Author: Daydreamer
Posted: July 9, 2004

Reunion

I'm standing in the hall outside the auditorium, waiting for a dead man I haven't seen for 25 years. I have jelly legs and dizzy spells. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know how I came to be here. I can't even remember what I'm doing in this state.

There was a bomb – a huge explosion all those years ago.

And – he died.

Dobey died. Jackson and Wilderman and Frankhorn all died. Thompson and Susan Jacobs, who had just found out she was pregnant, and Justin Thorn, who was to be married the next weekend. They all died.

And Hutch? Hutch died.

I was unconscious – a coma – for over a month. Didn’t think I was going to make it. My mom came and sat with me, and when I finally surfaced, she showed me the obituary. A cutting from Hutch’s hometown paper in Minnesota.

Decorated Police Officer Comes Home.

And just like that, it was over. Cops for twelve years. Partners for ten. Lovers for six months. And boom! It was over.

I never even got to say good-bye.

As soon as I could, I left with my mom. Went home to New York. Moved around for years, never really settling in one place for very long. Worked security – I couldn’t have passed the physical for any Department, not with the damage from the explosion on top of the damage from the shot I took to the chest a few years earlier.

Never married, never missed it.

Just missed – him.

Years passed. My mom died. My brother was released, fucked up again, and went back in.

I worked. Read a lot. Finished college. Got the BA Hutch always was nagging me about. In Literature, of all things. Wasn’t all that interested in Criminal Justice anymore. Volunteered at the Youth Center. Tried to keep busy. Tried to pretend I had a life.

Tried to pretend I hadn’t died, too, all those years ago.

And then one day, I’m watching the television and this spot comes on about some guest lecturer. Some profiler from the Midwest who’s coming to town to speak to some convention of cops. Some guy who’s revolutionizing the way psych profiles are being done. New methodology. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I’d almost tuned it out when I caught the name.

Hutchinson.

Well – it made me look.

And –

It was his name on the screen.

Right stats – age, where he was from, what he did.

Dear God Almighty – it was him!

Now, two days later, I'm standing here listening as applause echoes in the empty corridor. The talk is over. I know he's coming. It’s too late to walk away. I'm so scared I don't know if I'll ever feel anything but fear again.

I remember the love. I don't remember the body.

He might be wrinkled and dry, old and decrepit, fat and bald. I’m no prize myself anymore. I just want to see him, touch him, one more time. I want to see this dead man who carries my lover’s name.

He could look just like I remember him. Tall and lank, with golden hair that could blind you in the sun. A smile that turned the world on.

He could see me and walk past me and never even acknowledge me. He could be just as shocked to see me. Maybe he could explain how a dead man came to be in New York City, twenty-five years after he died.

Maybe we could just skip the explanations and jungle-fuck in the men’s room.

Or maybe, more likely, I could cry.

But it's too late for maunderings, too late to run. Terror meets wonder and … here he is.

I see the blond hair first; the gold is heavily shot with silver now, but he’s not bald. And while he’s forty or so pounds heavier, he’s not fat. Any last doubt I had, any lasting confusion over how a dead man could walk is gone as I look and know it's him.

My body aches.

I burn and twitch; I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.

He's uncertain and casting around; scoping the hallway, confused a little. He's wearing jeans and those long legs come back to me in a flush of memory. Pale in the moonlight, tightly wrapped around my back as I gently ease into him. He's wearing a pale blue sweater and a dark blue jacket and he’s gorgeous.

He’s alive!

He carries a small briefcase and is pushing a cart with his equipment on it. He stares at me, flustered and not connecting.

My heart pounds against my ribcage. I’m shaking and scared. My mouth is dry. I want to touch him, but I'm not ready.

I have so much to say that I'm unable to speak.

“Hutch?” I whisper, my voice breaking.

He looks at me, wonder in his face for a moment, and then, like a door slamming shut, he hardens. “Starsk,” he responds. Cold, hard, professional. Tilts his head a little like you would to acknowledge a doorman or gardener.

I start to cry. I’m fifty-five fucking years old and I’m standing in the hallway of a college and I start to cry. All my hubris explodes in a vapor of hopelessness. He is here, alive, too beautiful to grasp, and yet, he rejects me. I can’t bear it.

