We'd seen each other in a dream
Seemed like he knew me
He looked right through me, yeah
Come on home...
He said with a smile
You don't have to love me...
          Magic Man -- Heart

        Starsky lay in Hutch's big brass bed and stared at the ceiling at the spot still marked by smudged fingerprinting dust where a tiny camera had once been hidden. He examined the spot through the stark black and white streaks of light coming in from the street lamps and wondered how Hutch had managed to fall asleep so completely, so quickly, when all Starsky could do was lay here and examine the ceiling. After an hour, he gave it up. Easing out of the bed as gently as he could, he padded into the kitchen. He poured himself some milk, then plopped himself on the couch.

    There was way too much stuff running around his brain. Right now, it felt as crowded as a New York City subway car at rush hour. All the people they knew. All the things that had happened in the last two days. All the confused memories of his childhood. All his confused feelings for Hutch. He wanted to pop his skull open, remove his brain, and pickle it for a few days, just to give himself a break.

    Instead, he reached for the phone. He had the impulsive urge to call some women and throw an impromptu party. Maybe if Hutch woke up with a shapely, affectionate, female blond in his bed, he'd remember where his heart -- and his urges -- really belonged and get over this foolishness. He probably should've given it up when he realized he couldn't remember a single woman's phone number, when he used to pride himself on how many he could keep memorized and stored in his ever-working cop's brain. He went to his jeans, pulled out his wallet and dug around for his slim address book. The first three numbers he tried weren't even connected anymore, and the fourth had been given to some guy who didn't appreciate the late night call. Instead of taking the hint, Starsky, in desperation, pressed on. He and Hutch had dated dozens of women. Somewhere in L.A. there had to be a woman who would at least talk to him!

    Finally, there was. It was Cindy, one of the lovely, open-minded stewardesses he and Hutch had dated. They'd each gone out with her at some point, and had even double-dated with friends of hers. A couple of those evenings had been pretty intense, as Starsky recalled. Apparently, Cindy recalled them as well -- but with a somewhat different slant.

    Her voice chilled the minute he'd identified himself.

    "I can't believe you had the nerve to call me!" Cindy said, in a low, angry tone. "I haven't heard a word from you in a year. You know, I've gone out with some twisted guys before, but you and your partner take the cake. It was tough enough getting one of you out alone without the other one before all this -- god knows, I should've been able to figure out your story without a calculator -- but for you to call me now? You always did have more balls than Hutch. If you think I'm going to see you, or try to get one of my friends to go along and try to cover for you two again -- "

    "Cindy, honey, wait. You don't understand -- "

    "I don't understand? You must think you're the first gay guys on the planet looking to cover your relationship with window dressing. Get a grip! You two were notorious among the stews before I even went out with you! But I figured, who cared if you were gay, or bi- or tri or whatever! You were cute, and you were fun, and Dave, you're a hell of a lay, but there isn't a woman in this town who'll be seen with you now! It would just make any woman look like the biggest fool on the planet."

    "Cindy," he stammered, "give me a chance to -- "

    "Apologize," she put in for him. "That's the only thing you can say now, Dave. Just apologize, and I can forget about this call. You know, every time we double-dated with Hutch, I never felt like you were there at all. I thought it was me. I thought I just wasn't fun enough, cute enough, bright enough, sexual enough. Imagine that! It used to depress the hell out of me. The two of you would be so wrapped up in each other, me and your partner's date might not as well have even been there! So, please, don't ask me to be your cover now. There isn't a person in L.A. who would believe it anyway. They'd probably just think me and the other girl were lesbians helping you out. I don't even know why you're bothering. Good night, Dave."

    And before he could apologize, or say anything else, she'd hung up in his ear. With a sigh, he tossed the address book in the trash.

    Eventually, when the stillness of the apartment started to get to him, and he'd read the same page of the same book for twenty minutes, he found himself walking to the TV, turning it on, rewinding the video tape of him and Hutch and playing it again, curling up on the couch to watch it alone. He told himself he was trying to find any more splicing spots that might give them a complete code number. But after watching it for two hours, over and over, he could no longer tell himself he was watching it with the objective eye of a cop. The truth was, he was watching it to see Hutch, to see his best friend fall insanely in love with him right before his eyes. It was an incredible metamorphosis, all of it so clearly visible in that open, handsome face. And the sickest thing about it was -- it made him feel good. Shit, if he was being completely honest, he'd admit that it turned him on like crazy.

    He remembered talking to Peter Whitelaw in his campaign office when they'd gone to interview him after John Blaine's death. Starsky had tried to keep his face neutral, but Whitelaw had seen the confusion -- really, the repugnance -- in his eyes, and had nailed him on it. "When you see two men together," Whitelaw had said right to him, "you think, `how ugly.'" And that was exactly what Starsky had been thinking at the time.

    But here, now, watching this tape, he didn't see that at all. How could he? Hutch was beautiful, radiant, and so open about his love it was something wonderful to behold. It made Starsky feel even dirtier. He didn't see love on his own face -- he saw lust -- pure, unmitigated, carnal hunger. The same kind of hunger he felt whenever some woman he'd courted all night finally eased into his arms and yielded.

    In all his life, his love for Hutch, his friendship for this one man above all others, was the purest, cleanest thing he'd ever known. It was that love that made him feel honorable, worthy, deserving. He loved Hutch with an innocence, an honesty, that he'd never found in any other part of his life. And now he'd sullied that. And so easily, too.

    He watched the tape again. Watching himself greedily gulp down Hutch's semen no longer made his stomach do flips. He was almost used to it now. At least he'd given his friend that small bit of pleasure. He shut off the set. This was getting him nowhere. He had so much guilt and confusion over all this he couldn't even jerk off successfully -- usually a sure-fire sleeping tablet for him. He wondered if he'd ever be able to enjoy sex with anyone again after this.

    He considered trying to sleep on the couch, but was afraid Hutch would see it as another rejection. With a weary sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair, hiked up his pajama bottoms, and headed back to bed. It wasn't like they had to be anywhere first thing in the morning. He might as well lend the security of his presence to his friend and examine the ceiling some more.

