Day 8: Sweat by SHybaby

Hutch’s eyes fluttered open, a smile curving at the corners of his mouth. Despite the heatwave that tortured the residents of Bay City for days, Hutch slept like a baby. Great sex will do that, and last night the sex was better than great.

He rolled over, eager to run his fingers through wild, dark curls. But as his hand reached out, it fell on cold, empty sheets, jolting him awake. A note lay on the pillow, scrawled in familiar handwriting.

Hutch—I need some time to clear my head. Don’t sweat, I’ll catch up. —Starsk

Hutch rubbed his eyes, trying to sharpen his blurred vision as he scanned the room. Starsky’s clothes were nowhere to be seen, and the silence in the apartment felt suffocating. He carefully read and re-read the note, his eyes consuming every word.

“Don’t sweat,” Hutch repeated with a furrowed brow. “Easy for you to say, partner. I’m the one who started this, and after one night together, you’re the one who needs to clear his head.”

The temperature in the apartment was beginning to rise, the heat covering him like a heavy blanket. Hutch slumped into the pillow, his earlier euphoria replaced by a familiar, persistent sweat that wouldn’t ease up.

This particular heatwave had been more unbearable than usual. Starsky had returned to work the week before, and as much as Hutch was overjoyed to have him back, he felt like a pressure cooker ready to explode.

Uninvited thoughts continually bounced through his mind, triggers of that fateful day in the parking garage when Starsky had taken three bullets to the back. Each word, every laugh, every glance from Starsky was a relentless reminder of the moment Hutch nearly lost everything. An overload of thoughts and one singular realization: Hutch was in love with Starsky. And for Hutch, that was a huge reason to sweat.

They rode in silence most of the week, trying to conserve energy, giving Hutch a perfect excuse to focus on Starsky. He watched with burning interest when a bead of perspiration fell down Starsky’s upper lip, his tongue darting out to capture it before it reached his chin. He reveled in the sight of Starsky’s subtly flexed muscles as he brushed the damp curls from his forehead, smiling at Hutch as if the temperature was no big deal, and there was nowhere else he would rather be.

“Don’t worry, Hutch,” Starsky said with his arm hanging out the window. “Weatherman says the heat is going to break in a few days. Of course, it doesn’t help us now. I’ll be sweating bullets for a while longer.”

Hutch shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t think he could hear the word ‘bullet’ again without thinking about that day. He wiped his brow, trying to stop what felt like a waterfall cascading down his forehead.

“Sorry,” Starsky stammered, “Bad choice of words. Not bullets. Buckets. I’ll be sweating buckets for a while longer.” He reached over and squeezed Hutch’s knee. “I’m okay, Hutch. I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s okay,” Hutch replied, trying to sound composed as if it didn’t scare the hell out of him to think about losing Starsky. Or to dream about how much he wanted him.

Hutch wished he could wipe it all away—the clinging sweat—and wrestle it into submission. Fear was something Hutch thought he had dealt with long ago. He had to, being a cop. It was part of the job. So why was it that just sitting next to his partner made it feel like oxygen had become scarce and he forgot how to breathe?

“The heat is getting to both of us,” Hutch said as casually as he could muster. “How about you come to my place tonight, and we can cool off together? We can hang out and have some cold ones,” he shrugged, “We’re off tomorrow. You can crash at my place if you want to.”

A subtle smile played at the edges of Starsky’s lips. He reached over and dabbed a droplet of moisture from Hutch’s forehead.

“I’d like that,” Starsky said, his smile widening. “More than my overheated brain can say.”

They enjoyed a simple meal of leftover chicken salad sandwiches, sitting side by side on the bench in the greenhouse. Hutch gazed up at the night sky, taking a deep breath.

“You seem to be breathing easier out here with your plants,” Starsky mused. “I was getting worried. You’ve been sort of distracted lately.” Starsky turned to face him. “So have I, for that matter.”

Starsky paused like he was searching for the right words.  “It’s more than just the heat, isn’t it, Hutch?” His eyes sparkled in the moonlight, searching Hutch’s face for an answer.

Hutch held his gaze, finding courage in those deep blue eyes. He reached out and brushed his hand against Starsky’s soft curls. “It’s you,” Hutch whispered, his fear fading away. “I breathe easier because I’m here with you.”

He leaned in and touched his lips to Starsky’s ear with a feather-like kiss.

It wasn’t a best friend gesture or a show of brotherly love. It was a move that would test the boundaries of their relationship, and Hutch knew it. Starsky lifted Hutch’s hand and pressed his lips into Hutch’s palm, and like the force of a tidal wave, washed Hutch’s worries away.

