Savour This

You know what you are to me? The world, or something more. Something I can't live without, or something that I will never die from having. I'm not exactly sure what you are, but you're right here, beside my heart. Beating, breathing, sleeping waking you reside within until I reach out to touch you and find my fingers on my own face. You still, you are, and I rejoice. I must, for to not savour this joy would be to stop living and as long as you are here I must go on. I must for to die would be to kill you.


Hutch looked up from his journal, not entirely sure what had disturbed him. He didn't hear the phone or a knocking at the door-- perhaps just a restless spirit needing an interlude to the thoughts he'd been recording. He'd sat down this evening with no intents; an exercise he'd learned in college and too long abandoned in the face of a scornful wife. Few months before he'd purchased a journal and begun writing again.

And he'd begun learning again. The journals he'd kept in college had helped him find the answers which led him to the police academy. Written down, feelings could not be denied; written without intent they could not be hidden. Free association they called it, writing from the subconscious. Writing what you really felt, really thought, really were.

What he really was, was in love.

He'd known it for some time, ever since that third week after he'd taken up the journals again. The restlessness which drove him to the need to write calmed itself in litanies to his best friend. It hadn't seemed unusual-- words he'd freely spoken aloud before held no mystery for him. There was nothing unusual in his love for Starsky.

Perhaps the depth startled him. The sheer number of pages devoted to his partner might simply reflect the enormous presence he had. Seventy five percent of his life, devoted to one man's company; why not as much of a journal as well? But the words betrayed him and revealed what the presence meant to him. Love. Unrepentant. Unremitting. Unfulfilled.

"Oh, god, Starsk..."

Leaving the whispered plea unspoken-- some words not yet ready to be said-- he raised his pen. Perhaps he needed to start again. Write about something else.

I love him.

Perhaps not. He shook his head at his hand's betrayal then he laughed. Why fight something he'd only just said was his greatest joy? Not so great a joy at that, he acknowledged. A love unspoken of could cause more pain than joy but still.. he didn't need to say it to feel it.

Now that he'd written it and could see that it was true. Nothing more needed to be done. He closed the book and set it aside, capping the pen which had been a gift and placing it carefully on top.

"What are you doing in there?"

With a grin, he stood up and greeted his partner. Casually dressed for most men, his partner was nearly formally attired. He nodded a brief approval and received a knowing grin for his trouble. "Nothing, Starsk."

"You ready to go?"

Hutch watched as Starsky looked at him, a not-so-quick scrutiny from head to toe as if ensuring his partner's appearance would disgrace neither of them. The survey thrilled some deep part of him, and for a moment he wished they could be looking for other things. "I'll be right with you." He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

Water on his face and a deep breath settled him again. He thought of the peace he'd found tonight, with the acceptance of things they way they were and the lack of the need to change them. Joy, and love. Savour this, Hutchinson. Freedom of a friendship to behold. Rejoice in it and be thankful.

He opened the door and stepped out, one step sideways and he was by the front door. "Let's go, already."

Starsky preceded him out, and as Hutch turned off the lights he saw it.

His pen lay on the table.

Savour this night.