Other Fan Fiction ❯ Identity Crisis ❯ Identity Crisis ( Chapter 1 )

IDENTITY CRISIS

By Cheyenne Dancer

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Author's Note: In literature, Svengali was a doctor of some note who seduced Trilby into acts unnatural to her through the use of hypnosis. In the early days of hypnosis, this story, although entirely fictional, had a resounding impact on the acceptability of hypnosis, until much later when it was deemed that a subject could not be made to do something inherently foreign to their own ethical natures.

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"Damn." Hutch sighed heavily as he closed the door to his apartment at Venice Place, separating him from Starsky and Starsky's Big Plans. The inimitable roar of the Torino fading in the distance confirmed that Starsky had left. He leaned heavily against the door, limp, like a day old party balloon, the helium escaped into nowhere. In the futile hope that he could jar reality into focus, Hutch banged his head back repeatedly against the solid wood of the door.

He ran a nervous hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead only to have it fall back in his eyes as he moved restlessly around the living room and into the kitchen.

He gave a cursory glance through the fridge, knowing he should eat, but nothing really appealed to him.

//Except Starsky, // a little voice snickered at him.

Images paraded through his mind -- Starsky spread out on Hutch's dining table, using that come-on grin. Starsky half-naked. Starsky smiling. Starsky's blue eyes twinkling with mischief as he talked about his plans for the night. His Big Fucking Plans.

//Shut up!// he snarled at himself, yanking his mind back to reality.

He took out a lone container of yogurt, acknowledging that he couldn't put off this week's shopping much longer. Maybe he would pick up some red meat for Starsky. There was an unexpected tightening around his heart at the thought of Starsky. And Starsky with someone else. He squeezed his eyes shut as he slumped back on the couch, correctly diagnosing the possessive anger he felt as jealousy.

//God, first love, now this?// He stared blankly at the lowly rumbling television screen. How had he fallen in love, for chrissakes, with STARSKY??? When had it happened? Why did he have to figure it out today? Today, when his partner had the “Big Plan”. He had heard the quotes and imagined the words hitting him with capital letters. That's what he had said, hadn't he?

Starsky had said he hadn't felt this way since Terry. Dammit. It was too much.

It had sounded like Starsky might be serious.

It wouldn't be the same if his partner married. Dammit, Starsky hadn't even told him about this one. Hutch hadn't known anything until he'd asked him if he wanted to drop by to unwind. He' been totally blindsided. Starsky had told him he had special plans… With someone very important. Starsky had sounded nervous and excited at the same time. Then he had patted Hutch's cheek a couple times and said, maybe later.

But there wouldn't be a later, would there?

He'd seen the patented Starsky Seduction Technique. Starsky would bowl over whatever woman had caught his eye. And he would woo her and bed her... and he had Special. Fucking. Plans.

What a time to realize he'd fallen in love with the asshole.

Somewhere, somewhen - difficult to pinpoint - Hutch's love had changed, evolved, grown, become somehow more than the friendship Starsky felt for him.

Too many close calls, maybe. Too much time spent in each other's pocket. Today, driving home, unsuspecting, teasing and joking and grinning with his partner, dammit, his partner, and suddenly, out of nowhere, he'd been ambushed.

He'd felt like he'd been sucker-punched, air leaving his lungs in a whoosh of shocked disbelief. For those few seconds of eternity, he'd felt like he was drowning, drowning in Starsky, Starsky's voice, Starsky's eyes.

He knew this feeling. He'd had it with Vanessa, before she'd changed, become the bitch from hell, before they had drifted apart.

//No one's fault// that little voice of reason pointed out.

//Shut the fuck up. No one's asking you. Haven't you done enough damage for one day?//

It had dawned on him in the car, like the rising sun on a cold winter's day, washing away the chill of the night and embracing him in a fucking inferno. He loved Starsky. He forgot to breathe, he forgot to listen, and his world narrowed down to the laughing face of his friend, the sparkling blue eyes the color of a placid lake.

"I love Starsky."

There. He'd said it out loud. Not so different really. Not really. He had always loved Starsky. It was as natural as, well, as breathing. Or maybe not. He had looked into that face, he had stared into those eyes, and suddenly, terrifyingly, he had been hard. Hard enough to drill holes through concrete.

He didn't just love his partner. He suddenly wanted to touch his partner. Dammit, he wanted Starsky. The way a man wanted a woman.

