Dreams and Hopes

Hutch finally speaks with Starsky.

“So I made a decision.”

“You did? Tell me about it.”

The Cheesecake Factory. Bakery in the front with every form of sugar confection known to man. Restaurant in the back with every form of yuppie known to man. Coming soon to a location near you.

“I mean, I’ve decided what I want to eat.” Hutch shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Western omelet,” he finishes. He already hates this place. Too much of a status symbol atmosphere, and the food combinations on the menu remind too much of Starsky.

“Peanut butter Belgium waffle,” Starsky lays down his menu resolutely. He’s not really hungry, but it sounds like something he’ll like. “With bananas and whipped cream.” What a beginning. At least this place is far from their beat and usual hangouts.

“Hmmm,” Hutch looks out the patio. They are seated in the back of the restaurant. Beyond that is the patio. Beyond that is a sunken tennis court. Beyond that is a parking garage. Beyond that is, well–

“So,” Starsky unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap. There is a knot in his stomach. It hurts. “You want to talk?” Ignore the stomach. Let’s get something over with here.

Hutch glances briefly around the place. Fairly empty for a Sunday. He looks down at the table, rubs his thumb over the glass tabletop. “Yeah, I guess–yes.” Might as well. Now or never.

There is silence for a time. Lots of daters having brunch. A few families. A birthday group surrounded by metallic balloons in the corner.

Jump right in. “I kind of noticed you were acting funny last Sunday afternoon,” Starsky begins. “Ann and I sort of talked about it afterward.” Should he have mentioned Ann? Hell, should he have even mentioned noticing Hutch’s odd behavior?

Hutch lifts his eyes briefly. “Oh?” His attention immediately returns to the table. Does he know? What does he know? Maybe he knows. If he does, how much does he know?

A waiter appears. “Ready to order, gentlemen?”

“Western omelet,” Hutch says huskily. “No onions.”

“Peanut butter waffle,” Starsky adds. “All the trimmings.”

The waiter disappears.

The knot tightens. “I mean–” Starsky continues, determined to get this done and over with “–I had an idea why you might have been so, uh, distant, and I asked Ann if she thought I was right.”

Hutch frowns. Had his pain really been so obvious? Had everyone seen him that way? God, everyone knows!

The words suddenly tumble from Starsky. “Everybody was there and Lisa was there for the first time and it sort of looked like she was my date and you didn’t talk to anybody or eat anything and you just sat in the corner and it was pretty obvious something was wrong so I asked Ann–“

Hutch takes a deep breath. Too much. Too many words. There is a tremor in his hand. “Starsk–“

The words won’t stop. “I just–I’ve been getting this feeling lately, and we’ve been spending so much time together lately, I mean–I don’t mean–” Starsky screws up his courage. And then loses it. “I don’t want this to sound stupid, but this isn’t the first time this has ever happened to me. So it sort of doesn’t surprise me. A lot of women have thought I was serious when I wasn’t and I had to let them down easy.” That wasn’t what he wanted to say. But he can’t seem to stop talking. “So if you feel the same way, I mean, I don’t mean that’s necessarily exactly what you’re going through–I mean, I’m not implying you’re–well, I just have this feeling that–” Just what is he trying to say here?

Hutch stares at him. “What?” he finally asks. “What–what doesn’t surprise you?” He is bewildered. Or he pretends to be.

Starsky can’t find his footing. “I want you to know I’m really flattered and all, but–” Oh God. Where did that phrase come from? The most insulting phrase in the universe. Oh God.

“What?” Hutch asks again. “What flattered?” His eyes narrow in pain.

“It’s no big thing,” Starsky shrugs, tries to look matter-of-fact. He knows he’s painted himself into a ridiculous corner. “I don’t care one way or the other. You and me will always be you and me. Right?” The knot turns into a fist of pain.

Hutch is suddenly angry. “Say what you mean, Starsk.” Say it! You say it first!

Starsky looks at him. He hesitates, looks around. “You like me, right?” he murmurs.

Hutch looks away. He swallows convulsively.

“Well, like I said, it’s not the first time this has happened to me. Well, maybe not with another guy, but–” Starsky knows he sounds like an idiot. He feels like an idiot. Everything he’s saying is idiotic. Starsky is an idiot. He toys with his spoon. The pain is deepening. “It’s okay.” Idiot.

He is interrupted. The waiter has brought the food. He places the dishes on the table and leaves.

