Starsky flourished his cards happily. "That's…lessee…six hundred and fifty-two thousand dollars you owe me. Pay up."
Hutch snorted. "Take it out of the eight hundred thousand you owe me from Monopoly." He rose from the couch and, stretching, wandered to a window to stare outside. The dense grey haze boiled up against the glass like smoke, and he had the sudden irrational notion that it wanted to ooze in and suffocate him. He shivered and turned away to find Starsky's eyes fixed on him with fond exasperation and a little sympathy.
"Forget it, Hutch. You're not going out there, I don't care if I have to handcuff you to a chair."
"Starsky, I'm going stir-crazy! I need to stretch my legs and walk off a little of this excess energy before I--" Frustrated, he broke off and headed for the door, but Starsky was there before him, arms and legs spread to block his way.
"Oh, for God's sake--! I'll stay on the sidewalk, okay?"
Starsky scowled and crossed his arms. "I'm not worried about you staying on the sidewalk, blintz. It's the guys in cars that get up on it with you that scare me."
Outside a screech of tires was followed by the crunch of impacting metal and loud curses, and Starsky shook a pugnacious finger under Hutch's nose.
"You hear that? What'd I say, huh? Fog heavier'n Aunt Rose's kreplach, and there are still goddamned fools out there driving in it. And you, my friend, are not going to be the goddamned fool who gets mashed into meatloaf by one of 'em. Got it?" He thrust his face into Hutch's.
Hutch glowered, sighed and muttered.
"What was that?" Smirking, Starsky cupped his hand behind his ear.
"I said maybe you're right, okay? But I'm warning you, if I go nuts and start shooting up your apartment, you've only got yourself to blame." He put a hand on the doorknob. "We should go out and make sure--"
"Geeze!" Starsky said loudly. "What does it take? Listen! If there's no personal injury, and going by the amount of swearing everybody's obviously in one piece, they can sort it out for themselves. We're staying put!"
Hutch suffered his hand to be pried from the doorknob and allowed Starsky to prod him back toward the couch. Damn Starsky, anyway. If he hadn't wasted half a day in the Dobeys' garage on his fruitless search for the wading boots Cap had apparently sworn were in there somewhere, they'd have been at their campsite far away from the damned fog. Hutch would have bought him some damned wading boots, but no, Starsky had to do things his way, as always, and here they were stuck in his damned apartment with three days' worth of groceries and a TV set. Starsky's idea of heaven, maybe, but not Hutch's, that was for damn sure.
He'd survived their crappier-than-usual week by visualizing long swims and longer walks interspersed with hours on the lake, fishing pole in hand and not a constructive thought in his head. What did he have instead? Long board games and longer card games, interspersed with hours of boob tube and not a thought in Starsky's head.
That was a little mean-spirited, he thought with a pinch of guilt. Starsk had been trying, after all. Once he'd agreed to the camping trip he'd thrown himself into the preparations with characteristic enthusiasm, and it wasn't fair of Hutch to punish him for the lousy weather. Even if it was his fault they were stuck in it.
Ah, hell. Maybe a little alone time would help.
He moved away from Starsky's hand. "I'm going to take a shower."
Starsky's brows drew together, then ascended toward his hairline. "Shower. In the middle of the afternoon. Good idea. You could use a little… relaxation."
He made the classic motion and snickered, and Hutch fantasized briefly about smacking him so hard he stayed unconscious until the fog lifted and Hutch could get the hell out. Of. There.
"Is that your adolescent way of asking if I'm going to beat off in the shower? Why don't I just do it out here so you can watch? What's this preoccupation with my sex life you're developing?"
To his astonishment, Starsky's face flamed. "You wish," he grumbled, but he didn't meet Hutch's eyes.
Whoa-ho. Finally this deadly dull weekend was looking up: time spent tormenting Starsky was never time wasted. He moved closer.
"Starsk? Something you want to tell me?"
Starsky grimaced, cracked his neck and tried, unsuccessfully, to stuff his hands into his jeans pockets. The gesture drew Hutch's attention to the interest that Dave Junior seemed to be taking in the conversation.
