4.

Of course, it comes as no surprise when I wake to find that he's gone. What time is it? I wonder. I look at my watch. Five AM. I could go home for a few hours before I open the shop, but there's no particular reason to. Other than to change, and most of what I have in my closet isn't any more presentable than the clothes that have been crumpled on the floor all night. I could lay here and sleep. No one would know the difference. But even as I close my eyes, I find I haven't got any more sleep left in me. When I close my eyes, all I can think about is Siathan. Not a good thing for me to think about, if I'm going out in public any time soon. I try to abort that line of thinking before my cock gets any stiffer than it already is. I get up and get dressed. The bakery a couple blocks away will be open by the time I get there. The bread will have risen, and my cock will have fallen. The coffee will be fresh. The buns will be hot. Pastries are no substitute for Siathan, but they'll have to do. And I'm ravenous. I've had nothing to eat since lunch yesterday. And that was only a peanut butter sandwich. In lieu of hot buns, hot buns will have to do.

It's still dark out. And cold. But not as cold as the last few days had been. The walk wakes me. I look around. The streets are quiet. The air's clear this time of the morning, not yet choked and congested with car exhaust. I'm awake and alert. Taking everything in. Or so I thought. I glance at something on the other side of the road and when I look forward, he's there. I don't see his face yet, but I recognize the walk, the jeans revealing a strip of flesh high on his thigh, the funny shirt - no, today it's the funny shirt covered with a sweater. One of mine, by the looks of it. The one with the pulls on the elbow. And his feet are bare. He doesn't look back at me. Does he know I'm behind him? Of course he does, I tell myself. He's teasing you. Then I wonder. I try to follow, cool and nonchalant, but I lost it long before the bakery. We're not even headed to the bakery anymore. I'm following where that swaying ass of his leads.

"Siathan?" I say. He doesn't answer. I walk faster, and even though the appearance of his ambling walk stays the same, he manages to stay ahead of me. In fact, he's starting to put some distance between us. I walk faster. Then I trot. I can't catch up. He disappears around a corner. I break into a run to turn the corner. I come to a stop as I collide with him. He catches me, laughing, and somehow manages to keep both of us on our feet.

"Is there something wrong, James?" he asks, grinning. I'm out of breath. I shake my head no, and I grab him. To make sure he's real, solid. He's surprised. I find I like surprising him. Instead of speaking I decide to kiss him. He stops the giggling. He responds to the kiss. He's all sex, all of a sudden, out on the street, mindless of whomever may be watching. He wraps his arms around me, grinding his hips against me. His cock is hard. I want him to stop. And I don't want him to. I want to look around and make sure no one's watching. And I find I want an audience. Let them watch. Let them see him. If they see me in the process, so be it - but let Siathan be watched, be seen. I'd love to watch him get touched, pleasured, fucked by other people. Men and women. And yet I want to keep him all to myself. I'd like to trick him, own him, possess him, even if increasing my happiness diminishes his. There's a whole world out there. I'm only privy to a small part of it. Staying here with me - it's probably limiting him. But I don't care. I like the feel of him fucking against me. So eager to get off he'd do it out here on the street, in his clothes, moaning, panting, against me. But he pulls away with a laugh as I start to grind against him too, feeling as if I could get off, right here on the street, just from kisses and muted friction.

He's just teasing. He turns his libido off as soon as mine's fully engaged. He's had his fun. Now he wants something else. He pulls back from me and points to the window of the shop we're standing in front of. I realize the whole world is open to him. He's out exploring it while I'm unconscious. I'm the one not seeing it.

"Look," he says. We're in front of a sex shop. They have lingerie in the windows. Everything from lace to bondage. That's about all they can legally show you, so they've overdone it. Inside, the sex toys and videos take center stage, and the lingerie is remitted to one tiny corner.

"Yeah? What about it, Siathan? It's lingerie," I say.

"It's funny," he says. He breaks into wild giggles.

"Lingerie is funny to you?" I ask.

