2.

When I wake up, he's gone. I don't even know how I fell asleep. The last thing, I knew, we were kissing. Soft, gentle kisses that might have turned into something more once the afterglow burnt off. My first thought, as I open my eyes and lift my head from the puddle of drool on the carpet, is that it was all a dream. A dream that segued from dream to sleep to waking. After all, I've fallen asleep at work before. Never quite like this though. So far, I've only woken up slouched over a book, or leaned back in an armchair. No, haven't yet woken curled up naked in the backroom, with dried, sticky residue of come on my belly.

Now I wonder if it wasn't a dream, but if I truly have taken leave of my senses. Did I come back here, talking to my ghosts, strip off my clothes, and jack off? I'm glad for the perpetual lack of customers. I hurry to get dressed. I don't even know what time it is. I hope it's past closing time because I don't want to stay in the shop any longer. I want to go home and get cleaned up, and put the store and the ghosts behind me.

I get dressed, arranging my crumpled clothes as neatly as I can. I ignore the - well, messiness on me. My undershirt will just have to go in the laundry. I've got nothing to clean up with back here. I put my shoes on - LL Bean boots. Insulated hiking boots. They somehow go with my overall appearance. My khaki pants and my tan sweater with a pull on the elbow. I go back to the front of the store. The clock over the desk tells me it's midnight. Midnight? That can't be. It was late afternoon when he came in.

He - Siathan. Where is he? Nowhere, my mind tells me. You've just gone crazy. The book I was reading is still open by the cash register. I consider taking it home. I know I won't be getting any sleep anyway. I get my jacket on and leave in a hurry. Or I try to. I tug at the front door and it's stuck. I check. It's locked. He locked me in. No, he didn't. He doesn't exist. Therefore, I must have locked it, before I went to the back room. I don't remember locking it, but considering the things I am remembering, I accept that I locked it, not some phantom of my imagination.

A phantom. But the thing is, I do remember. And not in the fragmented way of a dream. I remember how he smelled, how he felt, the look in his eyes, the little sounds of pleasure he made. These things were all burned into my brain - like I knew I would lose him, and I opened up fully. Took in every little detail of him, and filed it away. The memory is bittersweet now. The memory is real enough, vivid enough for me to nearly relive it. But without the substance of flesh. With no real confirmation that anything really happened. It's a dream. I've lost it on waking. It's the dream I'll ask to find again, every night when I fall asleep, and it will never, ever be there. Every waking moment will leave me wanting.

It's with these thoughts that I head out into the cold and dark and try to find my way home. It's too late to catch a bus. I don't mind the walk. I don't enjoy the smell or the feel of or the people on the bus. Worn, weary people, bad tempered, ruing every stop and start. I could ride the bus all day, if I were the only one on it. It's hypnotic. Not quite so good as a train, but trains are hard to come by these days. The only station in town is a bus and subway ride away, and it doesn't go anywhere I need to go. Someday I think I'll take a trip on a train. Stare out the window and let the miles unwind the tensions and noise I've accumulated in the quarter century or so that I've lived. Maybe I should do it soon. Perhaps the tension that goes unnoticed - the drabness of my life, the harping nag of my parents, my lack of a social life, and the pittance that I live on - is getting to me.

My apartment isn't far. It seems like a long way, in the dark. It's a moonless night. The stars and streetlamps are the only light. Clear and cold, they both cut through the dark, casting ominous shadows. I'm feeling a bit spooked. But there's no reason to be. The streets are oddly deserted, even for this time of night. There's usually someone out. Even if only just a vagrant. But the cold must have driven everyone indoors early. I'm thankful for that. I like the feeling of having the city and it's shadows all to myself. I am alone, but I am one. The only one. Being alone I feel more myself than at any time. When I'm around people, whoever I really am seems to vanish. I'm an act, a presence. A stage persona. Walking alone, or alone within a crowd, or especially, when I'm writing - that's the real me. Without pretentions or niceties. My wan smile has faded. It's resting. In it's place is a frown. A look of sadness, maybe.

I go a bit further and I sense someone else. I don't hear footsteps or anything. Just have the feeling that I'm being followed. I want to look back, and I don't. I fear - what? That it is him, and that it isn't him. In some sense I would welcome a mugger. That would only mean the loss of my wallet. If it is him, then it means the loss of my mind, or the admission that there's much more to the world than I thought there was. There's a world out there that cannot be neatly contained by reality. That's his world.

