The Last Days of May

The month of May holds many memories – and hopes.

For the Constrict 2011 conzine.

As holidays go, the Memorial Day weekend typically had held a quiet peace for Hutch. Running under the late spring sun after his sister, jasmine and lilac scenting the breeze, his mother looking sweetly attractive, laughing from her spot on a red checked tablecloth spread across the grass beneath one of the massive oaks that bordered the creek near their home. His father, reaching for a baseball bat and glove while sneaking a kiss from his wife.

Neighbors gathered with them; some prayed for the safety of family members fighting in Korea, while those in wars past brought their photos and their stories. Kenny and the other young boys listened, enraptured, as the tales were spun of heroism, bombs, best buddies, and pretty girls waiting at home for their soldier boys to return. The heroic romance of it all burned in Kenny’s heart and he stood proudly at his grandfather’s side, hefting the shiny medal and feeling his heart fill with an emotion he couldn’t name or understand.

Inevitably someone had a guitar, and another a fiddle, providing tunes from those long-lost days for grandparents to dance to and tiny children to clap, and they all set aside their sorrow and their pain for a moment in the sun on the last days of May.

*~*~*

“For the wages of sin is death…” Hutch quoted, shaking his head and holstering his gun. The dealer was long gone, having left a last, fatal pop for the unfortunate resident.

“Yeah, but we all die in the end anyway,” Starsky answered, using the blunt end of his own weapon to lift the blanket covering the body on the bed. “So we’re all just a buncha sinners.”

“That’s the basic idea. You gonna accept Christ as your savior and be forgiven?”

Starsky snorted. “I think Ma might give God a piece of her mind if I went and did that. But maybe we should have more fun, if death is all we get. Think that phone works?”

“Handkerchief, Starsk,” Hutch reminded. “Hey!” he mock-hollered as his own hanky was swiped from his back pocket. “Don’t you ever carry your own?”

“And put it where, huh?” Starsky wiggled his ass in his tight jeans. “Besides, you’re the choirboy who carries hankies, not me.” He gingerly grasped the receiver with white cotton and called the station. Hutch could still feel the pressure against his butt cheek where Starsky’s fingers had been.

That evening, after the coroner had come and prints were taken, they crashed on the sofa in front of Starsky’s television.

“What’s your worst sin?” Starsky asked, claiming Hutch’s discarded discs of pepperoni to pile onto his own pizza slice.

“Sin?” Hutch asked distractedly, trying to blot the worst of the grease from his dinner. “What?”

“Angel you look, but angel you ain’t, pal,” Starsky said around a mouthful of dripping cheese. “Didja ever steal anything or rob a bank?”

“Yeah, because robbing a bank was a surefire way to get into the academy, bozo.”

“Hey, IA might love to have something concrete on ya. So what, then?”

Hutch squirmed a little, pressing his thigh closer to Starsky’s, who didn’t seem to notice. Sins. The deadly list provided several options, and one in particular burned his soul daily. He took his touches where he could.

“Oh, the usual. Swiped candy from the store. Once I threw a rock through a garage window on a dare.”

“That all? You were an angel. Man, when I was a kid….”

Hutch listened with half an ear, more conscious of how his partner’s mouth moved when he talked, how his voice dropped when sharing something a little embarrassing, and how he never, ever moved his leg away from Hutch’s until it was necessary.

*~*~*

Alone in bed, Hutch thought back to the moment he realized his attraction to his partner. First week of the academy, rooming together. The flexing muscles as Starsky dressed, the casual way he’d walk naked to the shower. Quick reflexes and a quicker grin drew Hutch into Starsky’s web and behind the wall of his protection, a chemistry unmatched by any other academy team. Hutch devoted himself to covering his partner in the training field and watching him sleep at night, taking the sounds and scents into his own restless sleep. Moving into their own places after graduation was nearly a relief, except then Hutch would lie awake, recreating and imagining.

Graduation itself had been an exercise in self-control. Seeing his best friend in uniform blues and a shiny badge flipped a switch in Hutch’s heart. This beautiful man would be safe. Always safe. Hutch would always have his back–they WOULD be partners, dammit, so he could watch over him, always, forever, amen.