Okay. No. He pictured Starsky in a lovely blue dress and felt insane laughter bubble up. Okay. No. Not like a woman. The way a man wanted a man. That was if a man wanted a man. Wanted. Sex. With. A. Man.

He exhaled heavily. "Shit." He blinked. He had wanted to throw his arms around Starsky. Right there, right then, in the car. Pull the irritating asshole into his arms and kiss him, make him forget those special fucking plans he kept harping about.

Alone, now, with no one but Walter Cronkite rumbling on about the evening news and an earthquake in Paraguay and, fuck, he could admit it now. He could face the truth. He wanted his partner. He wanted to have sex with his partner. Why wasn't he laughing?

Starsky would roll on the floor laughing his head off. Starsk would believe it was some huge colossal put-on. But the joke was on Hutch. The gods were laughing. The gods were fucking rolling. There must be rain somewhere. Hurricanes. Goddamn Tsunamis. His world had changed.

Forever.

He loved Starsky. "Fuck."

Was this how John Blaine had felt? Did one day he discover, blam, I love my wife, but I love this man?

He repeated it out loud.

"I love Starsky."

His world didn't crumble. Didn't evaporate. Nothing earth-shaking. HAH. Earthshaking. No fucking wonder there had been an earthquake in Paraguay.

//How can I tell Starsky?//

No answer was forthcoming from the endlessly droning boob tube.

His evil inner voice taunted him with more visions. Visions of half-desired things, things he'd heard described in his time on the streets, but never thought to try. Things he'd heard Sugar mention. He gulped, shaking his head.

Hutch lurched from the sofa. //I thought I told you to shut-the-fuck up!//

//Temper, temper, temper.//

He rinsed the half-empty container of yogurt in the sink before tossing the little cup away. Hearing in his mind Starsky's voice crowing, "Two points, Blondie, but don't give up yer day job."

//Why tell Starsky? Why risk what we have? We've both lost so much. Why risk losing more?//

//Chicken-shit.//

//I don't even know if I could make love with a man. I've never done that. I don't think Starsky has. Shit, I know Starsky hasn't.//

//Try. See.//

//How?//

His evil twin sniggered. //How do you think, Blondie? You gotta imagination? What about Rosie Palm and her five sisters? Just think about Starsky. Whaddya want from him, huh?//

Hutch rolled his eyes. Disney characters had fucking Jiminy Cricket, why the hell did his conscience sound like Starsky?

Half-anxious, half-giddy, with an insane desire to burst into giggles, he wandered into his bedroom. He heard the floorboard creak and smiled numbly. //Should get that fixed.// He remembered Starsky teasing him about it, telling him he'd never be able to sneak up on a burglar.

He stopped in front of the gilt-framed mirror staring almost blindly at his reflection. He automatically noted the pale hair, the crow's feet at the corner of ice blue eyes, the deep grained gashes to either side of his mouth giving him a too sober appearance unless he was smiling. Ruefully, he reached up to touch the mirror before dropping his hand.

This was ridiculous. What did he have to offer Starsky?

Starsky who was so vibrant and full of life. So full of the joy and sheer playfulness that drew Hutch to him, like a moth singeing its wings in the flames of its obsession. Hutch longed for that brightness, that spark that he was too afraid to touch. Starsky's vitality seemed to reach into his heart and prod that little lost boy free. The one who had grown up fast. Too fast.

The little boy he had been, before the strictures of being a Hutchinson had been hammered home so many times that his own freedom had been locked behind the stiff and sober facade that he had used as protective coloration. Mustn't let anyone too close. Mustn't let anyone see that a Hutchinson had feet of clay.

Only Starsk could see past that mask. The mask of perfection. The mask of seeming non-caring that he had erected between that little boy that he had been //still was// and the rest of the world. And Starsky accepted him anyway. Accepted all of him.

//All?// again that tiny voice played devil's advocate.

Nervousness tickled through his belly.

Well, okay. Maybe not all. Starsky didn't know about this. Hell, Hutch hadn't known about this until today-- in the car.

"Shit," he whispered, watching his reflection shake its head back at him bemusedly. The little light in the bedroom glinted off his hair, shadows cutting his face and body into Escher-like planes and angles.

All right, then, Starsky had accepted so much of him, more than anyone ever could. Starsky had seen his darkness, his weakness and loved him anyway.

He licked his lips wondering what he was doing here. Standing in front of a mirror, thinking these thoughts about his partner. He was too fucking old to have an identity crisis. He knew who he was.

