Sex in C Major

But Stefan didn't play that now.

Instead, he drew the bow across the strings in a sweeping gesture, and the notes crashed into the flat like a crowded party. They bounced off the windows and hammered on the walls-and when they settled, grumbling, they were joined by a long, low D.

And so, Stefan simply played.

He played the humming in his veins, left behind by Daz's hands, and it dissipated into the air with the soft murmur of a C. He played the bruises, the fuck itself, in crashing roars and a crescendo that made the dust shiver in the air. As his fingers began to sore, delicate from too long away from the instrument, he played their pain in sharp little cries, shimmering over the higher notes and feeling the music shudder against his throat, still so much deeper than his own voice. It spoke like Daz, a rumble, and Stefan played the kiss in the hall, the dragging in and out of the house, in bursts of energy and noise.

And then, he played the pieces put together.

The bar was a blur of drunken notes, rubbing over each other in a smudge of sound. The spare bedroom was soft and sweet, a note warbling alone. The kiss was a crash between the high and the low, a meeting between two different sounds that smashed together with a near-violent noise. The night, the high note, singing alone, separated from the others.

And then the return.

The notes came together for the sex, but without grace or finesse. They brawled and fought to be heard. They wailed at the tiles of the kitchenette, and scratched at the threadbare carpet. They barged into each other, and forced themselves back apart and out of the melee, the C boomed loudest, domineering as Daz had been, corralling the others into place around it.

It flexed its own sound as the bow stilled, and Stefan breathed.

He breathed. Deep. As though he could inhale the music, and feel the vibration in his soul.

Then he breathed out, and shifted.

The A sang out, alone again and yet Stefan could still hear the C in the room, like a silent echo. Like a feeling against his skin, a hum of a noise that simply wasn't there.

The A was alone but the C hadn't left yet. 6

The good mood didn't last.

Stefan woke in the morning feeling run-down and low. His shot hurt more than usual, and left a bruise on his arse that looked obvious and out of place against the marks Daz had left behind. And the bathroom cabinet was empty.

"Fuck," Stefan breathed.

He bought his hormones over the internet. Stupid, he knew, but what else could he do? He was still registered to a GP in Huddersfield he'd not seen since he was kicked out, and even if he could get a referral to a gender clinic, the waiting lists were measured in years, not weeks. He'd have to wait a year, two years, maybe even four if he went to the one in Leeds, just to see the shrink. Hormones wouldn't even be on their agenda until then.

And Stefan couldn't do that.

He'd cracked a couple of months ago, standing in his bathroom with blood streaked down his legs from the proof his body was wrong, and running down his arms and hands from punching the mirror until it was shards sticking out of his knuckles. He couldn't go back now.

But it meant paying for it.

And paying for something that might be testosterone. Or might be something else. Or might be a mix.

Either way, it was two hundred a month out of his benefits, which meant no gas, no internet, not even bus fares for two out of every four weeks. Living hand to mouth wasn't even within his reach more like hand to chin.

But it was worth it, for the way his dick was growing and his voice was slowly beginning to crack and come down out of the rafters. The periods would stop soon, too. And maybe one day soon, he could pass properly, and his skin wouldn't crawl so much just walking out of his front door.

He logged onto his neighbour's wifi with his phone, and worked quickly before they noticed again. They thought it was the meth guy on their floor last time, Stefan had heard the row, but Sustanon wasn't exactly multi-purpose so they'd figure it out soon. And the dyke upstairs, as they called him, was the next likely suspect.

He didn't have two hundred in his bank account, but spent it anyway. The overdraft would charge him, but there was nothing he could do. He had about thirty quid still lying around the flat; he could get by until the next cheque from the Jobcentre came in, right? He could always start selling a bit of weed for Dean again if things got really desperate.