Sex in C Major

Dean laughed. "You could jack me; that might work."

"Okay."

It slipped out without Stefan meaning to say it. Meaning to do it. But then-so what? So fucking what. It was just a handjob. He'd jerked Daz off loads of times. And his friend. Doing Dean wouldn't be any different.

"Seriously?"

"If I give you a hand job, will you give me a

a spliff?"

Dean stared. Then looked him up and down. Then stared some more.

"If you blow me," he said slowly, "I'll give you a proper bag. The good stuff, too. Not the cheap shit Tommy's doling out. Proper shit. That them pikeys got."

"What's the difference?"

"Babe, you'll be off your tits on that shit."

Stefan considered it. He wanted to forget. Forget Daz, Yannis, everything. He'd forget this, too. And what did it matter? One more fuck. One more fuck before everything had to change. What did it matter?

"Okay," he said, and dropped to his knees.

"Seriously? Right here?"

"You got it?"

"Yeah."

"Then right here," Stefan said, and reached up to open Dean's jeans.

"Fuck. Fuck."

It was dirty. It felt dirty, too, and not in the way that gave Stefan a thrill. There was something unpleasant about the cock in his mouth, and the litany of muttered cursing above his head. Dean smelled of weed and unwashed clothes, and Stefan sucked as hard as possible. Just get it over with. One blowjob, a bag of stronger weed, done. Then he could forget everything. Including this.

When Dean came, Stefan could have swallowed.

Instead, for the first time, he spat. Wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Got to his feet, already demanding the weed.

Payment.

He'd sucked Dean off for payment.

Halfway back towards Harehills, the bag of green in his pocket, Stefan stopped to lean over a garden gate and throw up. The taste of whiskey and vomit was better than Dean's cum.

But a waste of whiskey.

So he stopped off for another bottle before finally-with every step an effort, and the sky lurching drunkenly above him-going home.

****

He didn't wake up until the following afternoon.

And when he did, the mattress was soaked in blood. From his damaged breasts. And his own fucking anatomy.

The side of streaked blood smeared his thighs in clotted ribbons made him throw up in the sink, and then the stench of alcohol made him do it again. Only when he dug the knife so hard around the rusting cuff that fresh blood bubbled free did Stefan feel the icy grip of panic and disgust ease.

He smoked the last of the weed, gargled the last of his mouthwash to rid himself of the acrid taste of his own stomach contents, and went straight back out.

The world was blindingly bright, and everything hurt. Not just his sore guts and aching head, but his heart, too. The cuff felt loose and slippery over his bleeding thigh. He felt lost and lonely. Invisible. As the traffic rushed by on Roundhay Road, Stefan couldn't help but wonder if they'd even hit him were he to step out. Or would they simply rush on through him? He could have died in his flat last night-and maybe this was the rest of his existence, just drifting through a world that didn't see him, didn't care.

Daz had cared.

Even Yannis had cared, grumpy about it though he'd been.

But-but Stefan couldn't be that...slave. He couldn't. It had all been too much.

"Has to be like this," he mumbled to himself. "Has to be, has to be."

Dean's orange shoes and white hair weren't around. Two shop thefts and a few pints of cider later, and the world was a little less painful, but still too clear for Stefan's liking. He paced up and down the main road a couple more times, even went back to the alley from the day before, but there was nobody around.

"C'mon, Dean. C'mon."

His chest hurt under his binder, and Stefan was fairly sure something was bleeding again. His head was killing him. His stomach ached. And he needed something to just-calm everything down. Stop the sweats and forget last night's dreams. Get the angry face of his ma-of Daz out of his head. Get Daz out of his head.

God, he'd blow every dealer between here and Huddersfield if he could just go back to being normal.

But who was Stefan kidding. He'd never been normal.

It was half four in the evening, and the sky growing dark, before Dean put in an appearance by the Polish supermarket. He had someone with him-a man, heavyset and scowling-but Stefan was desperate. His skin was itching again, both from the alcohol soaking his system and the ever-present, now-ignored arousal that dogged his every step.