Sex in C Major
Chapter 22

"Oh, there you are," a voice said faintly. "Go bother Yan, muck up his sheet. G'wan."

Stefan took a deep breath, clutching the robe tighter and took a single step down the stairs

Oh, fuck. Stairs-ow. Stairs hurt. He took a deep breath, and inched down the next step. He was concentrating so hard on doing so, he was two thirds of the way down before he realised he was being watched.

Daz was standing in the kitchen doorway. Like the first time they'd kissed. One hip leaning against the frame, watching Stefan like he had nothing better to do in the world.

Only...he was dressed. In a baggy university hoodie and those unforgiving jogging bottoms.

And he was smiling.

"Evening, Sleeping Beauty."

Stefan bit his lip, and hugged the robe.

"You okay?"

"I'm-yeah."

"Any pain?"

"Sore."

Daz's smile widened. "Yeah, well, that's to be expected. You're very tight."

Stefan swallowed, a blush creeping up his neck. "My-my clothes. I want my clothes back."

Daz winced. "Ah. Well. I sort of...left them right behind the door. So when Yan came back, he stood on them. And he goes running down by the canal, so his shoes were filthy. They're in the wash now, and I'll put them over the radiators to dry quicker if you want. You can always borrow some of Yan's if you want to leave before then, he's skinny like you."

Stefan hugged the robe around himself.

"Hey. Relax. It's fine."

"I don't I don't understand."

"Well, first thing to help with that? Stop looking so terrified."

Stefan blinked. Daz's smile softened.

"Nobody's going to go nuts and hurt you," he said softly.

"But but Boyfriend-"

"What?"

"Um, your boyfriend..."

"You've just been calling him Boyfriend?"

Stefan felt the blush deepening. "I didn't know his name!"

"Yannis. Or Yan. Or Nis. Or Dorkface."

Boyfrie-Yannis shouted something from the next room, and Daz pulled a face.

"It's true, you have a face and whenever you're anywhere near anything remotely intellectual, it goes into dork mode!"

Stefan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He felt dizzy.

"Go with Yannis," Daz advised.

"He he walked in on us."

"And he knew he was about to," Daz said gently.

"He knew?"

"Of course he knew. You think I managed to smuggle a rip-roaring drunk past him at three in the morning?"

The flush became searingly hot.

"I will explain everything," Daz said. "We've got some stuff to discuss and work out. But nobody is going to hurt you. And it's an open negotiation. If this is too freaky and you want to clear off, you can. We won't stop you. But if you want to stay and maybe talk about some possibilities...then I made dinner."

Stefan hesitated, his gaze flickering to the front door.

He could go. Because Daz might not hurt him, but he'd said things would get ugly if Yannis found out. And that sombre, bookish student Stefan had followed the other day wouldn't be happy about this. He might just wait until Daz was elsewhere. Or he could insist he got to do what Daz did, and then Stefan would be a real slave, a proper slave, not some exciting fantasy or game but really, really-

But he was dressed in a bathrobe, he ached all over, and the kitchen smelled amazing.

And Daz was just smiling at him. And the clang in the next room said that Yannis was wrestling the cat off the piano.

"What are you making?" Stefan asked in the smallest voice he'd ever used.

****

Daz made something unpronounceable.

It involved couscous. And rice. And it smelled really good, even if Stefan had no idea what was in it. Daz simply said it was Moroccan, authentic as he could get it with ingredients from Asda, and if Stefan didn't like then he was welcome to say

So.

"Yannis turns his nose up every time but screw him if I have to suffer through his histrionics every time I have a kebab, then he can eat my mum's signature dish once in a while."

"It's not so bad if your mum makes it!" came an outraged shout from the next room, and Stefan groaned.

"Ears like a bat," Daz said wickedly, then ducked in to kiss Stefan's mouth sharply. "Don't worry so much. I know he looks a bit severe and scary, but he's more interested in maths than men."

"Yeah, but it's always the quiet ones."

"You are much quieter than him," Daz advised, and handed Stefan a plate of the...stuff. "Go on through."

Stefan inched cautiously into the living room. It was small-a squashy sofa jammed into the corner, a table for two across from it, and a small piano wedged between a back door and the opposite corner. The carpet was threadbare, but covered in bright rugs that looked at least to Stefan's ignorant eye-to be Middle Eastern in design. In true cat fashion, the ginger tom had sprawled itself right across the middle of the floor, and was watching Stefan as if daring him to try and move it.