinda in the mood for onion soup.” Starsky glanced at him.

Hutch saw the pain lurking behind Starsky’s natural joie de vive; aware that he was mourning his old friend and probably didn’t want to be alone.

“Me, too, babe,” Hutch said. He eased the gas pedal down a bit further, finally going thirty-five miles an hour–fast for a city street, dismally slow for the highway. The Bee Gees segued into the theme from Star Wars, all horns and lush violins. “You thinking about John?”

Starsky raised empty hands, clearly unable to express his thoughts. “I thought I knew the man inside and out, but I didn’t so it feels…broken.”

“He was a good man trapped in a difficult situation.”

“How could he–” Starsky paused, tapping the beat of the music on his leg with a clenched fist. “How could he live with Maggie like any other married couple and still be out with…guys?”

Hutch swallowed. He had to be oh-so careful. He looked up at the green and white highway sign for Venice. One more mile to talk about this. “Which bothers you the most?”

“Huh?” Starsky frowned, peering at him quizzically.

“Are you upset about his lie or that he lies–” Hutch stammered, hearing the repeated word but unable to stop the unintentional Dr. Suess-y-ness of it, “with men.”

“You think I care about gays?” Starsky barked.

“You were rough on Whitelaw.”

“Cause I don’t think he should be–,” Starsky grit his teeth, gesturing a frustrated swipe of air. “Puttin’ his private life out in the political arena. It’s his choice if he wants to be with a guy.”

“More and more, I am realizing that being gay is not a choice,” Hutch said very softly, his chest hot and tight. What if he were wrong about Starsky’s feelings? What did he do then?

“I mean it’s his choice that he puts it out to the world,” Starsky said very deliberately as if explaining to a small child. “I’ve known guys who…did it with each other before. ‘Specially in Nam.”

Hutch exhaled so fast he coughed and nearly lost contact of the steering wheel when he turned right for the off-ramp.

“You okay?” Starsky asked, sitting up straighter.

“Yeah, year, I just swallowed funny.”

“Got nothing in your mouth, Mr. Magoo.”

“He was blind, Starsk, I think he could swallow just fine.”

“My choices were limited,” Starsky deadpanned, miming a rim shot. “Or wouldya rather Sylvester?” He pretended to spit out the animated cat’s name.

“Sylvester’s better.” Hutch smiled slightly, navigating the streets toward Venice Place. “I just-” It was time to fish or cut bait, as the saying went. “What about us?”

“We spend seventy-five percent of the time together,” Starsky said, all banter suddenly gone.

He waited until Hutch slid the car to the curb in front of Helene’s, and then put his hand over Hutch’s on the steering wheel.

“We eat together, we vacation together, and even…” the expression on his face was winsome, no longer sad, “Wear each other’s clothes.”

“My clothes, you mean,” Hutch said, raising a long forefinger of his other hand. “I paid for that red sweater.”

“Looks better on me,” Starsky retorted. “I knew what you meant earlier. You and me, with…certain tendencies.”

“Do you–I mean, we, have them?” Hutch slid their hands around so they were palm to palm, sitting there in the growing darkness of an October evening. He hadn’t meant to make it sound so much like a question.

The words hovered there between them, labels to accept or deny.

“Told you I knew guys in ‘Nam,” Starsky answered, his chin tucked into his red shirt. “I was–”

“One of them?” Hutch finished in a whisper.

“Sometimes,” Starsky admitted, squeezing Hutch’s hand as if he needed a lifeline.

“Me, too,” Hutch said. “In collage.”

“Thank you.” There were tears in his voice. “I really hoped.”

“It’s scary.” Hutch stared into that beloved face, overjoyed. Starsky’s eyes were watery bright, but his cheeks were dry. Hutch wanted to kiss him more than anything he’d ever wanted in his entire life. “I want to say this right out–and if I’m–”

“You’re not wrong.”

Starsky always could read his mind.

“I love you, Hutch. Have since day one at the academy.”

“Mushbrain,” Hutch hiccupped away the impulse to cry, refusing to get all soapy, as Starsky would have said. This was only the rest of their lives they were talking about. “Should have said something.”

“I just did. First, I might add.”

“I love you.”

“Wanna find out how good I can kiss?” Starsky smirked. “Cause I ranked number one on the senior best and worst listing at Bay City High. Go Beavers.”

“That long ago?” Hutch parried, laughing. “I’ll have to judge for myself.” He tugged Starsky’s hand, opening the car door. “Hurry up, get out.”

“You don’t rush a master.” Starsky bounced out of the passenger seat on springs, dashing across the sidewalk to the carved front door.

Hutch caught up with him, pushing him inside his building, hands around Starsky’s shoulders to hold him at the bottom of the stairs.

Starsky turned in his embrace, their lips meeting.

Starsky wasn’t wrong. He was a master at kissing. Hutch would have given him a gold medal, but he was too busy playing tonsil hockey with his best friend.

And lover. Because the best was yet to come.

FIN

You know the door to my very soul
You’re the light in my deepest, darkest hour
You’re my savior when I fall
And you may not think I care for you
When you know down inside that I really do
And it’s me you need to show

–How Deep is Your Love by The Bee Gees