    He eased back into bed as carefully as he'd left. Hutch had been lying on his stomach before, but now he was curled on his side, fetus-like, body turned away from Starsky. He seemed tense, his hands curled into tight fists.

    Gently, Starsky rubbed his friend's back, trying to help him relax. Bad dreams, babe? He tried not to think of the intensely erotic, disturbing dreams that seemed to be the only kind he could have anymore.

    Still sleeping, Hutch responded to the soothing touch with a sigh, then made a small, troubled sound in his throat. Whatever was happening in his mind still held him captive.

    Man, I know what that's like, Starsky thought, enfolding the taut body in his arms, spooning up against the curved back. His knees fit perfectly behind Hutch's, and the comforting heat of Hutch's body was like a salve on his wounded soul. Pretendin' I'm helpin' you, when it's really the other way around. He cuddled against his friend, as he had during many long nights since the shooting.

    He remembered those first few weeks in the hospital. Unless he was wiped out on pain-killers, he couldn't sleep at all and he was too scared of getting addicted to them to use them too much. So, Hutch would crawl into the narrow bed with him and rub his back, and talk to him about nothing at all till he went out. Then he'd sleep like a baby.

    He pulled Hutch tighter against him, still feeling the tension in the sleeping body. What is it, babe? What's botherin' you -- besides me. Suddenly he became aware of Hutch's rump rubbing against him. He glanced at his friend's eyes, watched them moving frantically under his lids. Dreamin' so hard. Half afraid to look, Starsky allowed himself finally to glance at Hutch's groin. The blond had kicked off the sheets, and was wearing his cream, drawstring pajama bottoms. His erection was tenting the pajamas furiously, straining the light fabric. Starsky realized the subtle motion of Hutch's hips was his dream self attempting to hump. Oh, jeez! We're a little old for wet dreams, aren't we, Hutch?

    He thought about his own condition when he'd woken up this morning, how painful it had been to come up like that, unfulfilled, yearning.

    Nine months we shared a bed, never had this problem. Neither did they miss the pleasures of women, either, he realized. His head hurt some more.

    He kept rubbing Hutch's back, trying to ease him out of the dream. His friend responded to the attention, pressing back against him, sighing softly in his dream state.

    Hutch, should I wake you? I don't know what to do to help you that won't make things worse.

    It couldn't last much longer. Starsky knew that dreams could feel as if they went on for hours, but actually they only lasted minutes, or even seconds. He just wished he could ease his friend's longing. Well -- of course, he could --

    What am I thinkin'? That's how we got into this mess in the first place, `cause of my active imagination.

    Hutch got more vocal, moaning softly, his hips moving rhythmically. The dream was growing more intense.

    What am I doin' to you in your dream, Hutch? The same things you do to me in mine? He shut his eyes, his head pounding.

    Hutch muttered something, and Starsky feared it was his name. He pulled the slim body against him, holding him tight, rubbing his arms. "Easy, Hutch, easy." But Hutch only ground his ass into Starsky's groin, and whimpered.

    Starsky was intensely grateful that there was a bunched up mound of covers between his crotch and his partner's ass. After watching that film over and over, the last thing he needed was to act it out here with Hutch while his partner slept.

    Then Hutch latched on to one of Starsky's hands, dragging it down to his erection, pressing the palm against it. Stunned by the sudden move, Starsky peered into his friend's pale face, but the lids were shut tight, the mouth open, panting, the eyes tracking back and forth. Hell, Starsky had punched people in his sleep, so Hutch's action really wasn't that weird. Besides, the poor guy's cock was so hard, it had to be aching.

    Would it kill him to help out a friend?

    I'm here f'you, Hutch, just like I said. I mean it. It's not pity, either. I can't think o' no other way to help you. Just, please, don't wake up!

    Gently, carefully, he slid his left hand -- the one Hutch was gripping -- inside his partner's pajamas, and slowly took hold of the blond man's phallus. The radical action made Starsky shudder, and then, to his dismay, it made him hard as a rock. The wad of covers would hide that, though. And this couldn't possibly take more than a few seconds; Hutch had to be right on the edge.

    Damn, Hutch, you're so hard! So hot! And the skin of your dick's so soft -- like velvet --

    Starsky tried to shut his brain down and get to business; he wasn't supposed to be taking the scenic route! He was supposed to be helping his friend, not getting off on this. He didn't need to compound his own sins.

    He was in the perfect position to stroke his friend. Holding him like this was little different than stroking himself. He moved his hand lightly, wishing he had some lubricant, but knowing how to maximize his touch even without it. Hutch moaned, tossed his head, and humped hard into the comforting palm.

    Come on, babe, you gotta be close. Unconsciously, Starsky pulled Hutch tighter against him, burying his nose in the soft blond strands, smelling vanilla and pure Hutch. Sliding his right arm under his friend's waist, he rubbed the thumb of his right hand over the hickey on Hutch's stomach.

    A bubble of pre-come erupted from Hutch's slit and Starsky caught it, used it as lube and moved his hand expertly over the straining, swelling organ.

    Damn, you're big, Hutch. Bigger `n me, really. Can't believe I fit that monster in my mouth!

    Hutch's whole body suddenly went rigid and his cock swelled even harder, turning to steel, as the head flared.

    That's right, babe, come on. Give it up!

    Hutch's eyes jerked opened as he gasped and came in Starsky's hand, his erection spasming hard. He moaned softly in relief, and the sound tore through the cop. "Starsk?" Hutch murmured sleepily, "Babe?" He was still more asleep than awake.

    Oh, shit! Starsky thought, cringing, waiting for the explosion. "Ssssh," Starsky soothed. "Go back to sleep. You were dreaming."

    But Hutch had a death-grip on Starsky's left wrist, and the his left hand, sticky with semen, was still wrapped around Hutch's deflating cock.

    Awake now and fully aware, Hutch tensed and asked coolly, "Did we have another party and I slept through it? Or am I going to have to start worrying about you fucking me in my sleep? Maybe it would be more convenient if I slept in the raw?"

    "Don't be mad," Starsky begged, feeling ridiculous with his hand trapped in Hutch's pajamas.