Not that that necessarily meant anything. Starsky could pop a chub in a high wind and he'd long since stopped being flustered by it; all Hutch's attempts to razz him about his teenage glands were met with variations on the theme of "nyah, nyah, you're just jealous."
Hutch arranged his features into what he trusted was an expression of sincerity. "Seriously, Starsk, you know you can tell me anything."
"Yeah? You won't make fun of me?"
"Of course not, buddy. Wouldn't dream of it." Hutch hoped Starsky wouldn't notice the crossed fingers hidden behind his back.
"Take your hands out from behind your back and say that again, buddy." Starsky was scowling again, and Hutch hesitated between angering him further, thus risking a major sulk, and biting the bullet.
Two more days housebound with a sulking Starsky. He chose the bullet, and extended a conciliatory hand. "Come on, Starsk--"
"No, forget it. Go and take your 'shower.'" He surrounded the word with finger-wriggled quotes and rolled his eyes, then slouched onto the couch and picked up his beer. He took a mouthful and made a disgusted face. "Warm," he said, and went to the kitchen, pointedly not asking Hutch if he, too, wanted a fresh one.
Hutch felt a little guilty again. Maybe he'd gone a bit too far, considering they couldn't get away from each other to cool off.
Starsky made a few more clattering "I'm pissed off at you" noises in the kitchen, and finally came back with beer in hand. He switched on the TV and sat as far as possible from Hutch.
Now Hutch really felt bad.
He switched off the TV over Starsky's protests, and, propping a hip on the arm of Starsky's chair, appropriated the bottle and tilted it to his lips. Starsky watched from the corners of his eyes as Hutch swallowed, and humphed when he tried to return the beer.
"I suppose this is your idea of an apology? Stealing my beer and drinking it?"
Shrugging, Hutch flashed him a wry smile. "Is it working?"
"Are you gonna act like a human being or not?"
"Absolutely, Starsk. If you still want to tell me." And now that he wasn't just mining this for its entertainment value he was curious, and maybe a little concerned. He squeezed Starsky's shoulder and proffered the beer again.
Starsky stared at him, shook his head and left the chair to dig through the liquor cabinet. He emerged with a bottle of Southern Comfort and two shot glasses, and waved them at Hutch in a semaphore that apparently meant he wanted Hutch to take the chair in his place. Sitting on the couch, he carefully poured them each a shot.
Hutch held up his--or rather, Starsky's--beer. "Thanks, but I'm good to-"
"Drink. Or I don't talk. You're not going to be the only sober one in this conversation." He downed his shot, licked his lips and poured another, which immediately went the way of the first.
Hutch was beginning to get alarmed when Starsky shook out his shoulders, shot his cuffs and poured a third shot, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when he merely sipped it. "Drink!" Starsky commanded again, and the orange burn was sliding down Hutch's throat before he realized he'd obeyed.
"Okay," Starsky said, more to himself than to Hutch. "Okay." He took a deep breath. "You remember when we were supposed to double-date Kelly and Laura, and Laura's flight was delayed so the two of us took Kelly out?"
Ah. Hutch remembered that night very well. He held out his glass, and Starsky refilled it.
"Neither of us wanted to worry about staying sober to drive, so we took a taxi to pick her up. We had cocktails in the lounge while we waited for our table, remember? And two bottles of wine with dinner, and Irish coffee afterwards. But we weren't bombed, just really loose and happy. On the way home we all crowded into the back seat of the cab with Kelly in the middle, and she kept giggling and leaning her head on my shoulder on the right turns and yours on the left ones. And she told us how good we smelled, and what a nice sandwich we made."
Starsky's glass was empty once again; he refilled it abstractedly. Forgetting about the drink in his other hand, Hutch sent some beer down his suddenly dry throat.
"My place was the first stop, remember? And I got out, and we both looked at Kelly and then at each other, because whose date was she supposed to be, anyway? We didn't ever decide who was dating who beforehand. So then Kelly looked at you, and then at me, and we were all looking at each other and laughin' like a bunch of maniacs, and Kelly pulled you out of the cab with her and we paid off the driver and practically fell over each other getting up here.