"I just can't picture anyone wearing that stuff," he says. The way he's looking me up and down, I'm wondering if he's picturing me in it. That would be scary. Now, Siathan, he could almost pull it off. Garters and stockings. I don't tell him this though. For fear he'd injure himself laughing, or he'd want me to buy him some to try it on. That might be, well, interesting, but most of that stuff is overpriced and out of my budget. And what would I get for him? Bondage, or lace? Lace, for certain. Shit, he wouldn't need me to buy it for him. He could just appear in it. The though of him appearing at the store in that stuff is more than a little unnerving. I take him by the arm and start walking, before he reads my thoughts, or gets the idea to try any of it on.

"It's for women, Siathan," I say. He rolls his eyes.

"I know that," he says, as if I've just made the stupidest observation ever. He grins again and with renewed mirth continues, "Do you know what else they have in there?"

"Yes. I know," I say uncomfortably. He just laughs again, and nods. I wonder if he's had his fill of embarrassing me.

"How do you know? Have you been in there?" he asks.

"Yes," I admit. He stifles a laugh, and just nods again.

"What for?" he asks.

"Just stuff," I say.

"Lingerie for your girlfriend?" he asks, grinning.

"I don't have a girlfriend," I tell him.

"Oh," he says. I wonder if he's going to pursue his line of questioning? The conversation drops off to silence for long enough that I assume he's not. He looks thoughtful. Maybe he's mulling over what sort of sex toys I've got. The answer is, none. But if he ever does come to my apartment, I imagine he'll go through my drawers, searching out the private bits and pieces of me. There's not much to find. But he may be amused with my small stash of well-worn porn videos. No, I don't have a girlfriend. Haven't in a long time. It's embarrassing, but that's the way it is. I look over at him, but I don't think he's thinking of me and toys or videos. If he were, I guess he'd be laughing. No, he's only looking at the world we're passing by. I'm content to let him lead me. I've got nowhere better to go. Kissing him seemed to transfer the dull ache in my stomach back into my heart and my cock. My hand feels electric where our fingers twine together. My stomach is full of butterflies. It's not a sick feeling. It's more like a pleasant uncertainty. He looks over at me and smiles. I smile back.

"Where are we going, James?" he asks.

"I'm following you," I say.

"I'm following you," he echoes, shaking his head.

"Oh," I say dumbly.

"Well, where were you going?" Siathan asks.

"What? Before you led me astray?" I ask. He laughs at my wording and nods. "To the bakery. To get some breakfast."

"Okay," he says.

"Okay, what?"

"Breakfast. Bakery. What you just said. We'll go there," he says. "Lead the way."

"Oh. Okay," I say. I'm still excited. I find I'm a bit disappointed that he wants to do anything other than fuck. At least my semi-erect cock is hidden under my jacket. I silently sigh away my disappointment, take note of what street were on, and change directions. "This way," I say in a strained voice.

He laughs again. "Later, James, later. I promise," he says. I wonder if he's reading my mind, my voice, or my strained expression? Or something in the way I walk? He stops short and kisses me.

"You're not helping things any," I say, after the kiss is over and we're walking again.

"I know," he says. One-hand tightens around mine. With the other he yanks his - my? - sweater down over the front of his jeans to cover the bulge of his hard on. He's taken us far enough out of the way that we have plenty of time to compose ourselves before we get to the bakery. He seems comfortable enough as we walk along in silence, doubly silent in the morning stillness. I'm not so comfortable. My hard on subsides to an aching gut and a limp cock, but even holding hands with him, the prolonged contact with him, even if just hand to hand, is turning me on. It's tolerable. I try to push the electric feeling back down my arm, to keep it from spreading from head to body and all through me. As if my arm were some separate entity. My hand is my whole physical body for the duration of the walk. I swear I can't feel my feet, the pavement beneath me, the cold air, or anything else. My whole world is at the end of my arm.

We arrive at our destination and at last, my body reasserts itself, fully rejoining the real world. My stomach growls loudly at the smell of the sweet bread issuing forth.

"Try the honey bread. It's good," I tell Siathan. I point at the round, hard loaves. I can eat a whole one by myself, I'm sure. Slightly sweet bread, thickly buttered, and a cup of black coffee. I'm practically drooling over the thought. One of the employees comes out with a tray of fresh danishes. Siathan inhales the aroma rising from them.