    "I'm not sure how I feel," Hutch confessed, still breathing hard. "Wanna tell me what happened?"

    "You were having some weird dream. I've been havin' `em, too. Maybe it's from the drug. You were thrashin' around, making sounds -- and you were, well, kind of excited. And I -- "

    "You felt sorry for me," Hutch said coldly.

    Starsky sighed, wishing he had the nerve to ask for his hand back. "Not true. I tol' ya I been havin' weird dreams myself. This mornin'. And at the dojo. I knew what it felt like to wake up --"

    "Wanting me?" Hutch pressed.

    Starsky shut his eyes, and rested his forehead against his friend's shoulder. "It hurt me to see you like that, knowing it was `cause o' me. I thought I could get you through it, that you'd stay asleep and never know."

    "Just how heavy a sleeper do you think I am?" Hutch asked incredulously. He rolled onto his back, then propped himself up on his elbows and looked at the hand still buried in his pajama bottoms. "You just gonna leave that there, Starsk, or are you waiting for a tip?"

    Realizing that Hutch had finally released his wrist, Starsky jerked his hand away and rolled over, away from his partner, hoping Hutch wouldn't notice his own persistent arousal. "Okay, it was a bad idea." He reached for a tissue from the nightstand and cleaned his hand, keeping his back to the blond.

    "Your stomach okay?" Hutch asked quietly.

    "Yeah. No problem. Thanks for askin'," Starsky muttered. "I had good intentions, Hutch. You know how I hate to see you hurtin'."

    "Well, I appreciate your `good intentions,' Starsk, but -- " Hutch exhaled noisily and ran his hand through his tousled hair. "It was just weird to dream about, well, us, and wake up to find it wasn't all a dream. I mean, at the moment I woke, I thought, well, I guess I hoped -- "

    "You thought I finally remembered what happened," Starsky realized glumly. "You thought -- I was lovin' you the way you want me to."

    Starsky felt Hutch turn onto his side to face the darker man's back. Hutch propped his head on his hand, and said, "Let's just say this isn't helping me to get over you."

    Starsky nodded. "I guess I didn't think about that."

    "Either that," Hutch said mildly, "or you really don't want me to get over you."

    Starsky looked over his shoulder. His cock was simmering down, but was still too prominent for him to be comfortable rolling onto his back; he still had too much of a flagpole to go waving around. "That ain't true. I can prove it. I made some calls right after you went to sleep, tried to line us up some dates."

    Hutch raised his brows. "Really? With women?"

    "Well, a'course with women!" Starsky snapped, rolling back onto his side and refusing to look at Hutch's amused expression.

    "So, when are we going out? And with whom?"

    Starsky sighed and shut his eyes. "I said I tried. I didn't say it was happenin'. It -- it don't look good for us on that score, Hutch."

    The blond was silent for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry you had to find that out that way, Starsk, but I'm not surprised. But don't feel bad on my account. I'm not really interested -- "

    "You said you wanted to get over this -- over me!" Starsky protested.

    "No, that's not quite what I said. I said I can get over it. I'm a grown-up. I've dealt with this kind of thing before. I never said I wanted to. I don't see anything wrong with loving you, Starsk. You do. So, I'll get over it to make you more comfortable. But, don't let me cramp your style, partner. If you want to get out and party, be my guest. I promise not to sit home crying into my beer."

    "Very funny," Starsky grumbled.

    "So, uh, why were you up at this hour, calling women who didn't want to talk to you? You should have been asleep. If you were, you would've left me to handle my dream lovers all on my own."

    Starsky shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

    There was a silence between the two of them suddenly that could only be described as pregnant. Starsky realized that Hutch had a solution for Starsky's sleeplessness, but was hesitant to suggest it.

    Finally, Hutch couldn't resist. "Starsk?"

    To forestall being putting in the spot of refusing his friend again, Starsky said, "Wanna do somethin' for me, Hutch?"

    The blond waited a beat before saying in a low voice, "Anything, Starsky."

    "Remember how you used to rub my back in the hospital when I couldn't sleep? Like when my wounds used to ache so bad? That always made me feel good when you did that. I'd fall asleep while you were in the middle of it and wake up the next day feelin' great. Would you rub my back, Hutch?"

    He could almost feel the blond smile from that simple request. "Sure, Starsk. I can do that."

    Hutch left the bed for a moment and Starsky heard him enter the bathroom. When he returned, Hutch moved closer to Starsky in the bed, as Starsky rolled onto his stomach, shifting a little to make his semi-erection more comfortable. As he hugged his pillow, he felt Hutch get up on his knees and lean over him. He glanced over at his friend as Hutch poured the baby oil he'd retrieved from the john into his hands, then rubbed his palms together briskly so they would generate heat. He placed the warmed, oiled palms on Starsky's shoulder blades and started a gentle rubdown. It was not a deep massage, though Hutch had given him plenty of those, too, during his healing. This was something Tsuka had taught him. Hutch would tell him how his chakras were all out of alignment as he trailed lightly lubricated, heated fingertips over his shoulders and along his spine, tracing the path of his itchy, aching wounds as if he could pull the pain right out of them. And usually, he did. The film of oil helped keep the scars soft and flexible as they healed.

    "That's nice, Hutch," Starsky murmured into the pillow, as his friend's hands eased some of his tension.

    "Glad you like it," Hutch said softly. "I enjoy doing it."

    That made Starsky realize something. "Hutch, I -- what I did for you just now -- I felt, well, I felt kinda good doing something for you. Like that." He suddenly felt like his tongue was too big for his mouth.

    Hutch mulled that over for a moment or two, then asked, "Are you saying you enjoyed touching me?"

    Starsky closed his eyes, felt heat in his face. "I guess. Yeah. It's just -- "

    "What? Not the way you're supposed to feel with a guy?"

    Starsky sighed wearily. "Well, it's not! I guess I'm just kinda worried about us, Hutch. I mean, we're like two prisoners in a cell in this place, and -- "

    Hutch's hands worked back up to his neck and started over, feeling the tension surge anew. "Starsky, is that part of your problem, the whole prison mentality thing? Come on. We're not prisoners. Yeah, our social circle has dwindled a bit -- "

    "A bit?" Starsky replied, turning to look at his friend.