I can't look back, and I can't not look back. So I look. It's him. He is exactly as he appeared before, except the shirt has changed colors. Yes, he's still barefoot. I face forward and keep walking. It is him, and now, I find, I don't know what to do about it.

"Did you have a good sleep?" he says.

"Yes," I say. In a couple steps he's caught up with me. We walk side by side.

"Aren't you cold?" I ask.

"No," he says. He shakes his head with a smile. My face is wrapped in a scarf. How did he even recognize me? Was he waiting outside the shop for me all this time? Somehow I doubt it. He looks as though his interest would not keep him in one place waiting for long. There's a whole world out there. It's new to him. He was out exploring. Don't flatter yourself, James.

"Give me your hand. I'll show you," he says. I reluctantly dig my hand out of the pocket that it's wedged into.

"Take off your glove," he says. I do, and he takes my hand in his, weaving his fingers in between mine. My hand is already starting to get cold, and his is warm and dry. The heat of his hand seeps into mine.

"I see," I acknowledge. I try to pull my hand away.

"No," he says mischievously. I give another tug and his fingers tighten. Gently, but I can't escape him. I sigh. I figure I'll lead him home then, if that's what he wants. But he has other plans.

"My apartment is that way," I point with my free hand, as he turns down a side street.

"That's nice," he says. He doesn't let go of me. He just keeps walking. I'm forced to go, or actually have a tug of war out here on the street with my arm as the rope.

He leads me down the side street. Then down a maze of alleyways. I just sigh and play along. What does he want? He doesn't leave me wondering for long. He finds a spot he likes and leans back against the brick of the backside of a building, pulling me to him. Yanking my scarf loose to kiss me.

"Siathan," I protest, after tasting him once more.

"You said there was more. Show me," he says. The last two words are barely breathed. They caress my lips and end in more kisses.

"Not here," I say. I try to push him away, to take hold of his hand and lead him back to my apartment. It's not much but it's surely better than an alleyway. And it's warm. He resists me though.

"Why not here?" he asks.

"Not out in the open," I say.

"Why not out in the open?"

"Because it's... open. Not private," I say. His face doesn't even register any understanding of the word private. It's as if I've dropped a word in a foreign tongue into the conversation, a word that's not only foreign but doesn't translate into whatever language he speaks.

"It's cold," I say. That he understands.

"I'll warm you up," he says with a coy little smile.

"We can go to my apartment," I offer. He shakes his head no and pulls me to him tighter.

"I can't wait, James," he says. He kisses my neck.

"It's not far," I say.

"No. Here," he insists. He takes my hand and guides it down between us, guiding my palm to his cock, rigid, straining against his jeans. I give up. I kiss him and press my gloved hand hard into his crotch. He moans and his hips move against my hand. Our hands that are wound together tighten. I feel like I'm taking the heat from him, from his lips and his hand. I still feel the bite of the cold, nipping at the edges of me, but I notice it less. What's more urgent is right in front of me. He's fumbling one-handed at the buttons of his jeans. I pull away from the kiss, and bring my hand away from him to bite my fingertips and pull the glove off. I spit it out on the ground. He's looking at me with hungry, desperate eyes. I undo his jeans for him. He waits passively, a his hand resting on my arm. When I've succeeded in getting his jeans undone and pushing them out of the way, halfway down his hips, he takes my wrist in a forceful grip, pushing my hand down. But I don't want to do that. I want to give him more. I promised him more, after all.

I drop down to my knees before him. He looks at me, questioning but trusting. I've never done this before...but, how hard can it be? Quite hard, actually. At least he is. His cock is touching his belly as the blood runs through him. I take it in my hand and lick the tip, tasting him. Memorizing the smell and feel of his flesh. Running my tongue around the ridge of his cockhead. I release him so I can look up. Does he like it? Am I doing it right? He's looking down at my, eyes half-lidded, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He lets in out as he breathes out, cupping the back of my head with his palm, urging me forward, onto him. I take him back into me, my hands on his hipbones, and he's fucking my mouth. I hold him back some. I don't know how to take the whole length of him in. He's not exactly small. I do the best I can, going at far as I can, trying not to gag myself, but doing it anyway.