"I want that," he says, pointing to a double sized cheese and strawberry danish, slathered in sugar glaze and slivered almonds. I order one for him, a honey loaf for me. A black coffee for me. I'm going to ask him what he likes in his coffee, but I'm guessing he doesn't even know. I order one with cream and sugar for him.

They only have a few tables in this place. At any other time of day, it's standing room only. Today we've got the place to ourselves. I pick the table farthest from the counter. I'm glad that we sat as far away as we could get, because as soon as Siathan takes a bite out of his danish he speaks.

"Wow. This is good," he says. I nod. They do make the best danish in town. A little too rich for me. I butter my bread and nod. He takes another bite, his mouth still half full of the first. He clarifies how good it is through a mouthful of food.

"This is better than fucking," he says. I choke on a swallow of coffee. I hope nobody heard that. A giggle from somewhere behind the racks of finished food assures me that someone did.

"I hope you don't really mean that," I say drolly.

He swallows and corrects himself. "Almost as good as fucking," he says with a smile. The way he wolfs the rest of the danish down makes me think he's saying it for my benefit only. He looks at the coffee uncertainly.

"Try it," I assure him. "It's better than sex."

"I hope you don't really mean that," he says.

"I don't. Trust me, I don't," I say. He eases the coffee cup over and looks down at it.

"It's burnt," he tells me, sniffing distastefully.

"It's hot. It's not burnt. Just take a little sip. Be careful," I say.

"Is this going to kill me?" he asks.

"No, it's not going to kill you," I say. He sips it and makes a crinkled up face as he swallows.

"Liar," he accuses me.

"It's not going to kill you," I say. I drink mine down. My throat is inured to all but actually boiling liquids. The hotter the coffee, in fact, the better I like it. I go and get myself a cup. When I return, I come bearing another danish, which he eats with nearly as much gusto as the first. When it's gone he turns his attention to the coffee, forcing it down in tiny sips.

"Don't drink it if you don't like it," I tell him. But he's not one to be outdone. He's at least going to finish it. When it's cool enough he finishes it off by guzzling it down all in one go, followed by an a expression so twisted it's comical, and a loud exclamation.

"Yuck," he says.

"What? It's good," I say.

"Yours is different than mine," he says. I shrug and offer him a taste. He takes a sip and the sour face is back.

"That is totally disgusting," he says.

"It's an acquired taste," I tell him. He just frowns. I finish my coffee and we go. For lack of anywhere better to go, I head back to the shop.

"Where are you going?" he says.

"Back to the shop," I say.

"Your bookstore?" he asks.

"It's not mine," I correct him, "but yes."

"Do you have to?"

"Go to work? Yeah, I do," I say.

"Can't you stay home?" Siathan says.

"What for?" I ask with a laugh. "There's nothing to do there. You don't want to go there."

"I'll go," he says coyly. Coyness that, as I've learned, isn't so coy. "We could spend the day together."

"I suppose I could use up a sick day," I say. I try to conceal my elation. A whole day with him. In my apartment. In my bed. Maybe in my shower. I run through all the places of my apartment. Every horizontal surface that I can lay him down on. Every vertical surface that I can back him up against. Or lean him against. Legs spread. Ass mine for the taking. I walk faster.

"What are you thinking about, James?" he says, bouncing along beside me.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," I lie to him. I'd rather show him than tell him. He tugs, trying to rush ahead of me. I refuse to let him go. He yanks, but I'm stubborn. Finally he gives up and walks beside me. I'm not at ease. Not even when we're on the steps of my building. I fumbled with the key and the door one-handed.

"Wouldn't that be easier if you let me go?" he says.

"No," I insist. I get the door open with some difficulty and pull him in after me. I don't even let go of him in the elevator. Which is just as well. As it lurches up toward my floor, the twelfth, he swoons. The grip on my hand keeps him from falling. Now he's clutching at me and my shoulder.

"This thing is making me dizzy," he complains.

