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I met David when we were nobodies in this town. Both of us have talked about it at one time or another in interviews—one week he was the waiter, the next it was me. You remember, right?

But there was another time that we never talk about.

David thought he'd do anything to succeed in Tinsel Town. Anything. You understand? And for awhile he did just that. Until he couldn't do it anymore. Just before he got out, however, he met me. I was supposed to be a fellow inductee, I guess. But I don't take direction well, never have.

David can take it. He took it that night we met. From me. 

God, I was so young. Arrogant. He was just a stranger, somebody to vent my frustrations with, somebody that I could admit to wanting because it was just for a night. One night never hurt anybody, did it, never changed destiny, never changed what's in a heart or a mind or a life, one fucking night where I could admit that he was a man and he was beautiful and I wanted to fuck him.

And I did—screaming, pounding him into the wall, into the carpet, balls slapping against his ass, feeling him spasm around me, coming like there was no tomorrow because there was no tomorrow for this.

He fell apart, afterwards.

Nothing too dramatic—just wrapped himself up in silence and stillness, at first staring up at the ceiling. It went on for awhile. He hardly spoke. Looked through me, his face expressionless. He pulled in somewhere inside his body.

I knew more about it later. How he thought he could do anything, pay any price, if it meant someone might see him, give him a chance.

But that night, I knew nothing. It scared me and it pissed me off. He was a stranger, for Christ's sake. I didn't need this. I didn't know what the fuck to do. I owed him nothing, but I tried anyway. I wrapped myself around him and talked to him, who knows about what, anything. 

He came around, a slow thaw from cool skin and glass-blank eyes to someone real again, warm, his face desolate.

Just a single goddamn night, over and done. Gone. Right? Too fucking bad tomorrow and the next day and the next were just washed-out, meaningless bullshit compared to it. 

And then we got the TV show together. God's got a helluva sense of humor. 

Once, early on in the show, we got drunk together and tried to pass off what had happened as a fluke, bout of insanity, depression, horniness, whatever shit happened to come flying out of our mouths at the time. Even drunk, we were uneasy about it, but the important thing is we got it out of the way.

Out of the way, right. That's so damned funny. 

The next time it happened we couldn't dismiss it, so we just didn't talk about it. Period. We weren't going to admit to it, anyway.

All right, I wouldn't talk about it. I don't think I could have admitted to what was happening between us at the time. But it didn't matter, did it? It'd have ruined our careers.

Oh hell, I know the answer. Prime-time homos, right? It was there, all of it, right on the screen for everybody to see, bleeding through every gesture, every word, and it's all on film. Jesus.

So, nothing. I shut us down. Finito, the end, fuck you very much.

I'm trying to concentrate on directing. I'm doing an episode where I'm kidnapped. I don't appear much, and that's fine by me. 

David is beautiful in it—long fingers, blond hair, a figure drawn in light and shadow. He's Starsky's salvation, see. Hutch begs for him.

He begs for me, because I want him to. And I catch David slanting looks my way, studying me, and I know he won't say a word. He won't say that Hutch wouldn't do it like this, laid bare, defenseless in front of the enemy.

He knows what I want. He's always known, since that first night together. I didn't, but it doesn't matter. I lost this battle before I ever started to fight.

David begs but he never, ever breaks.

I do.