    Hutch pushed him back down on the bed. "Will you hold still?" The blond used more oil, and kneaded Starsky's back more forcefully. "Pardon me if I'm not terribly flattered by the comparison with convict sociology. Which one of us gets to play the tough, hardened, lifer or the sweet, naive fish?"

    "I didn't mean it like that, Hutch," Starsky mumbled, when, in fact, that was exactly what he had meant.

    Hutch rubbed his palms together again to make more heat, then cupped the biggest scars along Starsky's back, rubbing in the oil. The man shut his eyes blissfully. The damned things still itched and ached, especially when he was tense.

    "Starsk?" Hutch murmured as the prone cop basked in his friend's healing attention.

    "Mmmm?" Starsky muttered.

    "What happened to you when you were a kid?" Hutch asked.

    "Huh?" Starsky grunted. "Lotsa things happened to me when I was a kid."

    "When you called Russo out," Hutch went on, still massaging the scarred wounds, "then mopped the floor with him -- you wanted to urinate on him right in Huggy's bar."

    Starsky's eyes snapped open. He didn't remember that. "Did I -- do it?"

    "No, Huggy and I stopped you, but you really wanted to. I thought it was kind of weird, till you told me it was something that had happened to you when you were a kid. What happened, Starsky? Why would anyone do something like that to you?"

    "I -- I told you about that?" his voice cracked. He couldn't believe he'd talked about that.

    "How else would I know if you didn't tell me? Starsky, what's the story?"

    He shook his head. "I -- I never told no one `bout that, Hutch. No one. Don't make me talk about that."

    "About something that happened to you when you were a kid?" Hutch said with some surprise. "Starsk, you're a grown-up. You live clear across the country from New York. What difference could it make now?"

    He could feel Hutch's surprise when he sat up abruptly, swung his legs over the side of the bed. His whole body spoke of flight. The topic had deflated his cock more effectively than cold water. "Hutch. Don't ask me about that."

    Hutch moved over, sat next to him. "Oh, no you don't, partner. You're not pullin' that stuff on me. Not after what we've been through over these last two days. This childhood incident is significant. I've got the feeling it's part of the key to this whole thing, to you. To why you can't let yourself feel for me. Don't shut me out, Starsky. I want to know what happened. Why you're so freaked out about it. I've got the right to ask."

    Starsky nodded. Yes. Hutch had the right. He couldn't deny that. But, dammit, he never wanted to have to talk about that.

    Hutch put his warm hands back on Starsky's shoulders. "Now, look, you're all tense again." He got back in the bed to kneel behind the taut back and knead out the tension. "You don't have to look at me. You don't have to worry about what I'll think. But you do need to talk about this."

    Starsky sat, a fist-sized knot in his chest. He didn't even know where to start. Swallowing hard, he stared at the floor and concentrated on the feel of Hutch's hands. This was his partner, his best friend. If he couldn't tell him who could he tell? It was all old shit, water under the bridge, but still --

    "You know, I grew up in a tough neighborhood," he started lamely.

    "I know," Hutch said quietly. "That's why you're such a big, bad cop."

    "My dad was a cop, a beat cop, you knew that too, right?"

    "Uh-huh." Hutch worked on the column of Starsky's neck, where all the tension sat. He got off his knees and sat behind his partner, straddling Starsky's hips with his longer legs.

    Without even thinking about it, Starsky reached out, placed a hand on Hutch's knee, as if to anchor him there. "I had a friend
when I was a kid. Eddie. Tall kid. Kind'a gawky. Little younger'n me." He had to swallow again. "Blond."

    Hutch said nothing, just kept up the massage, rubbing the shoulder blades, and the nearest scars.

    "I was his best friend," Starsky said, and he could hear the misery in his own voice. "But -- it wasn't like us, Hutch. He wasn't really my best friend. I liked him an' all, but when I hit thirteen, suddenly, it became real important to me to fit in with the older kids. You know how that goes. And Eddie was kind of a geek. None of the guys in the neighborhood would have much to do with him, except for me. I think -- instinctively -- they must've figured what was goin' on with him -- and I was too dumb to pick up on it."

    Hutch stopped moving his hands, but only for a moment. "Was he -- ?"

    "Yeah. I think. I guess. Anyway, he was that way `bout me. Gay. It took me by surprise. Like I said, I was thirteen. Hadn't hit my growth yet, so I was kinda small, but my glands were in full gear. Had nothin' on my mind but sex. You know how that is. And one day, Eddie showed me how much he loved me. He jerked me off in this out-of-the-way spot in the park. No one had ever touched me sexually before, so it just about killed me. Next day, he went down on me, swallowed me. I thought I was gonna faint when he did that. It didn't matter to me that he was another guy -- it was my first sexual experience. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. He never asked me to touch him. I guess it was enough for him to have me. I dunno. It ain't like we spent any time talkin' about it. We'd just hang out, play ball, go to the movies, whatever, then sneak off now and then for a private party. I think I was the happiest kid in New York."

    "How long did that last?"

    "A year. Then my dad was killed. It changed me. I was so bitter, so full of anger. I took a lot of that out on Eddie. I was still tryin' to fit in with the older kids, but they pretty much let me know that as long as I hung around with Eddie, there was no place for me. I dropped him two or three times -- but -- I couldn't give it up. It was too good. All the guys ever talked about was gettin' laid or gettin' head, and I was the only one really gettin' any. And he was good at it, too. At least, it seemed that way to my limited experience. And he always took me back. Said he loved me. I just used to ignore it. Sometimes I'd say it
back while he was doin' me -- but it was a lie. I was just usin' him."

    Hutch's hands had slowed, but hadn't stopped, and their steady progression seemed to pull the story out of Starsky the same way they used to pull the pain out of his wounds.

    "I used that poor kid for my own benefit. I never gave him nothin'. That's the way I thought I had to be back then. To survive. And after Dad died, I got worse. Eddie was just a mouth to me. He wasn't even a person anymore."

    "Then what happened?" Hutch prodded, sensing, the way he always did, that Starsky was stalling.

