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The Watcher

By

Anne S

   He watched him sleep. His focus was on the man's chest, studying it's rise and fall, spending hours counting the beats, feeling the rhythm, breathing along with him, holding his breath when there was the slightest tremor on the other's part. He watched the face, now so devoid of it's sun-bronzed color, he seemed paler than the stark, white sheets. His eyelashes lay against his cheeks, so velvety black against the blanched skin.

   He'd watched him sleep a dozen times, noticing the motion behind his eyes when he was dreaming, but he could see no activity now. All was still behind those lids. He thought about the eyes he'd gazed into so deeply and wondered what they were seeing now, was there any thought, any idea behind that cerulean blue that normally twinkled with laughter and joy. Oh, those eyes could darken like a storm cloud over the ocean, too, or flash sapphire sparks, sometimes directed at the watcher himself. But not often. He wondered if he'd ever see those eyes again. He noticed the perfectly formed, surprisingly small, shell-shaped ears. He'd imagined playfully nipping at those ears in the throes of passion. He wondered if the sleeper was hearing the coaxing, pleading half-words, half-groans coming from the watcher's lips.

   Was he listening, waiting for the one word that would wake him up, or was it a kiss, his kiss, that the sleeper yearned for, like some, turned inside-out bedtime story. Would there be a happy ending or would they both go running off into the dark forest, the wicked witch cackling at their heels? The sleeper would chuckle at the thought of playing some slumbering princess, his laugh, so infectious, when it echoed through the squad room, no one could resist seeing what prank he was pulling on who, was it who or whom? He couldn't tell him now. The sleeper's lip quivered, those lips that were a new and sensuous attraction to the watcher, those full, strong lips that he knew would be able to make him shiver and squirm and shout with pleasure. Would they ever speak his name again, would they ever whisper endearments in the dark midnight hours when he was lonely or discouraged, when it seemed like there had to be more to life. That was the sleeper's magic, his ability to find the good in people, to care deeply, without expecting in return, to take even the sorrows in his life and turn them into memories that he could deal with, to give love and joy to the watcher, who'd never experienced the depths of such a giving heart before. The watcher started a little, had the man's chest stopped rising and falling? No, all was as before. The sleeper made a rattling noise in his throat. It was time for them to come in and suction the fluids that gathered because he couldn't clear his throat, he couldn't brush the fly away that landed on his hair, dark lustrous curls, so silky and soft. The watcher loved to touch it, run his fingers through it, smell the soap the man used, now there was only a sterile hospital smell about him. The watcher searched his hands for some sign of movement, a twitch of a finger, the curl of a thumb. He loved the sleeper's hands, when he placed them on his shoulders in comfort, or on his forehead to check for fever, or protected him from someone who was trying to hurt him. His gaze traveled up the man's arm, strong, muscular, adept at holding him, steadying him when he was about to fall, pushing him out of the line of fire, keeping him safe. It amazed him that he loved this man, truly loved him and now he might never have the chance to tell him, might never know the sleeper's song of love singing in his ears. The fly again, the watcher got up to chase it away, leaned over the other's body, movement caught his eye, not the fly, the twitch of eyelids fluttering, then opening to reveal the beautiful blue of the azure ocean. The eyes that were looking into his. The sleeper had become the watcher, and the watcher could only weep.

THE END