And when they’d marched and received their certificates, Starsky grabbed Hutch and hugged him hard, lifting him off the ground. Hutch felt himself redden amidst the booming laughter of their fellow graduates, and Starsky smiled that special smile, just for Hutch, and he felt his heart swell on that last day in May.

*~*~*

The memories of all these days and months and years flooded through him, carrying him away on a wave of choking tears and bitter regret. Sitting on Starsky’s sofa, staring at the darkened TV, smelling Starsky’s scents and tasting his beer, Hutch tipped back the bottle, hoping the last drop would be the one to wash away the horror and dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

IV’s fed his partner. A machine did his breathing. Electric paddles had shocked his heart back to an uncertain beat.

Hutch knew if Starsky could see himself, he’d say to pull the plug. He wouldn’t want to be like a machine the rest of his life, counting on the power to not go out just to stay alive.

Hutch held the real power. He could say it was time. Miriam Starsky, back in New York, had said she was glad it was Hutch having to decide, and not her, and that she’d be there soon, as soon as she could, but please wait until she did? She should be there to say goodbye.

Hutch agreed to anything and everything. When she arrived, she kissed her son, kissed Hutch and held him, then held Starsky’s hand for an hour without saying a word.

Hutch slept little, chasing leads around with Huggy as moral support and interim partner, unarmed but backing up Hutch’s soul nonetheless.

*~*~*

The May sunshine was overly hot, the winds high and dry. Hutch felt his skin roughen and dutifully lotioned up before his nightly ritual of talking to Starsky, holding his hand and hoping his words could be heard past the push and whoosh of the respirator and the watch-alarm beeps of the heart monitor.

“I’m here. You’re hurt but I’m waiting here for you to get better. Come back to me, pal. Your mom’s been here. She’s not doing well, either. She needs you, I need you. Huggy says he’s got a special waiting with your name on it. I’m not sure if that’s an enticement or a punishment, but there it is.

“The guys at the station are pulling extra shifts just to guard your door. But Starsk…I don’t know what to do anymore. I need you to help me. Wake up. Please.”

And the machines whooshed and beeped and the nurse tapped on the door, and Hutch would leave again, feeling the load weigh heavier each night.

And even sundown brought no relief. Hottest May on record. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, it reminded Hutch of the day John Blaine died, and the conversation he’d had with Starsky about Johnny hiding the truth in the closet because he was probably afraid of how loved ones would react to the truth, Starsky included.

It had made Starsky stop and think. Hutch wondered if he should have come clean then, too. Would it have made a difference in their relationship? He may never know.

I love you.

Lying on the bed, stripped naked in front of a fan blowing warm air around, Hutch snatched minutes of sleep here and there. He recalled a story Starsky had told him, after Durniak’s death, and he dreamt the images.

*~*~*

David’s tie wouldn’t knot right, and he furiously wiped away the angry tears with the heel of his hand. His father had taught him how to make a perfect Windsor but the lessons were failing today.

David knew that only three days before, his father would have stood right behind him, guiding him in the mirror to the correct placements of under and over and through.

Never again.

Another futile swipe at his face and David gave up. He started to ball the tie up in his fist, but then slumped, letting the fabric slide through his fingers and across the toe of his shoe, shiny from the shoe kit. His father had taught him how to do that, too. Buff and shine and swish. The scent of the bootblack would ever bring back memories of his father’s hand on David’s, guiding, brushing, polishing. Teaching him how to be a man. How to do things right, to be tall and proud and strong.

The creaky step spoke and David raised his head to find his mother watching him through tear-reddened eyes.

“Come. I’ll help you with it.”

And because David was a good boy and wanted his father to be proud of him, he obeyed, standing before his mother as she tied his tie for a policeman’s funeral on the last day in May.

*~*~*

He awoke with tears on his cheeks and his heart aching for the man he never knew, never met, who would be so proud of his son–strong, dedicated, honest, open.

He rose and walked to the dresser, sliding a small photo album from the top drawer. Inside, a photo of himself with his partner at their graduation.

