One Breath

Stop and listen.

January, 2007

Their first night together they fumbled through first-time passion, with quiet questions and murmured answers, hearts revealed, fears dissolved.

The second night felt no less passionate or lacking in sincerity.

The third night, Starsky found himself trying not to sob into Hutch’s shoulder, the full weight and truth of Hutch’s love overwhelming him. Hutch’s artistic hands molded new creations as they soothed and patted and stroked in soft places, that beloved voice crooning softly in his ear as he clung to his partner tightly and thanked God for such a gift.

On the fourth night, he didn’t sleep. Release had sated him, but he remained awake, watching his partner sleep, counting every heartbeat, cataloging every change of expression, noting where hands and limbs found themselves as Hutch turned in his dreams. “Starsk,” Hutch sighed once, followed by a delicate smile, and Starsky ran his fingers softly through Hutch’s hair, settling him. The small, contented sleeping noises Hutch made crept their way into Starsky’s heart, infusing him with a tenderness he’d never felt for anyone. He felt blessed to hear them. He meant to care, to watch over this man, only guided by the stars and his own love.

As the sun rose and the light trickled through the window, he watched Hutch blink awake and peer curiously at him. “Have you slept?” he heard.

Starsky shook his head, bending to kiss the sleepy face. “Wanted to listen to you breathe.”

*~*~*

Later that morning, they played a silly round of ping-pong at the station.

*~*~*

At first, there was nothing but a vague awareness of being. Then he became aware of his body, lying down. And there was pain in parts of his body, but he couldn’t pinpoint where.

He could hear beeping. He could hear distant voices, babbling, making no sense. He tried to move but couldn’t. Couldn’t even open his eyes.

He concentrated on the babble. A low voice melded with a higher-pitched one. He felt he should know the deeper one, and listened.

The voices stopped. He felt his bed dip slightly, heard someone sigh.

That sounded familiar.

His nose captured a scent.

Familiar, too.

He crawled backwards into the darkened, confused tunnel of his mind, digging at bright nuggets of his memory to match these sensations with something he knew.

Night. Some other bed. Tangled sheets and sweat and starlight from a window.

Someone sleeping. Sighing. “Starsk.”

Hutch. Happiness. Love.

He struggled again to open his eyes, this time rewarded with the sight of his partner, disheveled and weary, watching him with sadness and exhaustion. Then the beloved face softened, and the crystal blue eyes filled with wonder.

He felt a touch, somewhere. It made him feel safe.

“Starsk? You awake?”

His mouth worked, but no sound. He swallowed, his mouth pasty and bitter, and tried again.

“Have you slept?” he finally croaked, slowly turning his hand within the grasp of Hutch’s.

Hutch smiled weakly and shook his head, leaning to press a gentle kiss against Starsky’s lips.

“I was listening to you breathe.”

~end
February 3, 2007

Chapter End Notes:

Thanks to Ghostwriter for beta.