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Eight years ago...

Gabriel pushed the wheelbarrow carefully across the dusty expanse of dimpled hardpan, having learned the hard way that moving too quickly could cause the entire load of muck to fly just about everywhere at once. Stripped to the waist, his dark taupe hide glistened with the lather of a hard morning's work in the brutal January sun. He'd have bet that it was climbing to nearly 40 out here, with a hot wind blowing down from the north. He was only glad that the ranch was just in the edges of the bush; on days like this, he'd have sworn he'd been thrown into the outback proper. As it was, he'd be just as glad for the autumn to start in a few months. After that, he could begin complaining about the whistling cold southern winds of July. After all, it's important to keep a regular schedule when you have a lot of complaining to do; without it, you might not be able to fit all your complaining into the time allotted.

He had to smile at himself. He'd chosen this, after all. It was the first step in getting clean, as he called it. He'd had friends for whom that meant something else entirely -- one pitfall he'd managed to steer clear of, despite the temptations. "Party" to him meant a gathering of friends over a slab of stubbies or a few pints apiece down the pub. In a pinch, nix the friends, but keep good count; if you can still subtract at the dart board, you were probably okay. He even managed to keep the durries away, much less sherbet or the -ingers. The choof had a quiet buzz, when limited, but it was still a cuppa that calmed him best, or a mug o' Milo when he was feeling a need for chocolate. No, his clean was about how he'd been getting dirty in a different way. Not fully clean yet, but getting closer. He had plans for uni soon, dropping the mucking-out to part-time, if he could swing it. Making an "honest" mob was harder than the McGarretts and Kermits he could get from bored wives and fading flowers. But he'd made his promise to himself, and he never made a promise he wouldn't keep. So far, just shy of his twenty-first birthday, he was only up to four. This was one of them.

Trundling the barrow to the appropriate place in the massive muck heap, the Clydesdale upended the transport and used his ever-developing muscles to shake out what was the last of the loads for the day. Located at the edge of the property (purely for social reasons), it was one of the more isolated spots, the back of it densely overgrown with various weeds encouraged by the manure as well as the lack of desire to cultivate the area. Although much of it would dry up in summer, it had been a generous spring in terms of rainfall (it was pissing down on Christmas Eve, which put the mockers on the notion of the usual good beach party), so everything from prickly pear and pig's ear mingled with a low stand of sugar gum trying to get its toe-hold in the area. Left on its own, the beyond-spot might provide some welcome, if odiferous, shade in several years.

As he maneuvered the wheelbarrow back to its place just outside the stables, the Clyde once again noticed the dingo perched on the wooden fence overlooking the enclosed grazing fields. It was difficult not to notice the young male, especially in warm weather; his habit was to wear only shorts, and his white fur was almost blinding in full sun. He was, by definition, albino, but without the oft-accompanying red-eyed impairment. His eyes were, in fact, a startlingly deep aqua that belied both his years and his vulnerability. It was strange how the pup always struck Gabriel as being somehow ethereal, like a ghost of himself. He was approaching his fifteenth birthday, the Clyde remembered, a mid-autumn whelp who though still of a somewhat delicate build had nonetheless been filling out well. He had his own chores around the property, and he never once complained about them. He might well take over the family business one day.

Raising his head to look over, the dingo smiled and waved a paw at the stallion. Rather than risking overturning even an empty barrow, Gabriel simply grinned and nodded to the lad, his full tail making an appropriately friendly swish. If the day permitted, they might bowl some bocce on the more formal lawns. The "hired help" weren't usually allowed such luxury, but young Cullen had been insistent when he found that the Clydesdale had known how to play. Wisely, the horse had refrained from describing the origins of his education; the much-neglected wife of an Italian businessman had proven that she knew quite well how to handle the large balls, putting a good backspin on them and always managing to hit their target to get the largest score.

At the side of the barn, he used the hose and sprayer to make a cursory rinsing of the barrow and his boots, the former simply to keep the layers of muck from accumulating, the latter so that he could be considered suitable for social occasions. He tried not to notice too closely the approaching figure of Michael Riddell, the self-proclaimed king of his equine empire. After all, if you're able to be aware of the boss in your general vicinity, you're not enslaved well enough. As long as there was a wage to be had and some experience to be gained, no sense fouling your nest.

