The Butterfly and the Flower, Part 1

After Gillian, evening, Venice Place.

Starsky is worried about Hutch, who’s been quiet and subdued all night. They have things to say to each other but neither can get out the words.

Starsky longs to hold Hutch again and take the hurt away.

Hutch feels like he’s in a dream, he’s not sure what’s real and what’s not. He yearns for Starsky to hold him tight again and make everything ok.

Hutch

leaned back against the couch, looking at Starsky intently. Starsky’s face was swollen and bruised where Hutch had hit him earlier that day.

Starsky

sat on Hutch’s coffee table with his legs crossed in a pretzel and wondered why Hutch was staring at him.

“Take a picture, it might last longer” he said.

“What?” said Hutch, seemingly bewildered.

“Nothin’ said Starsky and shook his head, disappointed that Hutch hadn’t taken the bait.

Suddenly Hutch sprang off the couch. “….. get some ice,” Hutch said, more to himself than to Starsky.

Starsky, confused, turned as he watched Hutch walk towards the icebox. He watched him take out some ice cubes, wrap them in a dish towel, and return to the living room.

Hutch

motioned Starsky to sit beside him on the couch and pressed the makeshift ice pack against Starsky’s cheek. He held it there as they sat together.

“Hey, Starsk?” he said pensively, while looking away.

“Yeah?” said Starsky.

“Fuck” Hutch said to himself, almost inaudibly. “Never mind.” He tried to suppress a yawn and wondered what time it was. He thought briefly about lifting Starsky’s wrist to check his watch. He was so fucking tired.

Starsky

obeyed Hutch’s motion to sit beside him on the couch. He observed Hutch’s every move carefully, wondering what he was thinking.

Hutch had been strangely quiet all night, almost subdued. Even when he told Hutch about his conversation with Gillian. Especially then.

The ice pack stung like hell, even more than the bruise itself, but he let Hutch hold it against his face anyway.

Hutch muttered to himself and didn’t finish. Starsky wondered what Hutch had wanted to say. He saw Hutch yawn and thought about the time. He glanced down at his watch. It was late. Hutch looked spent.

“I can do it” he told Hutch, and gently pushed Hutch’s hand away from the ice pack. “It’s been a long day, you should get some sleep.”

Hutch nodded obediently and slowly stood up. He seemed to have no resolve of his own, except when he abruptly decided to get the ice.

Hutch

lay in bed reflecting on the day. Such a long, terrible day. He felt emotionally and physically drained. He was still in a kind of shock about it all. When he woke that morning (such a long time ago!), he was so looking forward to seeing Gillian again. To hearing her voice, touching her hands, her glorious hair. Even if they just held each other as they had the other night, it would be dreamy and wonderful.

Then reality came crashing down around him as he wept over Gillian’s body.

To add insult to injury, he had learned that Gillian was a sex worker. A high-class prostitute. A porn actress.

That she tried to get away from the Grossman’s and that’s why they killed her.

She was going to leave all that behind, just for him. That’s what Starsky had told him.

Then he hit Starsky, hard. Starsky fell to the floor and rolled backwards. Hutch picked him up and shook him like a rag doll, intent on hitting him again. Curiously, Starsky didn’t resist. He would have let Hutch hit him over and over. That’s how loyal Starsky was.

It was almost like a wrestling match except there was a dead body in the ring with them. Gillian just lay there limply; her motionless form unconcerned with the commotion beside her.

Then he cried in Starsky’s arms. He felt Starsky hold him tight and then squeeze him even tighter. He never felt as safe as he did when Starsky was holding him. The whole world evaporated and it was just him and Starsk.

After the shootout at the movie theater, they had to go to the station to fill out the report. Normally he would be the one to handle the paperwork, as Starsky hated doing that stuff. But today, Starsky insisted on taking care of it while Hutch sat quietly at their desk in the squad room and drank his coffee.

His piggy bank regarded him with mute disinterest.

They left piggy alone on the desk to ponder things as Starsky took him home to Venice Place. They sat in Hutch’s living room and drank beer; Hutch on the couch and Starsky on the coffee table, because Starsky could never sit like a normal person when it came to furniture.

Although, oddly, it was usually Hutch who sat on the coffee table. He was too tired tonight.

Starsky told him about how he had gone to Gillian’s place to confront her. He told him about the money and the little boutique in Cleveland and how he warned Gillian that if she didn’t tell him the truth, he would tell Hutch himself.

He assumed Starsky would go home to sleep once they finished talking. He had only drank one beer and they were supposed to be on duty tomorrow. But Starsky insisted on sleeping on Hutch’s couch. Hutch didn’t want him to leave.

Hutch smiled to himself at the thought of Starsky babysitting him. It was the first time he had smiled in what seemed a very long time. He felt safe knowing that Starsky was just a few feet away in the other room, as if he were guarding him from nightmares.