    "What'd'ya think happened?" Starsky said snappishly. "We got caught!"

    "Your mom?" Hutch asked softly.

    "I wish!" Starsky said, remembering it so clearly. "I would'a been grounded for life and yelled at f' two weeks, but that would'a been nothin' compared to -- " He came to a halt.

    Hutch slid his arms around Starsky's chest and pressed close to his back. Using his hands to massage the muscles around his friend's collarbone and upper chest, while rubbing oil into the chest wounds, he whispered, "Tell me."

    "The guys caught us in the park. The whole mob. There was eight of `em." He broke out in a sweat and went rigid in Hutch's arms. "They beat the hell out of us, but I could handle that. It wasn't the first beatin' I'd had. I fought `em, too, till I couldn't no more. Then -- then, they dragged Eddie away. I could hear him cryin'. I tried to help him, but there were too many of `em. Shit, Hutch, to this day I don't know all that they did to him. The might've even raped him. Some of those guys were pushing seventeen, and they were gangsters already."

    "What happened to you?" Hutch asked pointedly.

    "You mean besides getting the royal shit kicked outta me? Couple of `em pissed on me. I know they did that to Eddie, too. And then, like that wasn't bad enough, the oldest, the leader, a big guy named Patrick -- he, uh, he made me blow him."

    Behind him, Hutch froze, completely repulsed no doubt. Starsky was incredibly grateful not to have to look in his face. He shivered as if cold.

    "He came in my mouth and when he did he shoved in so hard he hit my gag reflex and I puked all over him. It probably saved me from having to do the whole gang, but it got the shit kicked outta me some more. I lay there on the ground, hurtin' all over, reekin' o' piss, and pukin' my guts up for I don't know how long. Some passerby broke it up, and I crawled home. Nearly gave my mother a heart-attack."

    "What'd you tell her?" Hutch asked, still rubbing the rib and abddominal muscles.

    "Not a fuckin' thing. I took a bath, threw out my clothes and brushed my teeth for about an hour. Then I went to bed and cried like a baby all night. I wouldn't go to school after that. Wouldn't leave the house. I was terrified, and so humiliated I considered suicide for a few days."

    "What happened to Eddie?" Hutch asked.

    "No idea. When the party broke up he was no where to be seen -- not that I went lookin' for him. I never saw him again. Never spoke to him. Overheard my mother on the phone sayin' that his parents sent him to live with relatives in Florida. That's what gave her the idea."

    Hutch rested his forehead against Starsky's shoulder. "That's when they sent you to L.A.?"

    "Not right away. Ma didn't wanna do it. She'd just lost her husband. Givin' up her oldest son at that point was enough to break her heart. But I wanted to go. I jumped at the chance to go somewhere where no one knew me. Where I could leave the house without bein' called a faggot and worryin' about the guys gettin' me in the alley and makin' me do them. `Cause that's the way it would'a gone from then on, where I lived. When I got to L.A., I made sure there wasn't a girl in a twenty mile radius safe from me. And if anyone even suggested some guy was queer, I wouldn't even sit next to `em in class. I ain't proud of any of that, Hutch, but it was the only way I could cope. And I didn't change none, all the years I lived here. I was a lotta trouble for my aunt and uncle. Johnny Blaine lived next door, y'know, and he tried to channel all my anger into constructive stuff. He helped me a lot."

    "I understand now how hard it had to be for you to deal with discovering he was gay," Hutch remarked.

    "Yeah. One of your classic ironic twists, huh? Johnny Blaine made a decent man outta me, or at least, he started the process. I think if he hadn't been there for me when I was a kid, I'd a ended up in jail, or worse."

    Starsky paused, then added, "And then I met you in the Academy. And I dunno, somethin' about you made me look at myself, the way I was, who I was, how I treated people. You were always so fair, always so ready to look at the other person's side o'things, always ready to help, to give -- And people respected you for it. You helped me let go of a lot of that stuff, Hutch. You helped me stop bein' afraid of bein' open, honest, vulnerable. You made it okay again to let someone inside."

    Hutch was just holding him now, hugging him close, and it felt so good Starsky wanted to cry. He hugged the arms back and sucked in a breath to keep a grip on himself.

    "When I first saw that film in Dobey's office," Starsky murmured, "and saw myself goin' down on you -- I couldn't believe it. It brought all that stuff back so strong. I must'a been in love with you that night, Hutch. I can't think of anything else that would'a made me do that. But I could see that look on my face, too. The same look I had when Eddie would do me. I was usin' you, too, just like I useta use him. And it makes me sick inside."

    "Stop," Hutch begged him, holding him hard. "You didn't use me. You didn't! Starsky, don't you understand what's happened to you?"

    "Yeah," he grumbled, disgusted. "I unnerstand. I fucked up the best relationship I ever had in my life, my partnership with you. I unnerstand it'll never be the same again. That's what I unnerstand."

    Hutch pulled away from him and sat on the bed with his back to the edge so Starsky would have to face him. "Starsk, didn't you pay attention to any of that stuff we had to learn in the rape sensitivity classes we took a few months ago?"

    "Uh, yeah, sure, but -- "

    "Starsk, you're a rape victim!"

    Starsky shook his head. "Oh, come on, Hutch. It was just a blow job. It was gross and all, but -- "

    "That's classic victim thinking," Hutch insisted. "Diminishing what was done to you. That kid forced you to engage in an unwanted sexual act. He penetrated you. And all this pain inside you, all this anguish about what's happened to us is all from that, something you've never gotten over, or even really dealt with. And I'll tell you somethin' else. I know damned well Gunther found out about it somehow. I kept trying to figure out why he chose this particular vengence, and now it's all so clear -- "

    Starsky stared at Hutch, really looked at him for the first time. "Gunther -- but how -- ?"

    "Your mom said that people in the neighborhood had been telling Nicky things -- so someone's willing to talk about it."

    Starsky thought about that. "The guys that did us, the ones that aren't in jail now -- most of `em still live in the neighborhood. You never met any of `em -- I made sure o' that when we visited."