I don't know if it's my lack of skill, or the cold, or my hands holding him back that prevent him from bringing himself to a climax within me. He lasts longer than he did last time. He seems frustrated. He reaches back up over his head, arms bent, stretching up and back against the wall, his abdomen stretched long and taut.

"Harder. Faster," he gasps out. I do neither. I take his cock in my hand, sucking just the tip now, sliding my hand slowly, but firmly up and down his spit slick shaft. He moans with pleasure, and I realize too late that I'm not prolonging his pleasure but intensifying it. It's too late to stop. He thrusts into my hand and comes. Some on my cheek, some dripping down on my scarf, some on my hand. I lick the head of his cock, catching the last few drops in my mouth, tasting the bitter, saltiness of him. I want more of him. I lick him, hold him, but now it's making him a touch uncomfortable.

"Now you," he says, eyes glinting as he urges me to my feet. He reaches up and uses my scarf to clean my face. I reach up and pull it loose until it falls onto the ground. I don't want the scarf. I don't like it much anyway. The only reason to keep it would be as a relic, a reminder of this moment. But it's already on the ground, and he's kicked it off into a pile of rubbish. It's beyond redemption now. He's at the button of my pants, his hands steadier now that he's come. He's eager to reciprocate. I'm eager too, but some belated, Puritanical modesty has kicked in.

"Not here. My apartment," I say. It's a short walk. It'll be an uncomfortable one, sure, but once we're there we can do more than just this. My mind's beginning to turn over in itself the things I'd like to do to and with Siathan. The thoughts are doubly potent. They are new. I'd never even thought of sex with a man before him. Not even in passing. Now a whole new vista of pleasure is open to me. The virgin inklings of the possibilities are enhanced by the thought of Siathan himself. He's a world to be explored. I want to go home. I want to be warm. I want to know him. I want to capture him, to keep him with me for the rest of the night at least. Hopefully longer. Much longer.

"No. You're ready now," he tells me. As if I didn't already know. His strong, thing fingers on my cock, even through my pants and underwear are almost enough to get me off. They will be enough if he keeps at it. Not here. Not like this. I push his hand away.

"Let's go to my place," I say. He frowns at me, irritated and thwarted. He pulls up his jeans and buttons them, jamming his hands in his pockets, staring flatly at me.

"Okay?" I ask.

"Whatever," he says with a shrug. I wait for him to move.

"You lead the way," he says. I try to read his mind. Angry? Maybe. Nonchalant? Still horny? I sure am. I don't want to turn my back on him, but he won't move, he won't even quit staring at me - or is it glaring? - until I do. So I turn and lead the way. He follows me. At least I think he is. He's silent when he moves, as if he's not really quite in this world. He's somewhat insubstantial. His footfalls have no impact on our earth. I lead the way, and I put my mind to not looking back. Not even a glance over my shoulder. The tale of Orpheus comes unbidden into my mind, and I don't dare look back, for fear that he's not there. That he'll be dragged back to wherever he came from. It won't be Hades, but it might as well be. I can no more find him again than I can find the Styx and cross it.

I can't look back. And I can't not look back. So I look. My heart sinks. He's gone. There's nothing behind me but the cold dark night, the cold which mocks me by biting all the more ferociously at my now exposed throat and face. I think of making my way back to the alleyway. Not for the scarf, but hoping against hope he'll still be there. Waiting for me to come to my senses and realize that we play the game by his rules, and his rules only. I know now. I wait on the street for a minute. A minute that drags out into several. I don't go back there because I know he's gone. I'm hoping that my thoughts are enough to bring him back. They aren't. I stand there 'til I can't stand it anymore. He's gone. The only reminders of him are the scarf, lost to the alley and the garbage, and the painful erection still jutting up in my pants. And an aching feeling of loss, that seems to inhabit my heart and my cock all at once.

I turn and I make my way home. As the blood finally subsides within me, leaving me limp and weary and still aching, I vow to myself that I'll never ever say no to him again. I pray a wordless prayer to the old Gods, those even I've forgotten the names of, to send him back. To give me one more chance to say yes.