The day was a whirlwind. He hadn’t had enough time to process everything yet; it all happened so quickly. His mind was a swirl of emotions.

He couldn’t sleep. He tried lying on his right side, then his left. It was no good. He tried lying on his stomach, then his back; but still, sleep refused to come. He tossed and turned.

He felt tentative, weak, scared. He felt sadness and regret.

He missed Gillian. He missed the ignorant Hutch who didn’t know that Gillian was a prostitute. He missed the untroubled Hutch who didn’t know she was dead.

He thought about all the times Gillian had said she loved him. He pondered why he had never said it in return.

As he thought about how he had hit Starsky, his face grew red with shame.

And then he thought about how Starsky had held him while he cried. Starsky had even kissed his shoulder.

He loved Starsky more than anything in the whole world.

He made a noise that sounded like it could have been either a laugh or a sob.

He lay on the side of the bed nearest the couch. He wanted to be as close to Starsky as possible.

Starsky

lay on the sofa listening to Hutch’s restless moving. He positioned himself to be nearest to where Hutch was lying on the bed.

He knew Hutch was having trouble falling asleep, because he heard the little creaks of the bed whenever Hutch would change position.

He heard Hutch make a noise that sounded like it could have been either laughing or crying.

He wanted to go to him. He wanted to hold Hutch like he held him earlier that day, with his arms wrapped tightly around him. He wanted to kiss his shoulder again.

He loved Hutch more than anything in the whole world.

He had insisted on filling out the report when they returned to the squad room, even though he hated doing paperwork. He wanted Hutch to relax and clear his mind. He poured Hutch a cup of coffee and handed it to him. Hutch sat quiet and subdued at their desk as he drank the coffee.

The piggy bank stared at Hutch indifferently.

When they got to Venice Place, Starsky went to the icebox and pulled out two beers. Hutch drank his without hesitation. Starsky could have offered Hutch fatal poison and he would have taken it. Hutch was always contrary with him, but it was a game they played, because he almost always did what Starsky wanted in the end.

Then Starsky sat on the coffee table and told him everything, about the money and the boutique and his ultimatum to Gillian.

He made up his mind. He would go to Hutch. He would go to him and comfort him. How could he sleep when he knew Hutch was unable to?

Hutch

thought about Starsky. Was he asleep on the couch? He didn’t hear any noise from the living room.

He thought if he went into the greenhouse and talked to his plants for a while, maybe he could eventually fall asleep. But he didn’t want the light from the star pendant to disturb Starsky’s sleep.

He thought about sitting in the double-rocker; perhaps the gentle swaying in the moonlight would lull him to sleep. But he abhorred the idea of sitting in it alone. If only Starsky could sit next to him.

He thought, what if Starsky were with him, in his bed? He thought, if Starsky were asleep beside him, Hutch would put his arms around him and snuggle close, and it would be ok.

Starsky

swung his legs over the side of the sofa and planted his bare feet on the red-orange shag rug. He walked slowly, quietly, towards Hutch’s bed. As he approached, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could make out Hutch’s figure. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes were open. Those beautiful blue eyes.

“Hey.”

“Hey” said Hutch.

“I heard you moving around. You okay?”

“I don’t know” said Hutch.

Starsky was troubled by Hutch’s response. He had expected him to say he was okay even though Starsky knew he wasn’t.

Starsky walked around to the other side of the bed, near the greenhouse. He could just barely make out the star pendant through the glass as the moonlight illuminated it.

Hutch rolled onto his side, facing Starsky. He watched with fascination as Starsky leaned his knee on the bed, never taking his eyes off Hutch.

“Hey, I’m really……” Starsky started to say, and then stopped. Did he really need to tell Hutch he was sorry about Gillian? About her death. About how he had known the truth but didn’t tell Hutch until it was too late. Hutch understood. The words weren’t necessary.

Instead, it was Hutch who said “I’m sorry.”

Genuinely confused, Starsky replied “What?” Was Hutch trying to finish his sentence for him?

Hutch continued, “for hitting you.” His voice sounded plaintive and sad.

Hutch

heard Starsky’s hushed footfalls as he approached the bed. He wondered what Starsky was planning to do. He wanted Starsky to hold him, but he didn’t have the courage or resolve to ask.

And then Starsky’s dark figure appeared in the gloom. Everything was silent, like the world had dissolved and there was nothing left but the two of them.

He asked Hutch if he was ok and seemed alarmed at Hutch’s response.

Hutch watched Starsky walk around to the other side of the bed as if they were a married couple and he was turning in for the night. He leaned his knee on the bed and started to say something, but then stopped.

It didn’t matter; Hutch knew what he was going to say.

He studied Starsky’s cheek and noticed it was even redder since the ice pack had touched it.