//Do you?//

He gestured at himself. //This isn't working. I made a mistake. I can't want Starsky that way. I'm not even hard, thinking about it.//

The voice seemed beaten into submission, and he smiled, more a grimace, one side of his mouth curling up sarcastically. //What, nothing to say?// He felt triumphant. A little sad. The knowledge that there really was no great love out there for him beat against the back of his mind.

Suddenly, he was deluged with images of Starsky. Starsky as he had seen him with Terry, bending low to kiss her tenderly, hands entangled in her hair. Starsky half-wild after a street chase, adrenaline-edged erection bulging too-tight jeans, indigo eyes bright and teasing as he adjusted himself. Starsky coming out of the showers at the station, furry chest bare, dark nipples almost hidden in the soft sworls of hair, begging to be stroked, licked, nibbled, navy towel slung low around slender hips.

And Hutch groaned long and low, as he was abruptly, achingly hard. Too swift, too sudden to deny that it was Starsky doing this to him. The hard knot of flesh in his jeans pressing for freedom against the constriction of too-tight denim.

His eyes fluttered closed as he let the pictures of Starsky dance uninterruptedly through his mind. He leaned his head backwards, arching his throat, one of his hands running through the soft silk of his hair, knuckles gently gliding from brow to cheek. He let his fingers trace his face, imagining Starsky's mouth on him, pressing butterfly kisses tender and gentle against his lips, along his jaw.

He sucked one finger inside the wet, warmth of his mouth, sucking and nipping, letting the confusing welter of emotions go, letting the gentle self-seduction steal over his body, sending messages of pleasures to come prickling along his flesh.

He gave a soft groan, as he pulled the finger from his mouth, gently stroking along his throat, scratching lightly along his adam's apple to his chest. He let his fingers dance softly about the collar of his shirt, his mind playing images of Starsky, Starsky smiling seductively at him, prowling closer as if Hutch were the center of his universe. He could see Starsky reaching forward knocking his hands out of the way and pulling the buttons free, remarking on Hutch's golden flesh as it was revealed a single button at a time, warm hands caressing down his chest.

Hutch's breathing hitched as he pulled open the buttons, hands warm and trembling with desire petting his chest. His fingers found his nipples already peaked and aching for Starsky's touch. He plucked first one, then the other, imagining Starsky's lips on him, his teeth nipping at the hard nubs, sending a wave of heat skittering along his spine, a wild fluttering along Hutch's belly muscles. Hutch gulped for air, as the pooling desire and lust stirred in his groin. His cock jumped with each teasing touch of his fingertips.

//God. Starsk. Feels good.//

He splayed one large hand across his abdomen, eyes slitted in pleasure feeling Starsky's callused palm stroking down his taut belly. His stomach jumped with tiny nervous ripples as his hand chased lower, clumsily pulling at the buttons of his jeans. A lazy thought speared the brightness behind his eyes as he wondered who the fucking genius was who invented button down fly.

Starsky's voice taunted him with a gently teasing edge. //Gotta make it difficult, doncha, Blintz. Ya love to tease. To tease me.//

//God. Yes. Anything. Touch me, Starsk.//

He slid his hands up and down his sides, slowly pushing the jeans and underwear down his hips to pool at his ankles. He licked his dry lips, letting his tongue glide seductively around his full lips; his eyes still tightly closed as he imagined Starsky with him. Talking to him, seducing him, urging a surrender that was already Starsky's.

Gooseflesh danced up and down his arms, tiny hairs standing up on the nape of his neck as his lover caressed and stroked, nimble fingers following the pale dusting of golden hair from his navel to his groin, fingers carding ever so carefully through the honey-gold curls nestling about the base of his heavy cock.

//Better lie down, Blondie. I'm gonna take you for a ride.//

Hutch stumbled, falling onto his bed in a tangle of limbs and jeans, his breathing ragged. His eyes blinked open, almost surprised to see that there was no Starsky. That he was alone. In his room. Jeans still tangled about his ankles. He kicked off his shoes, and lay back on the bed thinking.

//That's your problem, Hutch. You think too goddamn much.// He could almost see Starsky's smirk.

//C'mon, babe, I thought you were gonna do this.//

//I can't.!//

//Liar.//

//Fine!// Hutch huffed to himself.

He bent one leg, his cock heavy and accusing against his belly. He allowed one hand to drift lazily across his chest, intentionally calling up the images of his partner, this time encouraging his body's traitorous response. He pulled from memory one of countless seduction scenes that he had seen Starsky pull with women.

