What Thou Lovest Well Remains

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What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage...

Ezra Pound, Canto LXXXI

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It was a matter of logic, thought Hutch.

Well, no, come to think of it, it was a matter of anything but logic. Emotion. Passion. Desire. Fear. Jealousy, for God's sake. Anything but logic. But it should be a matter of logic. He should be able to consider everything, come to a logical conclusion and act on it.

So. That was settled.

He rose up on his elbow, and looked down at his sleeping lover. The best time to engage in logical thinking, was when the house was quiet. Usually, that was when Starsky was asleep. Starsky fell asleep after making love. Making love eased the mind and the body, and you could engage in logical thinking without being troubled by emotion and passion and desire and fear and jealousy and all those other useless feelings that clouded your mind.

Should he make a commitment to Starsky? That was a ridiculous question, he knew. He made a commitment to Starsky years ago. It wasn't as if he could just walk out the door and never come back. But should he accept their relationship -- whatever the fuck it was -- and stop thinking of it as a temporary thing? That was what Starsky wanted, after all. Or so he said. What would be the harm?

On the other hand, what would be the sense? What sense did it make, for two men to... essentially get married? Why would two men even want to have sex? What was the point? Other than the fact, the undeniable fact, that it felt good.

But why did it feel good?

Hutch enjoyed sex with women. He enjoyed women frequently. Lavishly. Enjoying sex with women was acceptable.

Sex with men had been a sideline. A hobby. An infrequent interest he'd carefully hidden away from almost everyone who knew his name. Anonymous sex with anonymous men. Men he'd never seen before, and would never see again, if all went well. Faceless men, at times, in back rooms of bars. Men in dark alleys, though that had been before he became a cop, and the danger factor had skyrocketed. He hadn't enjoyed men frequently or lavishly. He had always blamed that on the men, and wondered why he kept going back to find more.

Now he knew why. He had been looking for his heritage.

First came the seen, then thus the palpable Elysium, though in the halls of hell, what thou lovest well is thy true heritage.

Hutch closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Starsky's scent. It was so familiar, he scarcely noticed it, except in its absence. Now, he breathed it in deeply, making it a part of his own being. The smells of their lovemaking -- sweat, semen, even tears -- overwhelmed him. It was a scent he had longed for, dreamt of. Now, it was his. No matter what happened in the future, it was his. He leaned closer to Starsky, to breathe it in more deeply.

He felt a puff of air against his face, and opened his eyes. Starsky was staring up at him. He clicked his tongue. 'What are you thinking about now?' he asked.

'Fucking you,' Hutch answered, savagely. Another, more sensitive lover might have been offended.

'You think too much, Hutchinson,' said Starsky, as he wound his legs around Hutch's waist.

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'So, what conclusion did you come to?'

'Conclusion?' mumbled Hutch, sleepily.

'I recognized the expression on your face. Rumination. You were ruminating about me. Us. The world. What did you conclude? That it was us versus the world?'

'That I love you. That I love most things about you.'

'Such a romantic. I love everything about you.'

'No you don't.'

'Okay, I don't. I love most things about you, and I put up with the rest.'

'Do you think you could put up with the rest for, well, a few years?'

'A few years? Yeah. A few decades. A few centuries. How about you?'

'Yeah. Same here.'

'Good. Now maybe we'll have some peace around the house. Go to sleep. I've got an appointment in the morning.'

'Who with?'

'An old friend.'

'Do I ever get to meet this old friend?'

'Someday. Go to sleep.'

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'I've been following Perkins,' said Michael Armstrong.

'Oh, yeah?' said Starsky. 'What have you learned?'

'He's been following your lover.'

Starsky jumped up from the bench, and began to pace. 'I knew it. I knew he was up to no good.'

'What do you want me to do?' asked Armstrong, quietly. 'Kill him?'

'Kill him?' Starsky stopped pacing and grinned at Armstrong. 'Don't you go postal on me, Spike. Yeah, I want you to kill him. So you have to keep a cool head.'

'Why?'

'Because this isn't Nam, that's why. Because Perkins isn't some asshole officer, and we can't just shoot him in the back, and blame it on the Cong, that's why. Because if a cop is murdered, all the other cops hunt down his killer. That's why.'

'I wouldn't rat on you. You know that, Starsky.'

'I know that. We'll get Perkins, like we got them.'

'Miller,' said Armstrong, with loathing.

'Yeah. We'll get him, like we got Miller and the others, but legally. When we were in Nam, it was the law of the jungle. We're not in the jungle anymore. Aren't you glad?'

'Sometimes,' said Spike. 'Sometimes I'm glad. Sometimes I miss the jungle.'

'So do I,' said Starsky. 'But we'll get him. And then, maybe you won't keep looking at me like you owe me something. We'll be even. Is it a deal?'

'It's a deal,' said Michael Armstrong. 'I'll keep following Perkins. I'll let you know if he keeps following your lover. But if it looks like he's gonna hurt your lover, the deal is off. I'll pay back everything, ten times over, if it costs me my life.'

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'What's all this?' asked Starsky.

'Well. It's. Um.'

'I can see that,' said Starsky.

'I thought since we were living together. Really living together. You know. Not like a couple of bachelors, just sharing living space, until they meet the right women. Living together.'

The phrase "living together", on Hutch's tongue, sounded sweet and obscene at the same time, Starsky thought. A perfect combination. 'We need our own dishes and pots and pans?' he asked.

'Yeah. And I know you like this pattern. I saw you the other day, when we were in the mall. Looking, I mean. You do like it, don't you?'

'I like it,' said Starsky. 'It's traditional, but not too traditional. Modern, but not too modern. Masculine...'

'But not too masculine. If you hate it, we can take it back.'

'The hell we will. It's Us, Hutchinson. Get used to it.'

*** The End ***

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