He thought about how hard he had hit Starsky and how Starsky just stood there and let him do whatever he wanted to him, like a rag doll.

That was how much Starsky trusted him.

He thought about how much he wanted Starsky to hold him, right now, in the quiet darkness.

Hutch said, “I’m sorry.”

Starsky asked “What?” with a puzzled look on his face.

Hutch said, “for hitting you.”

Starsky

replied with a grin, “Hey, don’t worry your pretty blond head about it. Besides, I’ve been hit harder than that by guys much bigger than you.”

He had expected Hutch to smile. Instead, Hutch closed his eyes and Starsky saw a tear slide down his cheek. Then another one. Something was very wrong.

Hutch

noted that Starsky responded in his usual flippant way. Starsky always did that when he wanted to lighten the mood and convince both of them that things were ok. But Hutch wasn’t in the mood for games tonight.

He felt a tear roll slowly down his cheek. Then another one. Things were not ok.

Starsky

suddenly felt the strongest urge to hold Hutch and protect him from whatever demons he was being haunted by. He slowly pulled back the off-white chenille bedspread and climbed into the bed. Hutch watched him calmly, as if in a trance. Neither spoke. Then he leaned over to Hutch, placed his hand against Hutch’s cheek, and brushed away the tears.

Then he began to gently caress Hutch’s face as Hutch sobbed once, then stopped.

It was deathly quiet. Even the birds and insects outside were silent.

Hutch

watched, unmoving, as Starsky climbed into the bed. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming. Things felt unreal, but the entire day had felt like that. Then Starsky leaned over him and brushed away his tears. He watched, rapt, as Starsky touched his face. It wasn’t a dream. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He sobbed only once and stopped.

Starsky

stroked Hutch’s cheek, his delicate flaxen hair, as he pressed his lips against Hutch’s forehead and kissed him.

Then he moved his head down slightly and kissed Hutch’s mouth, softly, like a butterfly landing on a flower. Hutch made a soft noise and shuddered. He kissed Hutch again.

The moment seemed like an eternity.

Hutch

felt as if time had stopped. He could no longer feel the beating of his heart or the respiration of his lungs. It was as if he was suspended in time.

He kissed Starsky back. He suddenly remembered his arms lying limply at his side. He lifted his hand and held it against Starsky’s neck, the tips of his fingers touching Starsky’s thick curly hair. He kissed Starsky again.

Starsky

wanted to continue kissing Hutch, for the rest of the night, for the rest of his life. He wanted him more than anything, but he also wanted Hutch to sleep, so this terrible day could be over.

He took a deep breath and nudged Hutch to turn over onto his other side. Hutch did as he was told. Then Starsky snuggled close behind him, his body pressed tightly against Hutch’s body as he wrapped his arm around Hutch in a protective embrace.

He rested his head against Hutch’s head and his hand against Hutch’s chest and felt Hutch’s heart pounding. Hutch was still wearing his favorite green t-shirt. It was Starsky’s favorite, too. It felt as soft as the petals of a flower.

The plants in the greenhouse regarded them with indifference.

Hutch

suddenly felt his heart beating again, pounding in his chest, as Starsky leaned against him and held him. He could feel the rush of air in his lungs. The world came back into focus and there they were, Starsky lying beside him under the sheets, snuggled against him like the world’s warmest blanket. It was going to be ok.

Starsky

couldn’t help himself. He moved his hand down to the bottom of Hutch’s t-shirt, then gently pushed his hand under it and began to caress Hutch’s bare skin. Hutch didn’t have any chest hair and Starsky had never felt any man’s chest other than his own, with its curly dark hair.

He decided that Hutch’s chest was the smoothest thing he’d ever felt. Then Hutch placed his hand over Starsky’s hand and gently held it there. Hutch sighed deeply. Starsky’s heart thudded as he stiffened against Hutch’s warm body. He kissed the back of Hutch’s neck.

Hutch

closed his eyes and felt Starsky lift up his favorite green t-shirt. Starsky moved his hand beneath it until Starsky’s hand rested against his bare skin. He sighed as Starsky caressed his chest. He placed his hand over Starsky’s hand and felt his own heart beating.

Starsky tenderly kissed the back of his neck. It was then that he felt Starsky’s stiffness and became aware of his own.

Starsky

breathed deeply, feeling Hutch’s thudding heartbeat as he continued to slowly stroke Hutch’s chest and listen to his shallow, fast breathing. Gradually, he began to notice the distant chirping of crickets outside.

He continued caressing him gently, as he waited for Hutch’s heartbeat to slow and his breathing to become more even, until he knew that Hutch was asleep.

Then he snuggled closer and held him tight, listening to the soothing sounds of Hutch’s soft breathing and the crickets serenading their lovers. After a little while, Starsky drifted off to sleep, too.

The sequel to this story is Drought, aka The Butterfly and The Flower, Part 2.