Hutch stares at his omelet. He is shaken. “No,” he finally relents. He feels like a balloon: thin skin holding in an enormous amount of pressurized nothing. But he’ll say it first, even if it means bursting the balloon. “You’re wrong.”

Starsky is frozen. “Huh?” Wrong?

Hutch looks at him. He feels like he is about to explode. Now or never. “I love you.”

The words hang between them. Starsky doesn’t know what to say. All he knows is the pain in his gut.

Hutch had a fantasy. In the fantasy, Starsky listens to Hutch profess his feelings, smiles shyly, then admits his love, too. In the fantasy.

Of course, if the fantasy did pan out he wouldn’t know what to do next anyway. Hutch turns away, embarrassed, humiliated. “I’m sorry.” Instead of exploding, the balloon simply deflates.

Starsky swallows and takes a deep breath. Starsky had fantasized this moment. Hutch would tell him he just wanted to quit again, that’s all, and they would simply talk it through. Nice and simple. Easy. Funny how fantasies never pan out in real life.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. It just happens,” Starsky says lamely. Another idiot thing to say.

Hutch’s head jerks up. His eyes are bright with tears. “Just happens?” he laughs hollowly. “This `just happens’ to you?” He shakes his head and laughs again. “I’m glad this is so matter-of-fact to you. I’m glad you know how to handle this. ‘Cause this is damn well the first time this has ever happened to me.” He is angry again. “I don’t know how to fucking handle this!” How dare Starsky treat this as trivial! Doesn’t he understand what’s at stake?

Starsky lets the words fly over him, past him, through him. He picks up his fork and stabs at his waffle. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Hutch finally said it. Hutch finally said it. But it’s just words. And now it’s all over. Shouldn’t the pain be lessening? The worst is out in the open…

“No.” The tears are gone from Hutch’s eyes, but the anger is still evident. “You mean it like this is just a high school crush and I’m the pretty little thing you have to let down gently. This is easy for you. This means nothing to you.”

The words don’t slide through him this time. They slice through him. Starsky’s nostrils flare. Now he’s angry. “That’s not true!” His voice is thick. “You’re my best friend! I’m trying to make this easy for you!” He looks around to see if anyone has heard him, and is immediately sorry. Hutch will assume he is embarrassed by this.

Hutch laughs hollowly. “You’re just making this easy for yourself.”

“This isn’t easy for me,” Starsky counters. He honestly means this.

“Obviously it is,” Hutch snorts. “You’ve been through this before, remember?”

Hutch is right. This is high school. He is acting like he is in high school. He feels like he is in high school. Starsky cuts a bite of waffle. He hated high school. Starsky pushes a slice of banana on top. He got nothing in high school. A glob of peanut butter on the banana. He was empty in high school. A dollop of whipped cream on the peanut butter. He feels empty now, but he has known times when he felt full… “No, I haven’t.” He spears the stack and lets his fork stand there. “This time it’s different.” Now why did he say that? And why did the pain ease just a bit?

Hutch looks out the window. The tennis court is still empty. His heart feels empty. “Why is this different?” he finally asks. His voice has taken on a sarcastic tone. “Because I’m a man? Because I’m your partner?”

“No,” Starsky’ s voice is barely audible. “Well, yes, but–” He feels nauseated. Is this what he’s to be left with? Is this going to be the outcome? This emptiness? This isn’t the way things are supposed to go!

“But what?” Hutch demands. Finish it. Let’s get this over with. He’s tired, so tired; tired beyond caring.

Starsky shakes his head. He takes a drink of water, then a deep breath. If only he could start again, not be an idiot, avoid the emptiness. Avoid the emptiness, remember when he has felt filled…something has to be done. “Ann said I should–I’ve been kind of thinking I might–I mean I don’t–I don’t really understand this, Hutch.” He looks up.

Hutch avoids his gaze. “Tell me about it,” he mutters under his breath.

Starsky takes his fork and pushes the waffle around his plate. He takes Hutch’s sarcasm as a command. “It feels like I can’t breathe.”

Hutch looks at him sharply.

“I don’t mean I’m having a heart attack,” Starsky closes his eyes. “I mean, I can’t breathe when I think about this. When I think about you. When I think about us.” Again, the pain eases. He begins to feel buoyant. He begins to feel…filled.

“Don’t worry, Starsk. I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do,” Hutch sneers. He lifts his elbow to the table and puts his knuckles to his lips. Something sparks in his gut. Let someone else feel the knife in his heart. “And what do you think about us?” Old games.

