Not on Christmas
by
Rae 12.24.07
Every once in a while
Hutch got a glimmer of a cosmic understanding. Sometimes it flitted away before
it became part of his cell structure. This time it stuck onto him like frost on
a windowpane in December.
Starsky wasn't going
to die on Christmas Day. If it had to happen, it wasn't going to be on this
day. So Hutch started to rant at his unresponsive form. He used every swear he
could think of, and made up a few more. He gave orders, he made threats, he
made promises.
If you die, I'll
die, too.
And then he started to
kiss him.
That's when he
realized that he'd gotten it all wrong. It didn't really matter whether it was Christmas
Day or any other day. No day was a better day for Starsky to die. What had made
him think otherwise?
So then he started to
pray to a God he'd long since considered a nonentity, on a day that he'd long
since considered just a day like any other day. Except that on this day Starsky
was dying, and Hutch couldn't think of anything else to do.
Each kiss became a
prayer. Each prayer became a moment of hope. Each moment of hope became a door
to that glimmer of understanding.
He stopped—to
cry maybe, just for a moment. To scream maybe, just for a lifetime.
Starsky opened his
eyes.
Hutch felt something
new inside his chest, like a candleflame warming frost on a window that
made blue glints of fire as the crystals melted and began to slide into
each other. Everything he'd known to be true before that moment fell away, and
he smiled.
Starsky wasn't going
to die on Christmas Day. And Hutch wasn't going to stop kissing him.
Written in memory of Cliffie, who died on Christmas Day 1989
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