“Why are you here?” he asks, voice still cold and distant.

Someone touches his arm, asks, “Is this man bothering you, Professor?” but Hutch shrugs him off. People are streaming out of the auditorium now, casting odd looks our way. Hutch stands motionless, waiting for – something.

And me? I weep. Not huge, gulping, noisy sobs, but a steady fall of tears that track down my freshly-shaved cheeks.

“Why. Are you. Here?” Hutch asks again, through gritted teeth. He’s angry. He’s angry with me, and I don’t know what I’ve done. He was the one who died, right?

I reach out, almost touch him, then drop my hand.

“You – you were dead,” I say, still whispering. I don’t trust my voice. Don’t trust myself.

Hutch puts down his case, shifts his feet, and demands, “What are you talking about?”

Wordlessly, I pull my wallet, drag the tattered clipping from the pocket where it’s lain for twenty-five years, and pass it over.

He takes it, notes the age and the wear, then his eyes widen as he reads. His face is contorted when he looks at me, but no longer with anger. With grief.

I hoped to sway over to him, swing my hips and look sexy. It’s a look I used to master without trying. But I can't pull it off. I'm still frozen.

I give up. I move without thinking. I have to touch him – have to know he is real. I walk toward him, holding out my arms. His face is moving in slow motion from perplexity to wonder. I see his mouth and the beginnings of a smile. I see his bright teeth. I see his lips. I am moving, but I am so tensed up, I stumble.

And suddenly he is with me as he always was. Suddenly he is in my arms and my tears mix with his, mingling as our cheeks touch. I feel things happening in my belly; things I thought I had lost forever.

He comes into my arms and I feel his hair against my ear. I feel the strength in his arms, the solidness of his body. I am surrounded by his scent, dark and musky, fear and joy at once. I feel his warmth, and as he presses me close, I feel the beginnings of his need.

We murmur together in the lingua franca of unknown separations; the impossibility of this never-ever-again meeting. Our throats conjure sounds of uncertainty, terror, and hope.

He is here--three-dimensional; in the flesh. Here in New York City.

It all stops and we cling desperately. We cling.

Someone interrupts and Hutch speaks without turning his head. “Take my things back to the hotel,” he orders. “I’ve just found,” his voice breaks this time, “an old friend.”

I start to stutter and he shushes me with a finger to my lips.

"Let’s get a drink. I need to sort this out."

So we head for a bar. He’s halfway holding me up as I don’t really trust my legs. I can’t take my eyes off him, can’t release him for a second. I’m afraid it’s all a dream; if I let him go, I’ll wake up and be alone again and he’ll be dead.

We stumble out of the building and wander up the road, still not speaking. Hutch steers me into the first pub we pass. He orders and I down whatever it is he’s put in front of me. He gets me another and sips his own. My hand is on his leg – brazen behavior for 1980, but no one even gives us a second look these days.

He stares at me then sighs. I stutter, no coherent words come out. It makes him laugh and seeing him laugh makes me laugh. I'm terrified and shifting on my seat. I have no magic, no beauty, no charisma left. I'm an empty husk.

“Who sent you the clipping?” he finally asks.

Who, indeed, I wonder. It was just – there – when I woke up. I shrug. “My mom gave it to me when I came out of the coma.”

“Coma?” His eyes grow large.

I shrug again.

“Starsk,” he murmurs, head down, “I never heard from you.”

“From me?” I’m bewildered.

“My parents – after the explosion. I was injured.”

I shake my head. “No,” I say, suddenly confident. “You were dead.”

He laughs again and I have to concede the absurdity of my own statement.

“My folks took me home. Took two years of PT for me to walk again.”

I shake my head, terrified. That can’t be! If Hutch was hurt, I’d have been there for him. Helped him through. Held his hand, kicked his butt. No way I would have left him to deal with that on his own! No way!

“You were dead,” I repeat stupidly. “You couldn’t have been hurt like that. You would have needed me. I’d have been there – I’da …”

I release his leg, lay my arm on the bar, then lift my drink and swallow. The whiskey burns going down.

I feel his hand on my arm. “I’m alive, Starsk,” he says.

We drink. I order this time and we drink again. No driving today, so we load up yet again and stagger to the door to find a cab to Hutch’s hotel.