So damned young and green. They knew it all and they would change this city. Run the bad guys out of town, and bask in the adulation of the citizenry.

But the city changed them. Gunther then tore them apart.

Gunther.

Hutch stared at himself in the mirror on the wall. Lit only by streetlights, his face fell into shadow, dark husks where his eyes should be. Empty.

No.

The boys they were, the young men in the academy, the sharp officers and dedicated detectives.

They had changed things. They did. That’s why they were persecuted now, being shot down in that famed blaze of glory.

No.

He dreamt again, of sliding bodies and slick tongues, his partner faceless, nameless, and then it was Starsky, his mouth open and eyes closed, moaning his name. Hutch moaned back, and awoke with his cock in hand, ready to burst.

One-two-three-four and he rocketed, inarticulate in his cry; his partner’s face the only thing he could see in the dark.

Afterwards, he drifted in his lassitude, imagining a hot summer day, a river, an inner tube, and his partner, floating next to him, no one around to interrupt. No one around to judge. No one to condemn loving as sin.

Just them. Free.

*~*~*

The linoleum was worn. Years of feet and gurney wheels, machinery and institutional cleansers had made their mark, eating away at what was once a new, bright and clean medical facility.

Hutch stared down at it, a blank slate for his blank thoughts. “I don’t know what to do, Starsk.”

Hutch felt a little guilty for feeling so barren. Starsky was off the ventilator–an incredibly good sign of recovery–but the coma continued to hold Starsky in its grip, hiding his soul from those who loved him.

Miriam had left a few days before, when the ventilator was removed. “You watch over my boy, Ken,” she’d whispered, holding his hand but her gaze ever directed at her son. “I will pray for him. And for you.”

Hutch had silently nodded, but his guilt overlaid any comfort her words would have given. Didn’t keep him safe, he thought. Never told him how I felt.

Some friend.

He bit his lip and shook his head at the memory, then rose and shuffled to the end of Starsky’s bed, looking out through the huge observation windows. He remembered being inside a similar room, quarantined, the people around him gowned and masked and always in a hurry to get out lest he infect them through their protections.

A note in lipstick and a criminal brought in to save Hutch’s life had been proof of Starsky’s affection and loyalty. And they got through it. They always did.

Until now.

A sigh, and he turned, weariness tugging at his body to lie down, rest, come back later.

But blue eyes greeted him. Blinking blue eyes, roaming the room and settling on a man whose weariness had rapidly turned to joy.

“Starsk? Starsk? You’re awake! Nurse! Nurse! He’s awake!”

*~*~*

Long after the doctors came to marvel at the miracle they had wrought, Hutch said goodbye to his drifting friend, hoping sleep would come as easily to him this night, now that the crisis had largely passed. Still enervated by happiness, Hutch walked on the beach near his home, remembering their last conversation.

“Don’t ever do that to me again, pal,” Hutch said.

Starsky grinned and then grew solemn. “I’ll try my damndest.”

“Good. I-I… dammit, Starsk. I love ya. I love ya more than you probably know.”

A crooked grin. “I think I might.”

Hutch squeezed his eyes tightly shut, sure Starsky didn’t know, until he felt a finger trace his cheekbone, then felt his chin cupped.

“C’mere. Down here.” And as Hutch bent lower, Starsky drew him even closer, until their lips touched and Hutch’s heart raced.

“Big galoot. Just wait until I’m outta this bed and into my own. Just wait.” The promise was delivered in a whisper, fading toward sleep. “Love ya.”

He stood at the edge of the surf, the increasing wind blowing his hair around. A flash in the distance, then a low rumble. The annual fight between spring and summer, the clash of cool and warm. A perfect partnership to create power and beauty, respect and fear.

Like he and his partner.

Rain spattered on his face, and he stripped off his jacket, opening his arms wide and his mouth open to catch the cool drops. “I love you, David Starsky!” he shouted, drowned by the crash of waves.

And he spun in a circle like a joyous child, dancing with the waves, laughing out loud in relief and joy on the last day of May.

Chapter End Notes:

With thanks to Kat for her help!