"We're here," I tell him, as the elevator stops. I lead him out. He follows, unsteadily. As a kid I had a cat. I liked to pick her up and spin her around while I held on to her. Then I'd put her down and watch her weave drunkenly as she walked off. Kids are nice, aren't they? That's how Siathan is walking as we make our way down the hall to my apartment. It's funny, but I find myself worrying about him. Maybe fairies can't tolerate elevators. Or closed spaces.

"Are you ok?" I ask. He nods yes. About halfway down the hall, his normal swaying step takes over in place of his dizzied sway. As soon as he's feeling better he tries to tug free again. I won't let him go.

"I won't run away," he says. I shrug. I struggle with my door and my keys. But I still don't let go of him.

"What are you going to do when you get me inside, James? Tie me up?" he says.

"Maybe," I say. He rolls his eyes. I hadn't thought of it, but the notion of him stretched out, spread eagled on my bed, on his back - no, on his stomach - tied up and helpless...well, it's an idea that has merits. But maybe not just yet. I don't want to scare him away, now that I've finally got him here. I get the door open and lead him in. It's only when we're in and the door is locked and the deadbolt shot that I feel at ease enough to let go of his hands. The closed door - and even the grip of my hand - probably mean nothing at all. It seems he can appear and disappear at will. But he's still here. I hope that as long as I'm awake, and touching him, he won't disappear. My caffeine and lust tainted blood rushes through me. I take off my jacket and hang it by the door. It misses the hook but I don't care. Siathan waits. I fold my arms and pull him to me. I take a breath. He waits for my kiss. I hope I can stay awake. All day. All night maybe. As long as I can. All I want to do is drink him up, drown in the essence of him, and give myself to him in turn. I'm eager to know and be known. All though leaves me as my tongue dips into his mouth. His lips part wider, to let me taste him. He is his own particular sweetness mixed with the faint taint of strawberries and coffee.

He reaches down and unbuttons his jeans. They fall loosely down over his hips, catching on his thighs, not so much because of his legs themselves, but the way he's standing. His legs are a little apart. His hips are in motion, grinding his quickly engorging cock on my leg. I want it to go slower. At least that's what I keep telling myself. What I actually do is reach back, grabbing his ass cheeks and urging him along. He's making me hard too. I kiss him until I'm up, hard, straining against my pants. I take his hand and pull him toward my bedroom. He holds his jeans up, just barely covering the bottom of his ass. His cock juts out from above the crumble of denim. I bring him into my bedroom, kissing him once before pushing him down onto my bed. Onto his back. I tug at his pants and he lifts his hips, them feet to allow me to get them off of him. I reach for my nightstand. He sits up to tug my sweater off. I halfway expect it to disintegrate as it hits the floor. It can't be quite real, and I wonder if being here, in my apartment will break the spell. It doesn't. It's only a tan lump of knitting. It doesn't turn into a bird and fly off or anything. Siathan takes off his flowery blouse and in flutters down onto the floor. He lays back, arranging himself on my pillows, his dark hair spreading out over them, looking unbelievably beautiful, inviting. I tear my eyes off him long enough to find what I'm looking for. Lube. I wet my fingers with it and push them in. One, then two. Hurriedly. More to get him ready for me than to pleasure him. He gasps a bit at this probing of his insides. I hope I'm not hurting him... I wonder, but then he takes his cock in his hand. He strokes himself, and bending his leg, he catches it behind the knee, holding it to his chest, exposing his cock and balls fully, turning his asshole upward, encouraging me to finger fuck him. I do, and I do it for longer than I'd planned to. I could almost be happy, watching him come like this. Almost.

I pull my fingers out so I can undress. I half expect him to protest, but he doesn't. He bites his bottom lip, endures the discomfort of the loss of stimulation. He takes one last, light stroke on his cock before he bends his other leg, pulling it up, waiting. Wanting to be fucked. I never wanted a man before I met him. I barely wanted a woman, for that matter. But now he's here and he's all I want. Everything but the act of taking him, of pleasuring him seems a world away, utterly mundane, totally insignificant.