We stagger down the endless hallway to the room. Hutch fumbles with the key card and it makes me giggle. We stagger in while the door attempts to force us back into the hall. Hutch’s stuff from his lecture is sitting by the wall.

There’s so much more to say. What happened? How and why? Who?

I look at Hutch, standing before me in his blue on blue on blue and I realize, he’s alive.

What more is there to say?

The heavy breathing issuing from our bodies eliminates difficult conversation gambits. It is our salve and succor. It is our escape from the terror of our meeting.

My body is quivering and my skin is hot silk. He is floating in a waiting-for-me-to-say-something-place and I have nothing to say. Hutch produces a bottle; we drink from it and I know we are both going to get shit-faced and grapple and fight and scream and fall to pieces in a frenzy of anger and hate and recrimination… but... perhaps, not quite yet.

Suddenly, I can't stand being so close to him. I need the separation of space and I move beyond the table, to the window. But when I open the curtains and look out at the not yet full dark, never full dark in the city, I see the lights everywhere. It’s as if someone has turned a light on in my soul and I am emerging from darkness after a very long time. It’s a fine sight and I beckon Hutch to my side. He comes, and his movement brings us down to the place where we would be. It gives us space and distance and intimacy and goodness. I reach for him and he takes my hand and holds it to his cheek. I am crying again and he indulges me.

We are coming down, down and down and down again and I am flayed with wonder. I never knew it could be this way. I never knew that we could be again. I just never knew and he is smiling in a sad, shy way and looking at me and is that a tear that he's got on his cheek, when I thought it was only me? I slide down into the chair and wait, watching as he sits across from me.

It speeds up now. We've chug-a-lugged a quarter of the bottle Hutch had and our courage is up. Suddenly we have both hands on each other and are grasping and squeezing. It takes me aback when he leans far over and slips his tongue into my mouth. Before I can grasp him with my teeth, my lips, my tongue, he withdraws and licks the bottom of my chin. I open and close my mouth impotently as he teases my nostril and then flicks kisses across my eyebrows. I see the first rise of his chest as he stands upright and leans over the table to engulf me.

I am overpowered.

He sits again, falls really, laughs, but then gets up to try again and this time I rise with him and reach for him, the reach that was once so familiar. I pull him against my body, knocking over the bottle, discomfiting the table and fusing my lips to his as if my life depended on it. And indeed, perhaps it does.

I pull him around the table; his legs give out and we collapse backward into the radiator and then akimbo onto the carpet. Our tongues are soft animals groping for cave space in the dark. I am erect and he is erect and his face stubble burns against my skin. We break apart and sit up and laugh and try to get up and fall back stupidly and laugh again and we don't care.

When we can, we stagger to our feet and sit down at the table and rescue the bottle and measure how much we've lost. He says, “You have to sleep on the wet spot.” and then does that laugh I remember from dark nights in Bay City and red sunsets on the beach. I remember the sound of that laugh in my ear as the sun fell into hell, and the world exploded.

I remember. I want to cry again, so we drink.

I've found my voice again; my song, my pain, and I speak of years alone. Of mourning and not believing. Of too much drink and too much sorrow. Of lost love and love beyond my reach and true love. He looks and listens and reaches for me yet again and I stroke the skin of his wrist.

The embrace that follows takes us staggering to the bed as we unbutton, unzip, rip, wrench, tear, loosen, and divest all those things which stand between us until, almost unclad, we roll, wrestle, and wrest from each other more heartfelt kisses and pets and touches and teases. This queen-size bed allows but one-and-a-half rolls back and forth and when we err to two, we fall fumbling into carpet country -- still kissing, fumbling, pulling ache-cries from each others’ mouths and not caring. We could be dead and there would be no sign. We could be dreaming and screaming while neighbors were summoning police officers to our door. We have no reality in this unknown meeting.

The physical impinges more plainly on the dream as our newfound nakedness asserts itself in the fusing of his body to mine. It’s new – different – and yet, oh, so familiar. Softer in places that used to be hard. Larger in places that used to be small. The same could be said for me as well. But still – we fit. His arms around me, his tongue roaming my chest. His cock in my mouth. The hunger of a lifetime resolves to this moment as I kiss lick, bite, worry and tease with no let; while my one probing finger dares question if it is welcome.