Hutch moved his hand from Starsky’s insistent lips, his thumb mapping the path from eyes to nose, down to his lips. Hutch drew him closer, his other hand cradling his cheek, until their lips met—a collision of lips and probing tongues.

They moved to the bedroom, kicking off their shoes on the way, unbuckling belts, buttons popping in reckless abandon until they were both undressed, lying next to each other under the sheets.

The room was quiet, and Hutch whispered into Starsky’s ear. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Starsky answered, his offered lips landing on Hutch’s mouth and melting his already-warmed heart.

Hutch thought this would require bravery but he realized with relief that there was nothing to fear. The obstacles, the sweat over it, relegated to the shadows.

Hutch deepened his kiss, wanting to inhale Starsky, streaks of sweat trickling down his back as he slid on top of him. He stroked his hair, the curls losing the battle against the humidity, making Starsky look wild and alive. They breathed into each other, tongues joined and bodies intertwined, soaking the sheets like a steamy sauna.

Hutch wrapped one leg around Starsky’s, the moisture from their bodies serving as lubricant as he stroked Starsky’s erection, emanating more heat than the rays of the sun. All the tension that Hutch had allowed to build up—like a simmering cauldron of need and love and goddam sweat—burst into a pool of pure, unbridled love that even the Hoover Dam could not have contained. Hutch drank down every drop of the gushing overflow, knowing his thirst could never be quenched.

Hutch fell asleep holding the man he loved, a smile on his face until the morning—when he woke to an empty bed—and a note from Starsky saying he needed to clear his head.

Hutch got dressed and put the crumpled paper in his pocket. He paced between the bedroom and the sofa, pausing by the bed with a frown at the disheveled blankets and sex-filled bedding. Gripping the edge of the sheets, he swiftly stripped the bed, tossing the remnants of last night’s sweaty ordeal into the clothes hamper. Marching to the closet, he retrieved a fresh set, neatly fitting the sheets into each corner with a satisfied grunt.

He stood back, examined his work, and groaned at the sight of the freshly made bed. If only he could have another chance to share it with Starsky.

He needed air and decided a walk to the beach might help him escape the escalating warmth. It was still early, it would be quiet; a few carefree surfers catching early morning waves would be a welcome distraction. He found an empty bench and sat, absentmindedly playing with the paper in his pocket, mesmerized by the repetitive pattern of the ocean’s waves.

He pulled out the note and reread it for what felt like the hundredth time, the words ‘clear my head,‘ and ‘don’t sweat‘ jumping off the page.

“Sweat,” Hutch said to himself. “Perspiration that exudes from the skin, from things like fever, fear, or physical exertion.” He sighed. “I’ve experienced all of it in my life, but only one kind keeps me wanting more.”

He closed his eyes and smiled, picturing Starsky’s skin dripping as he writhed beneath him, rivulets of moisture on his lips as he groaned in ecstasy.

His eyes flew open.

What if Starsky thought it had been nothing more than a round of physical exertion, like running at full speed after some two-bit punk until you hit that proverbial wall, but an endorphin rush kicks in and you go into overdrive because you just can’t stop? For all Hutch knew, Starsky was clearing his head at this very moment and deciding last night was nothing more than an adrenaline-pumping foot chase, instead of the best sex of his life.

Instead of love.

Hutch blinked away the vision of Starsky’s fervent body next to him.

“It was more than that,” Hutch said, “At least for me. It was much more than a bout of physical exertion, it was physical euphoria.”

Hutch stared into the horizon. The beach was quiet; a lone woman leisurely strolling with her dog in the distance and a solitary man walking along the boardwalk, his hands tucked into his pockets as he walked toward him.

Hutch squinted against the glare, focusing on the man. He smiled inside at the sight of him. Hutch would know that saunter anywhere.

“Hey,” Starsky said, approaching Hutch, “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t,” Hutch answered, his heart pounding. “You found me.”

Starsky smiled, looking like he had stumbled upon a hidden treasure. “Great minds think alike. Mind if I join you?” He sounded hesitant like he thought Hutch might say no.

Hutch motioned to the empty seat beside him. “It’s all yours.”

Starsky nodded and sat, close enough that his thigh grazed Hutch’s leg. “I was headed back to your place,” Starsky said, “I got breakfast,” he pulled out a brown paper bag. “Fresh bagels and cream cheese.”

Hutch took the offered bag. “Thanks,” he said, letting out a breath. “So, you were coming back?”

“Didn’t you get my note? It said I’d catch up.”

“It also said you had to clear your head,” Hutch reminded him. “In my experience, anytime someone has slipped out of my bed the morning after a night of sex, they haven’t come back.”

Starsky’s face fell.

“I’m sorry, Hutch. I didn’t mean to make you think that. In my experience, if I say I’m coming back, the other person normally believes me.”