"Oi," the tawny-furred dingo called out, "Gabe, enit?"

The Clyde looked up from his labors and smiled with just enough courtesy. "Mr. Riddell; good to see you."

"How ye fittin' in? Willie lookin' after ye?"

"Doing fine, sir, thank you for asking. William's teaching me well."

"Knew you'd do fine w' the 'orses. Takes one, eh?"

"Good point, sir." Gabriel kept his tone, smile, ears, and tail carefully set, everything to show proper subservience to the idiot with the checkbook. He had to admit that being his own boss (so to speak) was preferable for that reason at least. However, as big an idiot as Riddell was, he'd given the young stallion a chance for honest work, which was more or less Gabriel's only requirement at the moment. The fact that, for the duration of his full-time work at least, he had a bunk and grub here besides, it was a good way to salt away the cash, mingling it with the cash from his other endeavors. Not exactly "laundering," but close enough for a semi-pro.

"Wanted t' ask ye about Cullen. How's he doin' with the grooming and sitch-like? I think Willie only tells me what he thinks I want t' hear, no 'fense, just thought maybe a younger bloke like you might be willin' t' talk straight to me."

Fat fucking chance. "He's a good pup, sir, does his work well. And no, I'm not just saying that. He's got a knack for the grooming."Good place for the self-stupid joke. Apply idiotic grin. "If I went on all fours, I'd appreciate his keeping my coat clean."

The dingo took on a look then that said perhaps Gabe had gotten the joke wrong. "Whatcha sayin', Gabe? We don't take t' poofters."

"No, sir, of course not! I was just making the horse joke."Go for the really humble bit; ears back, droop the tail. "I'm sorry, Mr. Riddell; I guess I don't know what's supposed to be funny. I only mean that Cullen is really good at keeping the horses groomed. Nothing else, sir. I'm definitely not a poofter."If you only had a clue, tight-ass.

The dingo nodded from his superior height (he was actually a half-meter shorter than Gabriel, but when he stood on his cash, the boss was always much, much taller). "Good. Don't do to 'ave that sort o' influence round th' pup. Won't 'ave it."

"And quite right too, sir." Unspoken truth, the Clyde couldn't have given a goodly goddamn about "that sort o' influence" in any circumstance. Not his thing, but not a problem. Youth had provided a few experiments, as roiling testosterone was wont to do; t'weren't bad, but when he'd found the alternative (and what it could net him), he hadn't felt the interest in pursuing it further.

Riddell appeared to think about it for a moment (an unlikely feat), then he nodded his head once, sharply. "Ri' then. Keep up th' work, mate." With that, he spun on a heel and took himself off to the sprawling mess of farmhouse that the arrogant ass kept trying to expand into some sort of mansion, complete with overwatered lawn space making a greenbelt that would have been better suited for grazing the horses properly, but for the Master's insistence that his porch view match his vision of what his fiefdom should be. The horses got their basic feed and scrub grass, and that should bloody well suit them.

Gabriel used the excuse of finishing rinsing off his boots to give himself another moment to rinse his mind of his various sources of anger at his boss. There wasn't enough brain bleach in the world to get rid of it entirely, but he was able to calm himself. William was head wrangler here, and the day-to-day workings were in his control. Gabe had already discovered that the numbat was like that sci-fi character that you don't want to judge by his size; small and wiry, William could deal with just about any horse you presented to him. He knew how to calm, soothe, cajole, and talk to a nervous horse, and if the beggar got too stroppy, he was small enough to lure the beast into a safe holding space and run like hell out the other side, locking the horse in until William could go for reinforcements. Rumor had it that he once blew some choof smoke at one of the agitated brutes until the horse calmed down enough not to hurt himself. It worked, although William himself sat down in the hay for a while until the barn stopped spinning quite so much.

"Hi, Gabriel."

The Clyde looked around quickly, surprised that he hadn't heard the young dingo's approach. He laughed at his reaction. "Pretty soft on your paws there, pup."