He writhes, cries, moans, grasps, thrusts against my body, wrestles against me, grasps me rampant to his belly and urges me to slip in. I pause, teasing, testing, touching. One finger, two, three. Slick, wet, loosening – ready. I enter, but not thrusting; pause to tease again, only slightly engaged while our lips fall into a new and lighter fusing... while our lips now dance cunningly with no pressure... while wonder replaces ardor even as we dance more closely into unity... while thrust is not thrust but only delicate insinuation... only hesitant testing of will... only teasetouching tenderness.

This light tease-kissing, with its held back screaming joy... with all its possibility, churns muscle and blood to mush and makes us weep. Tears become the lubricant of our yearning. A twenty-five year pine makes us tingle with impossibility. We hang back --terrified of endings. We cannot finish our beginnings. Lovemaking is a wonderfuck of how comes and what fors and what ifs...

So we get up and drink again, but now we are naked and constantly exploring with light touching. I move my fingers within a molecule distance of his goosebumps and will him to feel my love. He sways, and I know he feels the zing-splat of high voltage and shivers with that lovely frisson of electricity.

“Hutch...” I murmur, as my hand roams his arm.

“It had to be my parents,” he whispers, distress intruding on our peaceful interlude. “I...” he looks away, ashamed. “When they told me you were hurt, I told them I had to be with you.”

“Hutch...” I don’t know if I want to hear this or not. I don’t know if I want to know. I just want to be here, to stay here, to pretend that nothing ever parted us. I’ve spent twenty-five years creating memories of the two of us – I want to keep them. I don’t want reality. Only this – this moment, this time, this touching and having and being. Only this.

“I told them I loved you,” he confesses. “I told them I loved you – like that.”

I drop my head. I never told my mother, but somehow, I think she knew.

“Two days later, they had me moved home.” He looks at me now, a spark of his earlier anger. “You never called. You never came. When I tried to reach you, your number was disconnected. You were gone.” He shifts, his shoulder swinging away from me and I am lost in the past.

I remember that shoulder-swing -- how it galvanized our pizza nights at Huggy’s. It was electric – a movement that went straight to my cock. We’d turn to go, after the music had died and the neons had sputtered and it was finally time to lock up, and his shoulder would move – like that – and my knees would turn to jelly.

I touch his arm, his bare arm covered in goosebumps.

He always got goosebumps... pale, white skin against my darker hue. Nipples dark against the chest, stiff from arousal. I ache to touch him, to lick and suck until he cries out with the let-down shudder rippling his belly; screams and cries and arches while I fall upon him in a frenzied desire to be so close, so tight, that we would skinslip into each others' skeletons and become one.

I shrug, chase the images away. “You were dead.”

He laughs again, and our heads pound with the whisky and we shake in the fear of unfair deaths.

I don’t want to think of why. I just want to be here – now. I want to remember him, straddling me, my cock rampant, pushed to the hilt in him, joining us as close as two people can be. Those were the days, my friend. We thought they would never end. We pre-existed before the song took root.

Every love song that came out since, every love story, has been an echo of him.

Desperate, I grab him, pull him down, passion murderous in its thrust. We couple like rutting beasts, hurting and killing each other. He sits on me till I'm aching and sore and he raises the bottle to his lips and leans back while I try to decouple from the ache.

“I drink too much,” he says, pulling at the bottle yet again. “My name is Ken, and I’m an alcoholic.”

I shrug. “You’re entitled. You were dead.”

Sweet Hutch. Twenty-five years has screwed him, too.

He was part of me, burned into my bone. Twenty-five years had only crystallized my yearning need to implode; to lose ego in a swift plunge into flesh. Surely I could survive if only I melted into his body and disappeared.

There was no caring after Hutch died. No will to live. No need to survive. All was irrelevant without him. And all my fucking was only an attempt to slither back to someplace where I could actually feel. Instead, I grew harder and harder and lived with one thought – he was dead.

He touches me again, that large hand on my face, wiping away tears I didn’t realize were falling. “I’m alive,” he whispers.

I look up into that beloved face – lined with age, with sorrow, with regret – and touch him.

“Yes, you are,” I say, drawing him down until our foreheads touch.

“And now, so am I.”