Whispers from Starsky's lips. Unimaginable, incomprehensible, lustful things. He let his hand drift lower again, following the telltale traces of heat that danced and throbbed along his abdomen, pooling in his burgeoning cock, flushed and swollen with need. He leaned back against the pillow, arching into his touch, begging silently to Starsky, to touch him, just touch him there.

Strong fingers circled his hot silken flesh as he fisted his needy organ. He slid his hand back towards the tip. Up and down, his hips pumped with the rhythm, his body dewed with sweat. He kept his eyes tightly closed, listening to the half-heard Svengali's voice of his dementia.

//Love you, babe. Always, love you. Me 'n' Thee.//

Indigo eyes black with lust staring into his own, a hand drifting slowly down to cup his balls, he could feel the hard orbs shift and rise in their soft furred sac. He hummed low in his throat, letting a finger run slowly along his perineum, lightly circling the small pucker below. An unexpected jolt of passion-filled lust rocked his world.

He gulped and shuddered, reconsidering the advisability of this little scenario. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

He wondered briefly if Starsky would let him touch him there, claim him and he tried to see himself taking Starsky, a gentle coaxing seduction, but he couldn't imagine Starsky wanting that, even as he felt, saw his dream-Starsky caressing him there. Couldn't imagine Starsky giving up that much control.

Couldn't imagine himself wanting that. Wanting to feel the weight of Starsky stretched along his back. Wanting Starsky's fingers moving through the soft curls of his groin, seeking the ramrod hard velvet-steeled cock that was hurting for Starsky's touch, rolling his sac in carefully demanding fingers, touching him here... right here where his finger played and teased, surrogate for Starsky's.

And suddenly Hutch could. He could imagine it. He did want it. He wanted Starsky to possess him, to own him, to make him his, and with this self-knowledge shaking his world and plunging him into chaos, he pierced the tight ring of muscle with a groan. Felt Starsky taking him, holding him around his waist, pulling him back against him until he was impaled on Starsky's rampant cock.

He crooked his finger, fucking himself as he fisted his cock. Images of Starsky taking him, owning him, played behind his eyes squeezed tight against the intruding creak of the floorboard. Ecstasy danced frantically through him, lightning ripped his soul open, leaving him bare.

He could feel the trickle of sweat down his chest, down the crack between his ass cheeks as he pumped himself, feeling his engorged cock harden impossibly more, his balls shift and tighten against his groin. He thought what it would feel like to have Starsky, Starsky pumping into him, splitting him wide with his cock, that same cock that created such a large and potent bulge in snug butter-soft jeans.

It lit a fire through him. Heat traveled in waves from his feet to his head, until he thought for sure that even his hair had to be standing on end. Shock waves rocked him, erupting from the molten heat in his groin, geysering in a fountain of fluid pulsing from the velvet head of his penis, blowing the top of his head off as he ground himself against his fingers like a cat in heat. Hoarsely shouting Starsky's name, an eruption of voice joining the orgasm slamming through him in hot and heavy pulses, the splatter of cream hot, too hot on his over-sensitized flesh, large drops coating belly, thighs and fist.

//Shit,// was his first coherent thought, his limbs trembling in exhaustion. A hysterical sob bitten off as he wondered, //What was that? What the hell was that?//

He heard a muffled sound, again the intrusion of the creaking floorboards. Floorboards seemed too prosaic a thought for this moment, when he rewrote his identity. Rewrote his history. Discovered just who Kenneth Hutchinson was.

//Floorboards!?//

His eyes flashed open to lock with the dark, intense gaze of his partner.

"Aww. Hutch." Starsky rumbled.

//Starsky??// Shit. Shit. Shit. He tried to speak but nothing would come out. He pushed up on his elbows.

"Starsk... it's not what you think... " Okay. Maybe it was what Starsky thought, but Hutch didn't have to tell him that, did he? He could feel the heat surge through his body and wondered how far the blush traveled. It felt like he was baking in his embarrassment. He could feel a different kind of heat pulsating in his groin.

He hadn't felt this awkward since his Aunt Edna had caught him beating off to an old issue of "Playboy" behind Uncle Ernie's barn.

//What do I do now?//

The evil little voice was conspicuous by its absence.

"Starsky?" Hutch couldn't help the quaver in his voice. His greatest fear -- that he would screw up his friendship with this man who owned him heart and soul -- squeezed the air out of his lungs.

