Words

Some “wordy” competition.

The last of the evening news petered out, and Hutch took a moment to soak in his surroundings. The old house shifted and creaked and sighed, Starsky’s schoolhouse clocked ticked away in the kitchen. Ocean waves broke in the distance. The man asleep at his side stirred and mumbled and woke with a stretch and a groan.

“Hutch?”

“Right here.”

Starsky’s soft “Good” was in his smile.

Grabbing the beer bottle Hutch held between his legs, Starsky finished it off and headed toward their bedroom, giving a long healthy belch on his way.

“Pig.”

“You just call me a pig, pig?”

Arms circled Hutch from behind, lips found a shoulder. “Asked you a question.”

“Well, I did mean it in the most possibly kindest way.”

“Of course you did. Ready for bed?”

Hutch turned in Starsky’s arms and returned the embrace, wishing they could sleep through the night like this, but thinking horizontal had its attributes.

“Starsk?”

“Hmm?”

“You mean the world to me, babe.”

Starsky smiled. “I love you, sweetheart.”

Hutch grinned. “I adore you, darling.”

“I cherish everything about you, sugar.”

“Je t’aime.”

“Tame?”

“It’s French…”

Starsky held Hutch’s face between his hands while he slipped his tongue into Hutch’s mouth, wanting to watch surprise fade into desire, wanting to see the instant flush appear. Hutch didn’t disappoint him.

“See, baby? I know French, too.”

“Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and do that to me again.”