"When we got inside you took your coat off and I helped her off with hers, and we all looked at each other again, and we just knew, without anybody saying, what was going to happen."
Yes, that was exactly how it had been. Hutch hadn't thought about that night in a long while, but he could see it before him now: Kelly's quickened breath as she looked from one to the other of them, Starsky's eyes brightening with anticipation, his own languor from too much good food and drink overcome by the sudden surge of wanting.
"We got into the bedroom somehow and we wouldn't let Kelly undress herself; we did it for her, each rolling a stocking down her leg, you on your knees in front of her stroking her thighs while I unbuttoned her shirt."
Hutch's cock nudged him at the memory, and he set down his beer. This time he held the Southern Comfort's warmth against his tongue for a time before he let it trickle down his throat. He was oddly content to sink into the chair, hand balanced loosely above his groin, and listen to Starsky talk; he was starting to feel the heat of liquor and story, and there was always the shower after Starsky got this off his chest.
"I thought we'd go on the same way, both making love to her at the same time the way we usually did, but you wanted me to go first." He glanced at Hutch with a small smile. "Kinda gave me a little performance anxiety at first. 'Specially when you sat in that chair by the foot of the bed. But I could see you were on the simmer, wanting to make it last, and Kelly knew it too, and we were really on the same wavelength, into each other but wanting to make it hot for you as well."
Oh, yes, Hutch remembered that: slouching naked, thighs splayed, lazily touching himself in the ways he liked best while he watched Starsky and Kelly. She'd wanted to ride him, and Hutch admired the way the long line of her back flowed into her slim hips. He could see Starsky's hands on her breasts and Starsky's cock moving in and out of her, and if he looked into the mirror over the bed he could watch the way Starsky's eyes rolled closed when she reached behind to cup his balls.
He opened his thighs to ease his erection. He was aware that Starsky's eyes were shifting from his face to the stirring between his legs, and he told himself that the intent gaze was making him uncomfortable.
His cock filled a little more, and his hand slid down to soothe it.
Starsky's voice was a whisper now. "She was on top of me. I liked that because it left my hands free to touch her. When she started coming her head went back, and I looked up at the mirror so I could see her face. And then I looked a little past her and all I could see was you, strokin' yourself real easy, a drop of sweat running down the side of your face.
"You looked up, and our eyes met in that mirror. Kelly was leaning back with her hands on my legs, and you looked from my eyes to where she was pressed down tight on me and back up to my eyes again, real slow."
Hutch had a vague thought that he should be protesting. That wasn't how it had happened, was it? Starsky was remembering it wrong, had built it up in his mind somehow. It was just a troy, nothing new to them. Nothing different.
Except that by mutual and unspoken consent he and Starsky hadn't double-dated since.
His hand tightened over his erection, and Starsky's breath seemed to push itself out of him.
"You grabbed your cock harder, just like that," Starsky continued hoarsely. "You were looking right into my eyes, Hutch. Then your eyes closed, and you… came. And I swear it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw."
Suddenly Starsky's voice was right by his ear, dazing him: "Do it again, Hutch. I want to see it."
Starsky was yanking his chain, pulling some kind of triple-cross and waiting for Hutch to buy into this so he could hold it over Hutch's head until the end of time. He didn't mean this, any of it.
"I wouldn't bullshit you about something this big," Starsky said, as though he'd read Hutch's mind. "I've thought about that night a lot, Hutch. Took me all this time to get up the courage to ask you."
"Starsky…" Hutch said helplessly.
Starsky gestured to the shifting opacity outside the windows. "Listen. Everybody's gone. A car hasn't gone by in ages."
Hutch listened, and the silence outside was as deep as the fog. Starsky leaned in until his breath curled against Hutch's ear.
"This weekend… this fog… it's like there's just you and me, you know? No one else in the world. We never have to talk about it after if you don't want. Hutch… do it for me, will you, just this one time?"
Hutch let his head fall back against the chair and stared at the ceiling. Starsky's hand was gripping his shoulder, thumb working that tendon in his neck the way he knew Hutch liked.