Cullen's smile was kindly, more at ease with most of the help than with his own father. It was something that Gabriel had noted when he had first started, late in the spring. The white-furred dingo was on break from school, and he'd been throwing himself into his assigned chores very well. "Thanks for taking up for me back there."

"I didn't lie. You're good at grooming."

"Did you lie about wanting me to groom you?"

Gabriel's ear flicked a little self-consciously. "Didn't come across very well."

"I understand." Cullen, bare-pawed at the moment, stayed back from the wet patches. "Do you still go into town often?"

"Not so often, these days." The Clyde made use of the boot jack mounted against the door in order to help him remove his hoof-covers. Once the stables were reasonably muck-free, he preferred being down to his hooves for his other duties. "I enjoy the summer nights out here. Quieter. And if the other guys are being rowdy, I can find a quiet spot down the acers, past the fences there."

"You like it down there?"

"Sleep out there, sometimes." He grinned at the pup. "Too lazy to walk back to the bunk."

"Sounds nice."

Cullen kept pace with Gabriel as he walked toward the fence to look over the horses grazing there. He wanted to keep an eye on Lyrica; the gentle bay mare had started to favor her right hindleg a bit, and Gabe had found what he thought might have been thrush in her frog. He knew enough to report it to William, and the old numbat had many resources at the ready to help out, from putting Lyrica in a stall with sawdust rather than straw (dryer on the hooves) to having Gabe wash out the hoof with Betadine, which they kept ready in the stable stores. Happily, Lyrica seemed to be favoring the hoof less and less, and although there was still a little discharge left, it was clearing up nicely. One advantage to being sentient, the stallion considered, was that you could identify such problems on your own and fix them up easily enough. Perhaps Riddell, the bastard, had a point -- Gabriel was sensitive to the needs of the horses here, treating them as well as he'd treat himself.

"You going into town tonight?"

"Might do." The Clyde leaned on the top rail, taking an appraising look at the bay. She seemed to be standing foursquare, weight evenly distributed. She was too occupied enjoying some scrub grass to do him the courtesy of walking, but he was confident that she was doing well. Appetite, after all, counted for something.

"Wotcha gonna do?"

"Pints and 501, most like." He thought it best not to include even hints at any other activities, for business or pleasure.

"That fun?"

"Can be." He turned with a smile to the young dingo. "Got plans?"

"No."

The answer was quiet, almost resigned. The expression on the pup's face hadn't much changed; he wasn't looking for pity, but the mood had shifted. "Miss your mates from school?"

"Yeah. Not much to do here, otherwise."

"No local friends?"

The dingo looked down for a moment. "Not the same."

Gabriel was smart enough to guess that there was more information behind that phrase than met the ear, but he also remembered his admonition not to foul his own nest. "I've still got some work to do; how about you?"

"A little." Cullen looked at him hopefully. "Maybe some bocce later?"

"You're on."

* * * * * * * * * *

The hour was late, but the moon was full, and Gabriel knew his way around the grounds of the Riddell ranch as well as anyone. He'd forgotten his key to the bunkhouse, and it didn't seem right to wake up the rest of the crew just to let him in. The day had cooled down well enough by this time, and a doze among the acers sounded like a good idea to him. Sunrise should wake him in time to greet the first of his fellow workers, give him a chance to get a quick shower, breakfast on the fly, and still be able to start his mucking-out duties more or less on time. William would cut him a little slack, usually with the nudge-nudge-wink-wink implication that he knew what a young stud would get up to of a summer Saturday night. Riddell signed the checks, but it was the numbat who called the daily tune, and he seemed satisfied with Gabe's work and unconcerned with minor infractions like time. It was the horses that mattered, and in that regard, the Clyde was doing just fine.

Stepping carefully, as the moonlight might not reveal an uneven patch of ground, the stallion found his way to the stand of trees in good time, reflecting on the day. The late afternoon bocce game had gone well; Gabe had managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory without the yowen twigging to the fix. It was a near enough thing anyway -- the young dingo clearly had been practicing. This led to a celebratory lemonade, courtesy of the lady of the house. She was far too nice to have landed such a sour turnip for a husband, but once more, Gabe reminded himself not to let her smiles mean too much. Proper distance, keeping himself off the spacious veranda, deference shown to the boss' wife, just short of being obsequious. It was an act, very similar to the one he used in his other work, just in the opposite direction. He had to be careful, since that opposite tack sometimes landed him in exactly the same place.

