"Lord, Purger of sin and Almoner of grace, we beseech Thee abandon us not because of our Sins, O Consoler of the sorrowing soul, have mercy on us."
There are no monsters in the closet. The Watcher knows this. As a child, he'd never been afraid of what lived under the bed or under the stairs. All the fear he was capable of had been reserved for the monsters that his father and that pretty woman fought. The ones that came out after the sun went down. The ones that made his mother cry every night and his father drag himself home bleeding every morning.. His childhood had been filled with monsters, but they never touched him.
Now he keeps the lamp on. Just a small reading lamp. It throws a soft, forgiving light over the sleeping form next to him. The glow washes away the things he doesn't want to see, smoothes away the lines that make a face he'd always loved into unfamiliar territory. It hides most of the tension that pulls Ethan's body taut even in sleep.
Rupert watches, because it is what he was raised to do. What he was born to do. Because what he sees when he closes his eyes is so much worse. He watches the other man sleep, knowing it is the only time when he can. He memorizes, commits each detail he can bear to see to memory. Because he has to.
Rupert is going on a week without meaningful sleep. The days are beginning to blend and melt, buttery soft and crumbling away. Between those short moments when sleep devours him, drags him down all unwilling, he passes through the haze of waking dreams - and it helps. It softens the edges of what would be otherwise intolerable.
He remembers hitting the young sorcerer, as hard as possible. He remembers the unreasoning rage that consumed every facet of his young life. He remembers Ethan crying in a corner, begging him not to, and how the shiny film of tears on his face made a beautiful boy into something otherworldly. These memories have always filled him with a sense of loathing. An intolerable, sick sensation that he tried to drown in his love for Jenny, in his love of Duty.
But there was Ethan, always, always Ethan, who would follow him down alleys and over oceans, across decades. For what? For what little pleasure they could both gain from the few touches Rupert allowed. It had been contact, though they'd traded knuckles for lips, and the jarring thrust of a kick in place of a cock.
They live by Ethan's rules, now. Have done since Rupert opened the door and caught the collapsing sorcerer. Rupert doesn't ask questions - he does not try to discover how his lover came to escape the Initiative, or what exactly caused the ropy mess of scars that climbs his back. He does not stare, and he does not touch unless Ethan comes to him first. He does not make loud, sudden noises. When Ethan vomits blood onto the tiles of the kitchen floor, he cleans it up without a word.
He does not wake Ethan up when the nightmares come.
He does not wonder how much longer Ethan will continue to cling to life.
Each morning, Rupert stumbles out of the bed and cooks breakfast, somehow managing not to set the flat on fire. Once it is finished and he has made the perfect English tea for Ethan and the dark, strong coffee he needs now to stay awake, the sorcerer sits down. Ethan eats like a man who has forgotten what food is. Afterwards, Rupert waits while his lover is sick, and brings him a cold washcloth, and holds him while he cries.
"I want you to hurt me," Ethan says, tugging on the buttons of Rupert's shirt with skeletal fingers. The Watcher closes his eyes and tears roll down his cheeks again.
"Please, Ethan," he begs. "Please don't make me do that. Please." Though he is already planning, already considering what he can do that will not truly harm his lover. And the sorcerer's eyes flicker, and Rupert does not know if having the power pleases Ethan, or if he resents it.
"Hurt me," he whispers, catching Rupert's collar and pulling him down. Mouth on mouth, and Ethan still tastes bitter and sharp and coppery.
And afterwards Ethan pushes away, and the bruises are dark on his skin and the switchmarks on his back weep blood. Rupert breaks the rules. He cries. He cries for the boy Ethan, staring up at him with trusting, wounded eyes. He cries for the shadow of Ethan who stands before him. He cries for all the lives he's touched with his dirty hands.
Ethan watches him, sometimes, hollow and terrifying.
"Do you hate me now, Rupert?" he whispers. "Do you hate me?"
The monsters in the closet are real, now. He can hear them shivering, shifting. But as long as he keeps the light on, he can watch for them. And if he watches, Ethan will continue to breathe in and out, the air rattling in his chest. If he watches, Ethan's heart won't stop. Because with all of the death Rupert has seen in his life, he is not ready to see this one.
Not yet.