"You can do it right here in this chair." Starsky's voice was hushed, coaxing. "That big boy of yours likes the idea, Hutch, you know he does."
"Go sit on the couch." The words squeezed themselves out of Hutch's throat; he couldn't believe he was about to consent to this insanity. But Starsky wanted it, and Hutch had given Starsky what he wanted for too many years to stop now.
One last press of his shoulder and Starsky picked up Hutch's empty glass and carried it back to the couch. He refilled both glasses and passed Hutch's over, then raised his own in a wordless salute. The next move, Hutch knew, would have to be his own.
He tossed off the drink and set down the glass. His erection had dwindled, and he played with his belt uncertainly. What if he couldn't get it up again? He realized with some hilarity that he was more concerned with disappointing Starsky than with his own embarrassment.
Starsky rose to turn off lamps around the room, leaving them in the grey half-light that filtered through the windows.
"Me and thee, babe. Give it to me."
Could he? Could he live with what would come later if it changed things?
Starsky had the truest soul Hutch had ever known. If he said they would be good, they would be.
He unbuttoned his shirt with shaking hands, leaving it hanging from his shoulders, and fumbled with his belt buckle.
"I like how you look with your shirt open."
Hutch started and raised his eyes to meet Starsky's. He saw eagerness there, and excitement. "Keep t-talking, Starsk. Get me there."
"I don't look at guys much, but you--you got something special that just makes people want to look at you. Maybe it's those yard-long legs of yours--" Starsky paused to watch Hutch ease out of his jeans and socks-- "or that mop of sunshine you got on your head, I don't know."
Starsky's breath caught as Hutch stepped out of his briefs and sat down again, naked except for the shirt that made him feel a little less vulnerable.
"Starsk? Take off your shirt."
He obeyed with alacrity. "I'll get naked, too, if that'll make you--"
"No. Just your shirt, so I can--"
So he could see Starsky's strong, man's chest, see the coating of hair that he envied. See what he'd seen in the mirror when he'd come.
His cock moved a little against his thigh and he touched himself tentatively.
"Starsk--" Help me.
"You touch yourself a lot, you know that? All the time. Those big hands strokin' your throat, slipping in between the buttons of your shirt."
Hutch's hand slid without thought to spread itself over his breast. His naked skin had cooled slightly and the warmth of his palm set up a tingling in his nipple. He rubbed at it, the sparks of stimulation pulling a deep breath from him. On the couch, Starsky set down his drink and leaned forward, hands pushing restlessly along his thighs.
"All that blond hide, Hutch. It's--" Starsky searched for a word. "Extravagant. Yeah. Not soft like a woman's, either. Not hidden behind a bunch of hair, like--"
"You look good," Hutch gasped, and Starsky looked surprised, then grinned slyly.
"Ya think so?"
God. Already he was so hard he was aching. Starsky's eyes were on Hutch's cock now, his mouth a little open, and he watched intently as Hutch gripped tightly and pulled, the sheath of skin sliding rhythmically.
"Jesus, Hutch. I never thought about how a guy with a foreskin would jerk himself. That's--" He grabbed his own cock and groaned. "Hutch, I gotta--"
He came up off the couch and dropped to his knees in front of the chair, stroking Hutch's thighs the way he'd stroked his own earlier, the heels of his hands digging into taut muscles. He was breathing in gasps, his eyes riveted to Hutch's cock. Hutch had never felt anything like this: had never felt so potent, so powerful. He reached down to cradle his balls, and Starsky loosed a deep groan.
He just needed a little more. He lifted his feet to rest at the juncture of Starsky's thighs, his own falling completely open. Starsky's jeans were new; the stiff denim rasped against his soles. There was lightning in his veins. He pressed a foot against Starsky's erection.
"Hutch! Christ, what you're doin' to me!" Starsky was shuddering all along his body, his fingers flexing against Hutch's thighs.
"Take them off."
He watched with hooded eyes as Starsky scrambled to obey, pulling jeans over bare feet, easing his briefs past his cock with a choked sigh. Rising, he headed for the bedroom, Starsky behind him.