He hadn't needed much technique at the pub tonight; the forty-something visitor from Central Africa had been exactly the right sort of lonely. Gabriel hadn't known "okapi" as a word, much less met such a being. He'd been intrigued by her coloration and general stature, to begin with; had she not sussed him and made the offer first, he might have enjoyed her for herself, an exotic female whose needs and desires he gladly would have seen to. She had rented a small bungalow for herself, very slightly off the beaten path, and the Clydesdale was grateful for such favors; the day's heat, combined with a one-room space outfitted only by a few hard-working ceiling fans, required open windows, and the okapi was quite vocal in her appreciation. In the moments taken for both of them to catch their breath, she explained how long it had been, saying that she hoped she was at least adequate to the occasion. Client care would have included the right touch of flattery, but Gabriel found that the truth was even more emphatically positive. By the time he'd left, the score was Stallion 3, Okapi 11, in two well-paced halves; both teams made excellent use of their respective equipment and field position, no penalties were called, the in-goal areas made all tries successful ones, and as the Clyde would discover on his weary but blissful saunter homeward, gratitude included not only sounds of great pleasure made repeatedly and often but twin Kermits secreted stealthily into his wallet.

Gabriel found his particular "favorite spot" with ease, even in the dappled moonlight through the trees. He hung out his shirt over a couple of branches where the gentle breeze would help clear away a bit of both his scent and that of the okapi. There wasn't so much nocturnal fauna this close the to stables to worry about a nighttime assault from either ferals or sentients, and his hearing was still acute; he never let himself drink enough to impair his senses. He had, however drunk enough that a right wicked slash before sleep was a helluva good idea.

Stepping a few meters away from his sleeping space, he peeled his snug jeans down carefully enough to set his stallion's pride free, took reasonable aim, then let gravity do the rest. The main pipe of his shaft was still a little sensitive, and the release of such a powerful, steady stream had the slight sensation of a fourth climax for him. He did sometimes wonder if females had a similar sensation, or if it were part of the male's good fortune to have such multifaceted pleasure from--

A sound distracted him slightly as he finished offloading the lager. One ear pivoted back to track the noise (pawstep, not heavy, something on the ground snapping) while he tucked himself back up casually. No sense letting on that he'd heard the approach. The strong Clydesdale forced his body to be relaxed yet ready, and he turned to face who or whatever might have found him.

He blinked a little, surprised. "Cully?"

"Didn't mean to put your wind up," the young dingo apologized. Clad only in shorts and a tank top, his silky white fur glowed the moonlight that filtered through the trees. "Saw you from my window."

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Yeah." The pup seemed to be holding something back. His tail couldn't stop moving, a nervous twitching more like embarrassment, or needing something that he couldn't find words for. Gabriel knew the look. It was his business to know the look. It was also his business to know when and how to ignore it as best he could.

"Locked myself out of the bunkhouse," he explained to the yowen. "Thought I'd kip down here till sunrise."

"Could I..." Cullen stopped himself again. He shuffled his hindpaws a little. "I should get back to the house, I guess."

"Your sire and dam might worry if they don't find you there in the morning."

The dingo let loose a snort big enough to be worthy of an equine. "Yeah, right. You'll be done mucking out before the old dog wakes up of a Sunday. You do all the work; he takes all the credit."

Gabriel resisted the impulse to shy. The pup had a lot of anger around the subject, and he had just unloaded a chunk of it. The stallion paused long enough that the pup shook his head sadly and waved a paw as if trying to erase what had just happened.

"I'm sorry, Gabe. I guess I should go."

"You..." Against his better judgment, he horse continued. "You sound like you need to talk."

The eyes that turned to him seemed too eager at first, and then dimmed into something like resignation. "Not sure it would help."

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Why not?"

"You're too--" The pup stopped himself, and Gabriel could see him shaking.

"I'm what, Cully? Too old? Too different?"