    "Gunther probably had our backgrounds checked out every which way from Sunday. He didn't want to just ruin our personal reputations, and our careers -- he was counting on your reaction to break up our partnership. That's why he did this instead of half a dozen other things he could've tried."

    Starsky's brow furrowed as he tried to put all the pieces together. His own personal anguish was still so strong, it was hard for him to accept what Hutch was telling him.

    "Oh, Starsk," Hutch said, hugging him hard, "I feel so bad for you. You've been carryin' this alone such a long time."

    "Well, I ain't carryin' it alone anymore," Starsky said hopefully, as he accepted the friendly embrace. "It was hard to talk about, but it's out now. I never wanted you to know that about me, Hutch, how I useta be. And after I put the moves on you like that, I just thought, now he knows the worst. The way I really am. But how I've always felt about you, Hutch, well -- it was like the sensei was sayin' about them samurai guys. It was honorable. And now that's gone."

    "Why?" Hutch whispered into his hair. "Why is it gone? Because we loved each other one night? Because other people know we did? Starsky, you've got this all mixed up in your head with that terrible day when you were a kid. If you could only remember what it was really like between us you wouldn't feel this way. It was beautiful, and right, and as honorable as love can ever be between two people. You didn't use me, you loved me, with the same open-hearted goodness that you showed me less than an hour ago when you tried to help me out of a bad dream. You offered me everything, even your body, you loved me so beautifully with your mouth -- and you asked for so little from me in return, just my touch, that's all you wanted. You even tried to stop me when I went down on you."

    "You almost make me believe it, Hutch," Starsky said quietly.

    The blond pulled away, so he could look into his friend's face. "I could show you, babe."

    Oh, shit! Starsky thought, clutching.

    Hutch touched his cheek tenderly. His voice was low. "You've been battling an erection the whole time we've been here. You're getting hard now. Believe me, Starsk, I'm totally attuned to your body, to its needs. You're not gonna be able to hide that stuff from me anymore. And your body remembers what your brain doesn't. Your body wants me to love you. I just wish your head would cooperate."

    His friend's discussing it only made the situation worse. He could feel his organ's selfish needs throbbing away. "It'll go away, Hutch. I'm not a kid anymore. Just `cause the flagpole's up don't mean I gotta salute."

    Hutch just smiled at him. "Yeah, but it's not gonna let you sleep. You solved my problem for me -- can't I do the same for you?"

    Starsky rolled his eyes and extricated himself from Hutch's embrace. "I gotta tell ya, Hutch, I never saw myself as the naive fish in that prison scenario -- but that's what I'm feelin' like now."

    Hutch backed off instantly. "Sorry, Starsk. I didn't mean to pressure you. I just -- I love you. And, as you said to me a few minutes ago, I hate to see you hurting. Or wanting. Especially -- when I want you. Want so much just to please you."

    "You always make everything sound so -- reasonable!" Starsky said irritably.

    "Well, what's unreasonable about two friends loving each other?" Hutch asked, frustration in his voice. "When I thought you were repelled by my touching you, it was a little easier to deal with, to back off."

    "You really thought that?" Starsky said, dismayed.

    "What was I supposed to think? You puked your heart out in Dobey's office the first time we saw the film, and the second time you went white as a sheet and broke out in a cold sweat. Now, I understand better what that was about. At least I think I do."

    Starsky knew he had to tell his friend the truth. He owed that to him. "Your touch could never repel me, Hutch. You brought me back from the dead, f'cryin' out loud. You nursed me day and night, eased my aches, cleaned up after me, bathed me, washed my hair. I don't feel safe at night unless you're in bed with me, so I can reach out and touch you whenever I need that reassurance. And when you touch me, or I touch you, that's what I get -- reassured. Hutch is there. Everything's gonna be okay."

    Hutch nodded, but Starsky could see the sorrow in him, the raw wanting, and it cut into him. Now he knew how Hutch must have felt when Starsky had come on to him so strong, so confident, wanting him so much. And frankly, his cock was killing him. It was aching and angry and wondering what the hell was wrong with him that he couldn't just let this happen.

    "Hey," Hutch said much more lightly than Starsky knew he really felt, "I know how to get you to sleep."

    "Yeah?" Starsky wondered, trying to keep the trepidation out of his voice.

    "Yeah." Hutch grinned. "I'll take you to the beach. Come on. You always fall asleep during total relaxation in yoga. Let's try it. Lay down. Get comfortable."

    "Okay," Starsky agreed, adjusting his persistent hard-on. He lay down on his back on his side of the bed, arms at his side, palms up. Hutch covered him with a sheet for warmth, and sat on his side of the bed in a lotus position.

    "Close your eyes, Starsk."

    Starsky obliged as Hutch led him through the exercise, having him tighten then relax, each separate muscle group until his entire body had tensed and relaxed from toes to scalp. He could feel the blood flowing into taut muscles, tight nerves, and bit by bit felt his unease flow out of him. Even his erection subsided some. Hutch's soothing, soft voice brought him through the relaxation, then built the image of the beach for him, and Starsky saw himself there, with the rushing ocean and the open sand, walking along the shore dressed in soft, white, cotton drawstring pants, no shoes, no shirt, just taking it easy. And beside him walked his friend, his partner, talking quietly, dressed the same, just being with him. He felt himself melting into the bed.

    Little by little, Hutch led him along, and the safety and security Starsky felt was hard to describe. When Hutch's voice hummed the om, Starsky felt the sacred word fill his heart, his soul. He watched the ocean run up along the beach over and over and remembered what Tsuka had said that afternoon. The ocean was like love.

    As the Hutch in the bed murmured the Om slowly and repetitively, the Hutch on the beach turned to Starsky and told him, "You're the ocean. I'm the beach. I'm standing here with my arms open, waiting for you. You run up, touch me, then run away, so afraid of our love. But that's okay. I can wait. I'm the beach, and I can wait forever." And he held his arms open, his face smiling, his heart as open and vulnerable as ever.