Starsky shrugs. He sighs mentally. Old games. “Us,” he says lamely. “About us. About–where we’ve been and what we’ve done. I don’t know how else to think about us.” There has to be a way to turn this around. There has to be a way to hang on to this “filled” feeling. This “buoyancy.” This–love?

Hutch finally takes a bite of his omelet. He has a hard time swallowing.

And Starsky has a revelation. “How long do you want to be friends?”

Hutch stares at Starsky.

“How long do you want to be friends?” Starsky repeats the question. The buoyancy begins to make him dizzy.

No. It’s the love.

Hutch slowly closes his eyes. “As long as you do, I guess.” His voice is weary.

“I don’t ever want us to not be friends,” Starsky explains. “I don’t want to think about us not being friends.” I don’t want to think about not having you to love.

“So you just want to be friends,” Hutch sighs tiredly.

“No,” Starsky shakes his head. The room spins. “I mean I want you to always be my friend. And I always want to be yours. I’m just not sure what that means anymore.”

The busboy comes with a pitcher of water. He is waved off.

“I need help, Hutch.” Starsky grabs the table to steady himself. “This isn’t making any sense to me. And it scares me.”

Hutch drops his head. “I can’t help you, Starsk.” His voice is low and soft. “I can’t even help myself.”

“Hutch?”

Hutch raises his head. Starsky looks terrified.

“I think maybe I feel the same way.” No pain. He is floating.

Hutch grabs the edge of the table to steady himself.

Starsky’s eyes are wide. “I don’t know. I can’t tell. I just know I can’t breathe when I think about you not being there.” And losing the love.

“Starsky,” Hutch shakes his head. He’s irritated. “This isn’t something you do just because I do it. This isn’t something you force.”

“Tell me what it feels like,” Starsky pleads.

Hutch shakes his head again. “Starsky, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

The room begins to steady. “Tell me.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Hutch hisses. “I won’t be made a fool of!”

“Tell me,” Starsky begs. “No one’s listening, I swear. Tell me now.”

Hutch rubs his eyes. Anything to make Starsky shut up. “It feels just like you think. It feels easy. It feels comfortable. It feels scary and exciting and horrible and smothering–“

“–and like you can’t breathe,” Starsky finishes. That’s it. That’s the love.

“It’s more,” Hutch wipes his upper lip.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s more.”

“I know,” Starsky flushes.

Hutch pushes his plate away. “You don’t know. You’re just trying to fix this by saying you feel the same way I do. You’re just trying to make it go away.”

Is Hutch right? Is he just saying anything to make the pain in his gut go away? To keep Hutch from vanishing? Starsky pushes his plate away, too. “I know I can’t breathe. I know you can make me breathe again. If I let you. But I’m scared.”

“Me, too.”

“What do we do?”

Hutch looks at the tennis court. One court. One net. One love? Fat chance.

“Hutch?” Starsky’s voice is soft but strong. “I love you.” Whatever else he says, whatever else he feels, this is right.

Hutch narrows his eyes.

“I’m not sure exactly what that means, yet. I just know I want you to be here today, and tomorrow, and always.” And this is right, too.

Hutch nods. This is too much. “I was afraid I’d never see you again after this,” he manages hoarsely. “I love you, too, but–.”

Starsky reaches over and puts his hand on top of Hutch’s. “So what do we do now?”

Hutch shrugs. His instinct is to pull away. But he doesn’t. “I need time.” I can’t handle this. I can’t deal with this. I didn’t plan for this.

I have to make sure I don’t ruin this.

“I’ll give you time if you give me time,” Starsky chuckles weakly. “Why don’t we give each other some time–tonight?”

A hint of a smile crosses Hutch’s face, but it is fleeting. “I need to go,” he says. “To be alone.” He reacts to Starsky’s distressed expression. “For just a little while.” I’ve got to plan–I need a shower, the right clothes, the right cologne–how much should I say, what should I do, how much can I touch–I’ve got to plan.

Starsky releases Hutch’s hand. “But you’ll come back? Tonight? To my place?” Oh God. What am I asking for? What am I offering? What if he doesn’t like the way I look? What if he doesn’t like the way I smell? What if he doesn’t like what I do?

Hutch nods. “Yeah. Okay.” He rises.

“See you tonight.”

Hutch walks toward the door. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“‘Bye.”