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“Hey, cheer up, Hutch. It’s the roaring twenties!”
“Oh yeah, roaring with what? Forest fires? Planes flying overhead constantly? COVID related tinnitus? So far the twenties stink, Starsky.”
Ah. Okay. So Hutch was in one of those moods. Well, Starsky had been talking Hutch out of those moods for about fifty years, so he might as well try this time too. He went into the kitchen to get some more of Hutch’s latest juice concoction, knowing that to be seen consuming something healthy was step one in his campaign. When he came out, he was smiling and holding the glass for Hutch to see.
“Hey, it isn’t all bad. They’re getting some real work done out there. They cured HIV. They’re sending regular people to space. And we got you-know-who! I’d say he’s pretty happy with the new year,” Starsky indicated the little dog snoring in the corner, who at the sound of his name would pop up like a jack-in-the-box even from the deepest sleep, so no one ever spoke it unless they were speaking directly to him.
“He’s a dog, Starsky. He has no concept of years.” Why was Hutch looking at the floor?
Starsky sighed and set his juice on the coffee table. He sat down beside Hutch and looked at him for a long moment, finding his center in hutch’s profile and feeling his face soften. Hutch wasn’t one for sentimental dates. Starsky forgave him that. “You know, our first kiss was on New Years’ Eve.”
Hutch’s head came up and he glanced at Starsky guiltily. “I know. And I hate that I can’t remember the details anymore.”
Oh. So that was it. It was the passing of time that bothered Hutch, but not in the way he was letting on. It was the passing of their own lives from his mind. Starsky scooted closer and put an arm around his partner, pulling Hutch’s weight against him and resting their heads together. “It’s OK,” he said, quietly into Hutch’s ear. “You want me to tell you about it?”
Hutch nodded.
“Ok. You know, it isn’t surprising you don’t remember it as well as I do. I was getting better, but you were so tired from working without a partner and making space for a gimpy roommate and having a busy bee houseguest for almost two weeks that you were pretty dead by the time New Years came around. I actually felt kinda sorry for you.
Anyway, I think Ma showed up the afternoon before Hanukkah began and left the morning after Christmas, and she never stopped helping out, but you kept trying to run circles around her because you had all these ideas about being a proper host and you didn’t believe me when I told you she could outhost anybody, and there wasn’t really room for all three of us in that apartment anyway.” Hutch cracked a smile, a decent-sized one. Starsky felt it stretch around the side of Hutch’s head. Progress.
So we were staying home for New Years and enjoying all the space, celebrating with alcohol—weren’t those the days—and we were kinda drunk. Actually we were drunk enough to have no judgement, thank god, or we might have taken even longer to get together.
The Christmas tree was still up. You never said anything about taking it down, but I don’t know if it was because you were just too tired or if you needed the holiday cheer with how hard that year had been. Or maybe you just knew how badly I needed it. It was covered in silver tinsel, the kind on ropes, not the loose kind, and we’d taken some of it off and made jewelry out of it. So there we were, sitting on the couch with Dick Clark on TV and you in your green sweater with all this silver sparkly tinsel around your neck, and when ball dropped you opened a bottle of champagne and started making your toast. But you sat there with your mouth open for a really long time like you didn’t know what to say, and I was just waiting because I didn’t have any ideas either, and then you said, “To the new,” and smacked your glass against mine and took your drink and I just sat there some more because I couldn’t believe you were done. So then you looked at me and gave me this tiny little grin, and you were so wonderful in your sweater and your tinsel and your tired sweet happy face that I forgot all about the toast and kissed you.” Starsky punctuated his words with a peck on Hutch’s head.
“And then there was other stuff that happened later, and it got complicated and worse before it got better and all that, but that was our first kiss. And I can’t remember a better one.” He kissed Hutch’s head again and stood up to drink his juice and rinse out the glass. When he came back, he said, “Hey, I know why it’s the roaring twenties. It’s roaring like you do whenever I tickle you!” He lunged at the sofa, and Hutch, no longer mobile enough to dodge him from a sitting position, had to surrender and be tickled until he roared with laughter.