He entered the room dominated by the enormous, ornate bed and hesitated. Then he felt strong hands at his back, running along his shoulders to ease his shirt off, and something inside him settled.
Hutch's cock reminded him why they were there, and he sank into the chair. Starsky's anxious eyes travelled from him to the bed. "You okay?"
"Me here and you in the bed, Starsk. And I come first. Just like it was before." Better than before, a voice in his head told him.
Starsky was already supine in the bed, covers flung haphazardly to the floor. Hutch stared at him in the mirror. He wanted to remember this exactly so he could tell Starsky about it later, about his darkening eyes and look of absorption as he tested his balls in his palm and stroked along his cock, about the finely drawn curve of breast and rib as his chest lifted in a sigh. About Hutch's elation at being the cause of it, and his fierce pride that this true soul had laid itself in his hands.
He settled his head against the chair back so he could watch Starsky comfortably and thumbed the head of his cock, bearing down on the sweet spot just under the head. His balls were drawn tight against his body, and he gathered them up to roll them in his hand.
The mirror Starsky who watched him sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and grabbed hard at the base of his cock, cursing.
Starsky had been so patient. Hutch would give him what he wanted, just like he always did, and then Hutch would take something he needed, something he hadn't even known about until now but couldn't imagine ever living without again.
Smiling, Hutch closed his eyes and came.
After a moment's consideration Hutch's eyes agreed to open, and he squinted over at Starsky.
Hutch released his still-hard cock with a wince.
"Hutch, think of the mess I'll make when I explode all over the room!"
Oh, he'd show Starsky "explode". He pried himself out of the chair and rose on wobbly legs to crawl over the footboard toward Starsky, who watched his approach with equal parts fascination and lust.
"God, Hutch, look at you! Just came like a fountain and that rod is still hard." He reached with the hand not keeping his own cock tamed. "Lemme at it."
Swatting his hand away, Hutch straddled his thighs and stared at him. He was sweat-streaked and panting, and the eyes that blinked up at Hutch were a little wild. Hutch liked seeing him like that. A lot. "I want it," he said, and gathered both of their cocks into his hand.
Starsky shouted, "Fuck!" and clamped his own hands over Hutch's, working frantically until his back arched and he drenched their tight-clasped hands, and this time there was no mirror separating them when they grinned triumphantly into each other's eyes.
Finally Starsky released his grip and flung his arms out. "He killed me," he informed the mirror. "I'm dead. Hutch, get down here so we can rest in peace."
Hutch dropped onto his back beside Starsky, using an outstretched arm as a pillow, and contemplated his obdurate cock.
"C'n 'elp you with that," a muffled voice said.
"You? You can barely talk. Forget it; I'm done for now. My dick'll get the news eventually." He stretched, making room for the vast contentment that percolated through him. If he looked up at the mirror with his head tilted a little, he could see out the window with minimum expended effort. The fog was as heavy as ever, and that suited him just fine.
"There were no wading boots, were there, Starsk?"
"Nah." Starsky crooked his elbow to pull Hutch closer and fiddled with the sweat-darkened hair that fell over his forehead.
"You deliberately delayed until the fog was too thick to drive in."
"Maybe you are the brains of this outfit, after all."
"And you'll deny having said that with your dying breath, won't you?"
"You got it." Something seemed to be opening in Hutch's body. It was strain easing, he finally realized, tension that had been dwelling there for so long he'd stopped being aware of it. He pulled Starsky's hand down to his mouth.
Starsky suddenly grinned. "Tell you what I did find in the garage, though: one of Dobey's family photo albums. "
"And by 'family', you mean…"
"Pictures of little Harold naked on a bearskin rug? Oh, yeah."
Hutch rolled to scrub a hand over Starsky's chest and down his side, confirming the precise location of each thin-fleshed rib. "And you're currently in possession of these pictures?"
"Who's the brains of this outfit?"
"First thing tomorrow we get those suckers mass-produced."
There was a flurry of activity, at the end of which a dishevelled Starsky had Hutch pinned to the bed, a wrist in each hand.
"Maybe the day after, blintz. I got other plans for tomorrow."