The yowen's jaw tried to work, but no words came forth. His sharp ears pivoted anxiously, his tail tucked close, fur shifting. He looked trapped.

"Too straight?"

Cullen pivoted to run, but Gabriel caught him by the arm and held fast. He turned back quick, balled up a fist to lash out, but the stallion had his wrist in his forepaw quick as thinking. He kept a grip on the struggling pup until, after several seconds, the dingo collapsed to the ground in tears. Still holding firmly, Gabriel knelt on the grass with him and, dismissing every reason why he shouldn't, he pulled the yowen into his arms and held him. Hot tears splashed onto his dark hide as he pressed Cullen's head against his chest, rocking a little as if to calm a lost whelp. Perhaps he really was lost. That, the Clyde could relate to.

The yowen tried to pull away, but the stallion still held tight, shushing him very quietly. "Just stay," he whispered. "I've got you."

"Don't want... hurt..."

"I've got you, Cully. Just let it out."

Another few moments, and the dingo wrapped his arms around the older male and let fly with sobs that had been held back for far too long. Gabriel didn't cry. He didn't cry when he was kicked from one foster home to another, when he took himself onto the street because anything was better than what he'd found in "caring houses." He didn't cry when he'd had the shit beat out of him, if only to keep from giving the bastards the satisfaction. He didn't cry when Leeson had come to him as his last remaining friend, and he didn't cry when Leeson had come back one last time to die in his arms from a self-inflicted drug OD. And now, he held the crying young dingo close to him, as he had Leeson, and he wondered -- not for the first time -- if maybe he should learn how.

The stallion had held females who had cried against his chest. Some of his clients over the years had needed that touch of intimacy even more than sex. One mare he had met had paid him to be her birthday present; she had turned 60 without a single friend remembering, and a husband who couldn't be bothered to care enough to postpone a date with his young chippie. A strapping young stud a quarter her age though looking like a third, Gabriel had learned well enough what to do with his body, but he had no real idea of what to do with this female. They lay naked in her bed as she wept against him, and he stroked her neck clumsily, not speaking as he had no understanding of the language of tears. When finally she stopped, he simply lay there and held her, and in the end, that was what she had wanted. An hour later, he had left her, his wallet fattened, his mind confused, his heart kept carefully out of the equation. It wasn't a memory that he dwelled on. It was, however, educational.

Cullen's tears had begun to slow, and Gabriel risked moving himself in to a sitting position so that he could hold the young dingo more comfortably. The pup stayed with him, accepting the soft strokes to his headfur and his back, pressing warmly against the Clydesdale's wide, strong chest. He wasn't without a heart; it was simply that had learned that it wasn't good to give it away too easily. Some few of his female clients back in the city had become "regulars," in that they would contact him when they had some ready cash and a needful itch that he knew well how to scratch. With these few females, he had taken the time to learn their bodies, their reactions, and their minds enough to provide more than the merely physical. He supposed that, in a way, he was fond of them, although he never turned down the cash. He'd discovered that there were advantages to being a bit more (for lack of a word) intimate; he was able to enjoy his own sexuality, and the results were not only more potent but more satisfying. He wasn't a clock-watcher during his liaisons, but there was no question that he gave more time and more attention to these special few. It was worth it, in more ways than one.

As he held Cullen, the Clyde felt the unmistakable emotion of abandonment. It was easy, at this age, to spot an orphan, especially having been one himself. There was no question that Cully was the pup of his sire and dam, but his own discoveries had condemned him to lose them. Michael Riddell wasn't going to have "poofters" around his pup because of their being a bad influence; it was obvious what he'd think if he found his own pup to have been "lost to the pervs." To that extent, he could open his heart to the pup, as a fellow wayfarer on the back highways of the lost.

"Thank you," came the whisper.

Gabriel squeezed the pup gently, waiting.

"How did...?"

"Seen it before, mate. More than once."

"You don't hate me?"

"Nothin' here to hate."

"That's not what--"

Another squeeze. "I know. He's a drongo, and no mistake."

A small smile in the pup's voice. "I'd say figjam."

"And you'd be right." He managed a smile for the yowen's sake. "You got someone special?"