"Don't. Don't move." Starsky's gaze pinned Hutch to the mattress.

Hutch swallowed with difficulty, his thoughts spinning, he wasn't ready for this. Not ready to explain to Starsky. Not ready for a confrontation. Definitely not ready to lose Starsky. He could never be ready for that. His adam's apple razored his throat, a sudden lump nearly cutting off his ability to breathe.

It was one thing to masturbate in private. Private fantasies! It was a different thing altogether to find his dream lover had been his audience. Heat burned his cheeks, and he wanted to laugh incongruously at himself playing the bit of a terrified virgin in a 'Perils of Pauline' episode.

And his cock would not behave. It had a fucking mind of its own, and he could feel the terror thrilling through him in a strange addictive adrenaline-pumping rush as his cock began to swell. Hundreds, thousands of times, he had been naked with Starsky. Teasing in the showers. Skinny-dipping in the Pacific. Tanning in one of the grottos at the beach. Chasing each other with wet towels. And never had he felt so vulnerable.

His cock was acting like a puppy at the pound, 'oh me! Me! Pick ME!' It was a goddamn compass, pointing towards his own personal north. A metronome ticking out his desire in a frighteningly obvious rhythm.

And suddenly, horrifyingly, terrifyingly, he felt his nakedness.

And he couldn't help but wonder if this was what Adam had felt like, shortly after tasting the forbidden fruit. And he couldn't think of anything more forbidden than what he had just been thinking about. Doing. Doing With Starsky. With. His. Partner.

Shit, what the fuck had he been thinking? Hutch could feel the blush deepen, wash like waves of the Pacific Ocean crashing into him, moving from his toes to his hair. Knowing there wasn't a chance in hell that his discomfort would escape Starsky's notice.

Trying for nonchalance, he clutched at the deep blue silk, pulling the sheets upwards in an attempt to disguise his nakedness, his cock's wanton disobedience to his will at the very appearance of his partner.

"I said `don't move.'" Starsky commanded gruffly. With eyes a dark unfathomable blue, he prowled into the room.

//Like he fucking owns this place.// Hutch licked his lips again, drawing disarrayed thoughts to himself like a shield. "Wha--at... " he stopped, cleared his throat and started again, "What are you doing here, Starsk?"

Starsky smiled. A deliciously sensuous twist of full lips as he stalked his prey. "Thought I'd surprise ya. You've been a little... down, lately."

Hutch just barely stopped himself from snorting. //Oh yeah. This was a surprise. Oh, yeah.// "Most people call first."

Hutch knew the room temperature had to be 500 degrees. It was hot in here. And he could smell himself in the heavy air, and could hear his pulse beating through his body, his blood thrumming with excitement... fight or flight... he had studied this in school, hadn't he?

But there was no place to run. And he couldn't-wouldn't hurt Starsky. He stared up into the indigo eyes of his partner, not daring to breathe as Starsky reached out.

"Never stood on ceremony before." Starsky smiled, a strange superior smile, darkness and light as his knuckles lightly caressed the side of Hutch's face from brow to jaw. The sheer sensuality of Starsky radiated through the room.

Hutch heaved air into his starving lungs, mesmerized by the gentle touch, limbs trembling like an exhausted athlete or a newborn colt, helpless to leave, to run, to hide. "Starsk? I -- I thought you had p-plans... " His voice drifted away from him, lost in the heat of Starsky's gaze.

"I did. I do. With you."

"Starsk... ... I'm not ready for this."

"Anything you want, babe. As slow as you want. Nothing you won't like." Starsky smiled at him, giving him a gentle understanding look, the warmth of which stole Hutch's breath away.

Fire burned through him. He was being destroyed. He was being reborn. He gasped for air, for life, a breath another, his last, his first in forever, "Starsk... this ... isn't a good... idea"

Starsky gentled Hutch, running a hand from shoulder to wrist and up again. Branding Hutch, inexorably marking him in the heat of his touch. Hutch moaned; he was lost. Lost in Starsky. Anything Starsky wanted, he would give him.

Starsky leaned towards him, pulling him up against the flaming inferno that was Starsky, the rough denim of his shirt abraded Hutch's flesh, warm moist lips touched Hutch's, Starsky's tongue traced Hutch's mouth asking, wheedling for entrance.

He dimly heard Starsky's voice, "It's a wonderful idea, Hutch. Me `n' Thee..."

Finis