    The dark ocean rushed up, covering their feet, as warm as blood. It lapped at the endless, white beach as Hutch, in the bed, murmured the om, drawing the syllable out timelessly. Starsky, lying still beside him, gasped and felt his heart fill with longing, felt his phallus surge like the ocean and swell anew. A tear, a drop of saltwater, of ocean, slipped out from under one of Starsky's lids, and Hutch touched it, wiped it away. The Om hung in the air between them, as Starsky opened his eyes and looked at his friend.

    "You're not asleep," Hutch said, sounding disappointed.

    Struggling to speak, to express a single thought, Starsky captured the hand Hutch had used to wipe his tear. "I've got company on the beach."

    Hutch smiled happily, yet his eyes seemed sad. "Anyone I know?"

    "Yeah." He tugged the blond's hand, pulled it to his groin. "Hutch?"

    The taller man eased out of the lotus, slid his long legs down beside his friend's. "Yeah?" he asked huskily.

    Starsky pressed Hutch's palm against the hardened mound under the sheet. The blond shuddered. "I can't lie to you, Hutch. I don't know my own head anymore. Can't figger out how I feel, what I want -- sometimes I ain't even sure who I am. And -- I don't know if I love you the way you want me to. I just know that now--"

    "It's okay," Hutch soothed, petting his cloth-covered erection, gentling its anger, easing its terrible ache. "It's a big change for us. We don't have to jump into anything with both feet. We can just take it slow, one step at a time, see how we feel about things. I never want anything from you you don't want to give me. I don't want you to say what you don't mean. The love we've always had is more than enough for me. If -- we can find a little pleasure in each other, that would be nice. I don't ever want you to feel that kind of pressure from me. I only want what you want."

    "I don't know what I want!" Starsky complained.

    "Maybe we can find out together," Hutch suggested, still fondling him.

    "That -- that feels good, Hutch, you touching me like that," Starsky whispered, as if he feared saying it too loud.

    "That's all I want, babe. To make you feel good. To make you happy. Will you let me try?"

    Starsky swallowed hard and nodded.

    Hutch smiled and eased closer. His body heat warmed Starsky, feeling comfortable and familiar. "Try to relax. Shut your eyes."

    He obliged, without realizing that shutting out the visual distraction of Hutch's handsome face would only make the sensations that much more intense. Hutch toyed with his hard-on gently, as if trying to get him used to the feeling of that big masculine hand petting him, giving him an intense, scary pleasure.

    "All you have to do is say something," Hutch murmured to him, "and I'll stop, right away. If you're uncomfortable. Unwilling. If I'm not pleasing you."

    Starsky snorted as desire raced along his nerves. "Not pleasin' me? Shit, Hutch, you're too good at this to not please me."

    "Am I?" Hutch asked, and Starsky could hear genuine surprise in his voice. He tightened his hand, moved it more confidently. Starsky's hips thrust up of their own volition. He couldn't not move, couldn't stop it if he tried.

    Hutch slid his left arm under his partner and drew him closer, pressed them together. Starsky returned the embrace, wanting to be nearer, needing the warmth, the closeness. He pressed his open hand against Hutch's back, feeling his strength, his familiarity during this oddly unfamiliar act. The blond released his partner's phallus for a moment, then, after a pause, slid his hand under the sheet and into Starsky's pajamas.

    "Hutch!" he hissed, his eyes snapping open as his friend gently took hold of him. Hutch must've taken the time to collect some massage oil, because his palm was wonderfully slick and warm and sensuous and that made everything about a million times more intense.

    "I'm here," Hutch reassured him, murmuring into his ear. "Hutch is here. Everything's okay."

    "Oh, damn!" Starsky groaned, surging up into that warm, oiled grip. Hutch handled him like a pro, sliding his hand along the length of him, fondling his crown, slipping down to cup his tight sac. "Hutch!" He was nearly breathless with need. He pumped into the hand, felt it tighten around him, as jolts of pleasure rocketed up his spine, down his legs.

    "Want me to stop?" Hutch murmured worriedly.

    He could feel Hutch's breath on his cheek, against his ear. It was making him wild, making everything that much more potent.

    "No, god, no, please -- don't stop, babe!" Starsky moaned, thrusting up and up, like the ocean pounding on the shore.

    "Don't worry," Hutch promised, his voice harsh, "I won't. I love giving you this, Starsk."

    Starsky opened his eyes, looked at the man lying so close to him, so willingly pleasing him. "It's good, Hutch!" he managed to say. "You're really good to me."

    "I'd give you anything, Starsk. Please you anyway you'd like." Hutch whispered, body taut.

    "Yeah? That's nice," Starsky gasped. "Then give me some oil."

    Hutch blinked, confused, slowing his stroke which only made the thrusting cop groan.

    "Come on," Starsky insisted, "gimme some."

    Watching him with confusion, Hutch released his friend and moved toward the bottle. He pumped a dollop in Starsky's outstretched left hand.

    "Too lonely like this, Hutch," Starsky complained breathlessly, and reached for him, sliding the oiled hand into Hutch's creme colored pajamas. He tried really hard to be gentle with Hutch but his hand was shaking and he knew he gripped too hard by the way his friend jumped.

    "Starsk!" the blond gasped. "What -- ? You already -- ?"

    No sooner did Starsky take hold of his companion's flesh than the flaccid organ sprang to life in his grip, the spongy flesh firming, building heat and size.

    "Oh, yeah," Starsky sighed as he stroked his friend to hardness. "Oh, yeah." His slick hand moved easily over the heated, swelling organ. He closed his eyes again and waited for Hutch to catch up.

    It didn't take him long. He reached for Starsky, rolling close to him, pulling the two of them tighter together as he took possession of the dusky phallus and slid his palm over the big organ, thrilling it, enraging it. Their two forearms rubbed together, as their right and left hands pleasured each other, crossing wrists as they did.

    "So nice, Starsk!" Hutch moaned into his ear. He sounded amazed, completely surprised, like he couldn't believe his good fortune. "So good for me!" Starsky felt Hutch's dry lips brush lightly against his temple.

