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David Starsky loved rock music. He really loved it. The louder and heavier the better. His partner shook his head at him when he got home, sweat soaked and deafened, but never complained about the way the music fizzing in his blood went straight to his cock, making him demand, and give, in a way that nothing else did.
Hutch’s taste was different. Not Starsky’s at all-but a singing Hutch was a happy Hutch, so as long as his inner Hendrix and Lemmy had the occasional outlet, Starsky contentedly lived his life to a soundtrack of John Denver, Joni Mitchell and Paul Simon. He liked being told that Hutch could drink a case of him, or that he filled Hutch’s senses like a night in the forest. Or even that he was the face Hutch couldn’t forget, although that one challenged even Hutch’s skill at rewriting pronouns. He particularly liked being Hutch’s bridge over troubled water. Because that water was sometimes very troubled indeed, and being the bridge over it was the most important thing he ever did.
But it wasn’t any of these songs that echoed in Starsky’s head that day as he walked along the beach, pausing occasionally as he always did to skip a stone or pocket a shell or wipe a tear.
“Oh, babe. There were 49 other ways.”