White

He opened his eyes to white.

Not a harsh white, but soft. Gentle, fluffy, cozy. Clean. Fresh. Not blankness, either, but more like a possibility.

He found himself aware of a generous bed, his self tucked neatly into smooth cotton sheets, topped with a shiny, pearlescent comforter. A perfect pillow cradled his head. Not his own bed, but yet wholly his.

Something soft kissed his face, ruffled into the waves of his hair, caressing. He turned toward it and saw just a few feet away long, sheer white curtains gently billowing away from a pretty, multi-paned window, beyond which lay only more whiteness. There were unadorned walls around him, and perhaps a floor but it hid itself from him. The walls expanded and contracted as he wished and he amused himself with them.

The quiet was soothing. Not silence, but quiet. He could feel his own heartbeat, the thrum of blood in his veins. He sensed a vibration, a gentle rumble. It lulled him, like music.

He took a deep breath, and relaxed. Breathe, and relax. It was all he wanted to do, all he needed to do. A return to sleep beckoned, comfortingly, and he saw no reason to resist it. He fell into its welcoming arms with a sigh.

When he awoke again the room had changed. Still white, but energy crackled around him. It did not frighten him, for it was a positive charge that enervated him, sent a thrill of joy through him and looked around for its source.

Another bed had joined his in the room, mirroring his. Another body lay tucked in, the breeze from the window stirring the strands of his hair. A striking blue gaze met his own.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “You shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“It’s better this way.”

“For whom?”

“You.”

“What’s me without you?”

He sighed. “Someone had to be first. Better that it’s me.”

“You make it sound like you’re dead. Or that we’re dead.”

He pondered that for a moment, considering. “If I’m not dead, and you’re not dead, then where are we?”

“What does it feel like?”

He pondered that, too. “Like I’m…between.”

“Between what?”

“Life. And…death.”

The other man nodded. “I want you to come back to the life part.”

He turned onto his side, propping his head up with a bent elbow, and realized he was nude. The breeze from the window smoothed down his back, brushing the sheet around his waist. “Is that where you are?”

“I think so. Yes. I think I’m only asleep.”

“And what am I doing?”

“You’re in a coma.”

“Oh.” He looked beyond the man in the other bed and saw that something had appeared on that wall. Too small to see clearly, but it seemed to be growing larger. “Where are you sleeping?”

The blue gaze turned inward, as if searching. “I’m in your bed. In your apartment.”

“And where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital. You were shot.”

The image snapped to full size then, the wall disappearing into a gruesome scene, with screaming tires and fiery hot bullets pumping themselves into his body and out again. Hot black pavement rushed up to meet him. His head hit and then rested against curved steel.

“HUTCH!”

He felt himself cry out, but didn’t hear it. The image flashed – his partner staring dumbly at him from so far away, then myriad shouts and the thumping sound of feet running toward him, drowning out the thumping of his own heart as it slowed…and slowed…and slowed.

And stopped.

*~*~*

He opened his eyes to white.

Not a harsh white, but soft. Gentle, fluffy, cozy. Clean. Fresh. Not blankness, either, but more like a possibility.

He found himself aware of a generous bed, his self tucked neatly into smooth cotton sheets, topped with a shiny, pearlescent comforter. A perfect pillow cradled his head. Not his own bed, but yet wholly his.

Something soft kissed his face, ruffled into the waves of his hair, caressing. He turned toward it and saw Hutch’s face lying near his, Hutch’s fingertips tracing his features.

“I’m right here,” Hutch said. “I’m right here.”

“I died, didn’t I?”

Hutch smiled sadly. “Only for a few moments.”

“But it hurt you.”

“My heart, yes.”

He closed his eyes again, letting the caressing fingers soothe him. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know.”

He slept.

*~*~*

When he awoke the third time, he found himself cradled in strong arms, with the long body they belonged to bent around his like a spoon. Even breathing meant sleeping. The bed across the white room lay empty and as he settled himself more snugly against Hutch, that bed shimmered and then vanished.

Vaguely he wondered at why he wasn’t horrified at the thought of being in bed with his partner, but let it float away from him on the gentle breeze. He felt far too comfortable, and too safe, to let it cling.

The wall that had shown him his moment of pain had softened back to its peaceful white, but he could see a new spot growing. It did not feel as if it would frighten him, though, not like the first one did.

As it grew he realized that this time, the future displayed itself. From his safe cocoon built with Hutch’s love, he watched, knowing that what he saw could be true, would be true.

But he also knew that it meant he would have to wake up back in life. He would have to leave this comfortable, peaceful space between and face walking a long, painful road.

He turned his body over in the generous bed, felt the crisp white sheet slip around his waist and the comforter’s gentle weight upon his legs, and smiled as Hutch muttered and clucked while they both resettled themselves in each others’ arms. He rested his head against his partner’s, breathed his breaths, synchronized their heartbeats.

He focused on the beloved face before him, knowing those blue eyes were about to open.

He wanted this comfort. This love, this space, this touch and care. His body responded to the closeness, his cock filling and rising, bumping against Hutch’s. Their mouths met, kissing deeply. He pushed against Hutch’s body, cradling his head with his hands, meeting him thrust for thrust, gasp for gasp.

“I’ll give this to you, Starsk. I promise. I love you. I want you. I always have. Come with me, Starsk. Come with me. Come with… ”

*~*~*

His eyes remained closed. Light glowed red beyond his eyelids, but he couldn’t seem to open them to see.

Nothing felt the same. The breeze was gone. The humming was gone. Something creaked nearby, as if someone shifted position on a chair.

A voice, familiar but strained, spoke. “I don’t know what to do, Starsk. I’m pushing the odds.”

His nose itched. He twitched it.

“What if…?” A pause. “What if.”

A sigh. “Oh, man. What am I talking about?”

The chair creaked again, and he heard a sigh, then footsteps walking away.

Don’t go! As it had been in the space between, his voice didn’t work beyond the confines of his mind.

He opened his eyes.

The room was white, but starkly so. No gentle breeze, no expanding walls. No reassuring, quiet music.

No strong arms around him, no body pressed against his.

He wanted that back, here, in life.

Was it only a dream?

Hutch stood with his back to Starsky, hunched and alone. A nurse in a white uniform and a red sweater sat reading a book. But Starsky didn’t care about her.

He focused on his would-be lover.

Turn around, he thought. Hutch, turn around. I’m here.

And when Hutch did, Starsky knew it had been true, hadn’t been a dream.

Starsky smiled, and knew.

~end

August, 2008

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