Starsky exhaled and continued. “Of course, I don’t have a rulebook for sleeping with my partner, my best friend, then waking up in the morning to see him lying next to me, the most beautiful smile on his face—a smile that I know was because of a night of incredible sex.”

Starsky turned, his forehead raised.

“I have absolutely zero experience in that area,” Starsky said, “All I knew was that if you woke up, we would have more amazing sex, not that I would complain about that, but I wouldn’t get a chance to know for sure that…”

“That what?” Hutch asked. “What scared you away?”

Starsky rested his hand on Hutch’s knee, his lips trembling. “I thought I needed time to clear my head because looking at you fills me with so much emotion I lose the ability to think straight.”

Hutch nodded. “I know exactly what you mean,” he managed to say.

“I know that, but I didn’t know why I was struggling with it and you weren’t. There you were, sleeping like a baby like you had it all figured out, while my mind was going into high gear.”

Starsky held up a finger before Hutch could interrupt.

“So I took a walk. The first thing I saw was the Torino parked in front of your place.” He smiled. “It made me think of you. Then I stopped at the bakery down the street. Mr. Abner asked about you, so that didn’t help. How could I escape you when even the pastries conspire against me?”

Starsky chuckled nervously.

“So I decided to walk to the beach and remembered the countless times we came here to relax, watch the sunset, and unwind after work. For obvious reasons, that didn’t help clear my head either.”

Starsky’s lips curved into a gentle arc. He took a breath and continued.

“I thought I was imagining it when I saw you sitting here. I was willing it to be you; needing it to be you.”

Hutch placed a hand over Starsky’s, his heart racing like he just sprinted a mile. “For the record, I did struggle with this too.” Hutch lowered his eyes. “I almost lost you. I’ve been so terrified to lose you, I didn’t want to admit what I was feeling until I realized that fearing it was no way to live.” He squeezed Starsky’s hand. “Do you need more time? Take whatever you need…”

“No,” Starsky shook his head, “I thought time would clear my head, but it’s the opposite.”

Starsky’s voice became husky. “Hutch, every step I took led me right back to you.”

Hutch closed his eyes as Starsky reached over and stroked his dampening hair. He exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. The tension that had gripped him for so long melted away.

“Last night was incredible,” Starsky said, “I don’t regret a minute of it. But I realized it doesn’t change a thing between us. It’s like the sex was the icing on a cake that was already moist and delicious.” He smiled. “I hope you didn’t sweat it. Too much.”

“You know me. Of course, I did,” Hutch said, cupping Starsky’s cheek,” But I’m an idiot, and you know that about me too.”

“We both have to learn how to do this,” Starsky said, his eyes shining like fire. “We know how to be cops, partners, best friends, even soulmates. But there was nothing to prepare us to be lovers. I screwed up by leaving, and I’m sorry.”

“I screwed up by doubting you, and I’m sorry too,” Hutch said.

Starsky rose, extending a hand to Hutch. “Let’s go home and figure this out together.”

Hutch’s pulse quickened with anticipation. There was no fear, not anymore. Instead, the air was filled with familiarity and love as he led the way to his apartment and stepped inside.

“You changed the sheets,” Starsky remarked, walking to the bedroom and kicking off his shoes.

“I was hoping for a fresh start,” Hutch said sheepishly. He moved closer and took Starsky in his arms. “Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?”

Hutch began removing his clothes, not taking his eyes off Starsky until they were both undressed. Hutch raked his eyes over Starsky’s body, reaching out and trailing a hand down his chest, closing the gap between them, and pulling Starsky into a kiss.

“My temperature gauge rises whenever you’re around,” Starsky said as he withdrew his lips. “Are you ready to sweat the sheets again?” He added with a smile.

Hutch nodded, pulling Starsky near. “Sweat brought on by physical euphoria?” Hutch answered, “That’s the best kind.”

They tumbled into bed, Hutch’s hands roaming over Starsky’s body, longing to feel every inch of his skin, stroke each hair on his head, and drink every single drop of him. He wanted to unabashedly celebrate all the hard-earned, life-saving, glorious sweat that exuded from him, mingling with Starsky’s, until Hutch didn’t know where he ended and Starsky began.

“Physical euphoria?” Starsky asked with a playful glint in his eyes, “Has anyone ever told you that you say some weird things?”

Hutch laughed, answering with his mouth against Starsky’s lips, “Only you.”

Hutch pulled back, his eyes sweeping Starsky’s face as he pushed back his hair, his lips lightly touching his forehead as he savored the salty taste of his sweat. His hand settled on Starsky’s glistening chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath, cherishing the sweet reminder of life.

“It’s only ever been you.”