    Starsky choked back an inarticulate sound of pleasure as Hutch worked him, his palm as smooth, as supple as a pro. He could barely concentrate on what he was doing, his friend's hand felt so good on him. He realized dimly that soon both of them were humping hard, working slavishly toward their mutual pleasure. He couldn't believe how good, how right it felt to be doing this with Hutch, or how practiced they seemed at it. He'd had a hundred women give him hand jobs, but that had all been foreplay, his mind distractedly anticipating the next step. He hadn't been that focused on a single sexual moment, enjoying it solely for its purity of sensation, since he had been a kid. And this act, this instant with Hutch, was as white-hot and intense as that had been in its innocence. Hutch was touching him. Hutch.

    The blond rubbed his face against Starsky's like a cat begging to be petted. He brushed his lips against Starsky's forehead, his cheek, his ear, but he didn't kiss, as if he were terrified that would break the spell or push Starsky past what he could endure at this moment. And his instincts were right. This was all Starsky could handle, being stroked and touched and played with by his best friend, his male partner. Starsky felt as if he were on the razor's edge of what his mind could endure, and only the powerful waves of physical pleasure were rooting him to this spot, where his friend could touch him and love him and he could bear it. It was too beautiful to endure, too wonderful to permit. He pressed his own face into Hutch's shoulder, as if to hide.

    "Hutch!" Starsky gasped, needing to tell him how his heart was filling with a feeling too powerful for him to contain, how his soul felt conflicted by the security of Hutch's presence and the scary reality of his powerful sexuality, how his body rejoiced in his friend's touch that was so sweetly sexual Starsky didn't think he could survive it. But he had no words, no words at all to tell Hutch any of these things, and could only call out his name with a desperate hunger. "Hutch!"

    "I know," Hutch soothed, in spite of his own excitement, his own hips thrusting into Starsky's strong, demanding grip. "I know, babe. Me, too."

    Hutch's hand tightened, and it felt like he was squeezing Starsky's heart, not his cock. He shuddered wildly, needing completion like he'd never needed anything. He tried to move closer to Hutch, wanting to crawl inside him, as his mouth found Hutch's ear.

    "Can we do this together?" he breathed. "I want that. Me and thee. Together?" Would Hutch even understand what he meant, that he wanted them to come together, at the same time? He wasn't even sure if he understood himself.

    "I'm so close," Hutch said in answer. The big blond body was wracked with a violent shudder and Starsky realized it was from his warm breath still blowing in Hutch's ear. It amazed him that such a simple thing could affect his partner so much. He brushed his lips against the ear and Hutch twitched, grew taut. Starsky smiled.

    "Me, too," Starsky told him, speaking softly in that ear, keeping his voice low, his breath hot. "Come with me, babe. Give me all you got. I really want it."

    Hutch trembled against him, making a low, painful animal sound in his throat. His hand pulled at Starsky's cock desperately, wanting him, needing him. Hutch's beautiful face was glowing with pleasure, pleasure Starsky was giving him. It made him want to weep, but he wasn't sure why.

    But then it was too much for him, coming on him so quickly he was taken by surprise. He gasped, "Oh, Hutch!" and it happened. His cock jerked, his gut tightened, and he erupted in short, hard spasms, spewing heat and liquid everywhere. Hutch cried out one short exclamation and joined him, and the joy of that excited him so much, he spasmed again, wildly, nearly fainting. He kept on coming, as did Hutch, and the two of them trembled and shuddered out of control for long moments of suspended time. Starsky squeezed his eyes shut so tight he actually saw stars, and his legs trembled violently and went totally weak.

    When it was over, all he could do was lay there like a rag, completely limp, gasping for air. All over a simple hand-job. It was unreal. It made no sense. How could it be?

    Hutch's arms surrounded him, pulled him nearly on top of the blond. He could feel the big body trembling like a tuning fork that had just struck a pure note. Weakly, he tried to hug his friend, but could barely move his arms, so he buried his face in Hutch's neck and tried to find his wind.

    "You okay?" Hutch whispered roughly, sounding scared. "Starsk? Gonna be sick?" The big Nordic cop was holding Starsky so tight he could barely catch his breath.

    But Starsky didn't have the strength to ask for release -- and didn't want to. All his security was right here in these arms. He'd never felt safer, more secure in his entire life. They were glued together by semen, by salt water, by ocean, and that was fine. At least for now.

    "M'okay," Starsky muttered wearily into his friend's neck. "Feel good. M'okay." Hutch nodded, as if partially reassured, but Starsky knew he needed more. "That was -- incredible, Hutch."

    Hutch nodded, his body calming. "Didn't you think we'd be as good at that as we are at everything else?"

    For some reason, that struck Starsky funny, and he chuckled. Hutch was right. They were the perfect team -- of course, they'd be as good at pleasing each other as they were at catching bad guys, being cops, being friends. It was the samurai in them that made it so good, he decided.

    "Think you can sleep now?" Hutch asked, and Starsky had the sense that his whole body was smiling.

    "Try and stop me," Starsky muttured, snuggling closer to the warm, musk-scented skin. "You're so good to me, Hutch. Don't deserve you."

    He felt Hutch's mouth brush against his forehead and into his hair in that gesture that was not quite a kiss. "You deserve so much more, babe. Just sleep now. I've got you. Everything's gonna be okay."

    Starsky knew Hutch wouldn't deliberately lie to him, even though that statement was an impossibility. They were both standing on a slippery slope, the sand crumbling beneath their feet. The world wouldn't let them love each other, and yet their souls demanded it. How they would keep themselves on an even keel, Starsky had no idea. He was frightened and thrilled all at the same time, and still could not articulate his feelings. All he knew was at this one moment, he felt satisfied and secure, and really happy. How much happiness he'd be permitted with his friend, he didn't know. How much pleasure he could allow his friend to give him, was also unknown. And his brain, which couldn't resolve this problem, refused to work on it anymore, and simply shut down.

    Snuggling against his best friend, Starsky sagged into sleep, feeling Hutch join him, and hoped they'd both end up on the same beach.

  The love is the evening breeze touching your skin
A gentle, sweet singing of a breeze in the wind
The whisper that calls out to you in the night
And kisses your ear in the early moonlight
And you don't need to wonder, you're doin fine
My love, the pleasure's mine
To go crazy on you
Crazy on you
Crazy on You
               -- Heart

CHAPTER 6