I'm naked as quickly as I can be. I pour a generous amount of lube on my palm, slide it over my cock, and leaning over him, I use one hand to position and hold my cock. I push insistently against his tight ring of muscles. They give way and I'm in him in one long swift stroke. The look of pleasure on his face is unbearable. As beautiful as I'm sure my expression must be grotesque. Now that I'm in him I lean forward, my hands on either side of him. My stomach lightly brushes his cock as I thrust into him. He lets go of his knees - which are braced on my shoulders anyway - and reaches up to pull me down onto him. Crushing his legs down to his chest, folding him up in a way I'm not certain I could do and still walk straight in the morning. His cock is trapped between us. As I fuck him, I'm stroking him inside and out. He wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls my head down so he can kiss me. His kiss is hungry, half biting. I relent, resting on my elbows, putting all my weight on him. I dived down into the kiss, thrusting my tongue in him, fucking his ass and mouth all at once.

His mouth opens as he comes. He makes a sound, a wordless exclamation of mixed pain and pleasure, a desperate look in his eyes as his orgasm overtakes him from within. I stop kissing and watch him.

"That's right. Come for me. Come for me," I tell him. His body obeys my command. I feel his muscles clenching around me, his hot seed wetting us both down as his cock jerks between us. His eyes close and the sound of his pleasure drops off to a ragged hiss of breath drawn past his lush, bitten lips. I hold myself back. I'm not quite ready to let go yet. Literally or figuratively. I let him go, and I come with him, and it's over. I'm awake now. I can stay away, hurting as I am from denying myself release. I almost want to stop now. To pull out and wait in agony until he's ready again. And to do this over and over. All day long.

But he's recovered enough from his orgasm to urge me on. I don't come. I try to hold back, my thrusts slow, steady. I raise myself up, holding his legs by the back of the knees. He's waiting. For me to finish so we can fuck again, or for me to finish and fall asleep so he can leave. Which I don't know. I'm determined to hold off. I fuck him as slowly as possible, long drawn slippery strokes that nearly leave him. Full thrusts forward, burying myself in him and lingering a while. He looks up at me, those blue eyes of his dark, half lidded. A few strands of his sweat dampened hair sticking to his face. His cheeks and lips flushed pink. His cock laying limp but still long and thick on his lean stomach.

My orgasm comes over me without warning. I thrust quickly, knowing it's too late anyway, wanting to fuck him hard now in these last few moments. I empty into him, my fingers digging into his calves. I thrust again. Again. 'Til the last of it is over. I let go of his legs. They fall down to the bed as I lay atop him. Struggling to stay inside him as long as I can. He welcomes me to him with kisses. I fall out of him, despite my best efforts to maintain our carnal connection.

"Ouch," I say in the midst of a kiss. He giggles. He rolls and I roll with him. We lay face to face, chest to chest, legs woven together. He turns to roll again, to position himself with his back to my front. I hold him instead. He can't move within my embrace.

"We can't sleep like this," he says in between my kisses.

"I know. Who says I want to sleep?" I tell him. I can feel myself drifting off. I focus on the though of fucking him again to try to wake myself up. I find that the though of losing him again is more wakening.

"Whatever you like, James," he relents. He kisses me back. His body is hard, lean against me. His lips are soft. I relax. I shouldn't. I don't want to. But I do. I just lay beside him, just for a minute, pressed against him, his hair feeling like silk as it falls on my face. He smells faintly of flowers. Springtime. He's warm. His body not only looks hotter than mine, it runs hotter. He holds me closer to him, pulling me in. The heat of him seeps into me, into my muscles and bones.

In the end, even two cups of coffee and the thought of losing him isn't enough to keep me awake. I'm powerless to stop it as the feeling of falling, of losing consciousness overtakes me. It's no use. Whether it's some spell he puts over me or it's just tiredness combined with post-sex relaxation, I don't know. As I drift off I wonder if he sleeps with me at all. I'd like to think he sleeps, at least a bit. That he stays long enough to share my reverie. To warm my sleep with his own. Yes, I want him to stay. If only for a while. Even if he can't or doesn't sleep. I want him to stay. What I really want is to wake up and find him beside me. I know it won't happen though. All I can do is to clutch at him as long as I can, until my slumbering muscles give him up and set him free once more. But for now, I hold on. That's all I can do.