"Sandy," the young dog sniffed. "Sanderson O'Toole. He's an otter I met at school."

"Tell me about him."

Cullen looked up to see if the stallion was teasing him, and Gabriel held his eyes soft, keeping the smile friendly. Wasn't hard to do.

"He's my age, same grade. Worked on some papers together, talked a lot. He's not 'arf clever, that one. And confident, too. Knows... well, knows what he wants, eh? And I wasn't sure, I mean, I thought I did, but he..." The dingo's ears splayed. He looked to the Clyde for understanding. "He didn't do anything I didn't want, but I was..."

"You were scared." He nodded. "I can understand that."

"How?"

"You're not the first yowen to wonder about it, Cully."

The information sunk in. "Did you...?"

The horse nodded slowly. "A few times. Well, maybe more than a few. I found that first, and females later. For me, it was just that I liked females more."

"I don't think I ever will."

"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, you be who you are, pup. And Sandy, that's his name?" The dingo nodded. "As long as he treats you right, then he's okay by me too. Although I can understand why you might not want to tell Mr. Fart-Biter in the big house."

In spite of himself, Cullen giggled, and that won him another close squeeze. He's a good 'un, the Clyde found himself thinking, and he realized that his old protective instincts were starting to kick in. He also realized that he'd better not let the pup take that idea too far too quickly.

"Hey, Cully?" he said softly. "Do you think you should go back up to the house to sleep?"

As he'd suspected, the pup tightened his grip, just a little.

"You think you can sleep out here?"

The yowen looked up at him with faintly hopeful eyes.

"I'm not Sandy," the horse whispered, cupping the pup's cheek tenderly. "And I need to keep my job here. And maybe more than that, I don't want to make any promises I can't keep. But I'd be willing to bet no one will come by here before sunrise, and if you think you can sleep, I'm told I make a pretty good pillow."

Cullen managed a laugh. "I think I could believe that." The eyes, still a bit watery, looked at him steadily. "Is it okay that I... that I want more? I mean, you won't, I get that, but..."

"Is Sandy your first, Cully?"

"First and only." A lopsided smile on the muzzle. "Pretty daggy, huh?"

Gabriel shook his head. "Sounds more like loyal to me. Not like anyone's keeping score. I just want to be able to tell the figjam truthfully that I've not 'done something to you,' in case the subject comes up again. So no worries for the cuddle, but let's keep it there, okay?"

"Okay," the pup agreed readily enough. He plucked at the tank top. "Should I...?"

"If you want to. Not sure if my scent is different enough from the other horses to make a certain old dog's nose twitch."

Cullen rose and doffed the shirt fluidly, letting it drape over a branch near Gabriel's own. The Clyde shifted to put his back up against the tight grouping of slim tree trunks that made this his favorite napping spot. This cluster, still young, was a bit springy, and when he leaned back, they bent just enough to make a good support. The yowen returned, his dazzling white fur muted only in that the moonlight was blocked slightly by the leaves above. The stallion recalled the word_chiaroscuro_ from an entrance test for uni; he'd got it wrong first time, so he studied the vocab list more carefully. He thought the word appropriate for the dappled light on the pup's fur, and then thought of it again as Cullen cuddled up close to him, the soft white fur against the dark taupe hide.

"Gabriel?"

"Yeah, pup?"

"Thank you."

With that, the yowen ghosted a kiss to the Clyde's cheek, then tucked his muzzle against Gabriel's chest to make himself comfortable for sleep. Had he been feline, the older male felt certain, he'd have purred.

Breathing deeply and slowly, Gabriel let himself relax. This seemed the right thing to do, not too near, not to far. Balance, like the chiaroscuro of the yin-yang symbol (there was a proper name for it, he knew, but he couldn't call it to mind). Balance, like male and female, despite the gradations that sentience had brought to the party. Balance, like going from what he was to what he was to become. Balance, like getting clean. This, he sensed, was part of getting clean.

He would never make a promise that he could not keep. He wasn't sure what promise he could make to Cullen, but he had the feeling, as he drifted off gently into the summer breezes, that he would make a promise of some kind. It was, he felt... necessary.