Dedication

This is for all of us who would rather include than exclude, and who wish to love another for who he is rather than who we hope he'll become.

And for Nickey Froberg Drayer, who helped me learn this. I miss you, Hyzenthlay.

Quote:

"I don't really see - why can't we go on as three?"

"Triad," by David Crosby, sung by Grace Slick / Jefferson Airplane

Prologue

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Any decent November afternoon on a university campus should have at least three different entertainments to choose from, and this one was no exception. A campus chapter of Habitat For Humanity was having the pagan's equivalent of an Amish barn-raising, taking advantage of the bright, clear weather to put up the exterior of a new house in a single autumn afternoon. The area itself was being improved slowly; the worst, least safe, or least easily-improved structures were being razed, while others were being bought, modified, and rented out at extremely low rates as part of the Greenbough Model Housing Association. HFH comes in to build entirely new structures, using their famously effective application of the phrase "Many paws make light work." With the threat of heavy snows this winter, they had adjusted their schedule to make sure that the exterior would be completed swiftly so that the family could at least "camp in" while the interior was being finished off. (At least one working bathroom, with shower, sink, and toilet, would be the top priority.)

In another town not too terribly far away, our football team was colliding violently with an opposing team in what was touted to be a grudge match going back several decades. Something to do with kidnapping a mascot, which wasn't a big deal ordinarily, except for that whole unfortunate shaving incident, where the poor fellow had the opposing team's initials shaved into this chest fur. There were rumors that other areas were shaved as well, though none were confirmed. Suffice it to say that this particular conflict of testosterone-enhanced warfare was more for people who were looking for bone-crushing rather than sports.

I prefer real "football," by which I mean soccer as opposed to "rugby light." Look, I know that the term originally came from those who kept refusing to call them fore- and hindpaws, for some reason that's been lost down the centuries, but even with that handicap in place... how can you call that American foolishness "football" when the hindpaws almost never come into contact with the oblate spheroid that the game uses? Instead of "foot-ball," why not call it "hand-egg" and be honest about it?

Besides it being an in-town event as opposed to a gas-wasting drive away, it was a picture perfect day for _real_football. I was wrapped up warmly in the stands, cheering on our home-team advantage with the more civilized hooligans of the university. The teams weren't letting us down, as far as both entertainment and tension were concerned. It was a pitched battle, well into the second half, and still scoreless. One of the opposing team's midfielders dribbled toward center, passing to a wingback as our sweeper came in to find an opening for himself. Some very good footwork on the wingback's part diverted our fellow until the ball could be sent in a short pass to one of the attackers, who sped neatly through a hole left by our own midfielders and set himself up to pop a swift one straight toward the goal. Our goalie was too good for him, not merely fielding but setting up to one of our sweepers, who sent it back to midfield, toward one of our own best fullbacks.

Or at least, that's as close to a description as this middle-aged American-raised fox can get. I've been watching football for some time now, and although I'm still trying to learn all the right terms to use, I'm afraid that I still associate most of the positions with the various players' names, at least for our team. To me, it's still mostly, "That guy kicked to the other guy, who got it past Philip and sent it to a third guy, who tried to kick the goal and got stoppered by Vikas." Not as elegant as John Motson, maybe, but it sort of gets the point across. After all, "Motty" has been at it for over forty years, and I've only had maybe three.

I got swept up in the collegiate games because of Robbie, of course, and I'll continue to pit my gorgeous young footballer up against the other kind any day of the week. The games are so much more exciting, faster, skillful, and that speed-demon of a rabbit is enough to stir anyone's blood to boiling. Watching Robbie tear downfield, a brown-topped light gray blur of speed, to line up a shot at the goal, is (if you'll pardon the cliché) poetry in motion - iambic pentameter at the very least, perhaps even dactylic hexameter (thank you, Longfellow). I know to call Robbie a striker (he's told me often enough!). To be a great striker, you have to know how to dribble the football as well as to make your shot hit home more often than not. I have no idea how the idea came about that a rabbit's paw is supposed to be lucky, but Robbie's got two hindpaws, and they are amazing at this game.

Like the rest of the local crowd, I cheered along with every play that our team put forward. Sadly, Robbie's parents were out of town for the weekend - something job-related, although I couldn't for the life of me remember what; otherwise, they'd have been right there with me. Of the two, as paradoxical as it might seem, Amanda was even more enthusiastic than Bradford. Being Canadian-born, she was too polite to heckle outright. However, she became joyously infamous for bringing in a box about the size that would hold a large, framed picture, and pulling from it various well-lettered 100x75cm signs, neatly tabbed at the top for easy access. If a referee made what she thought was a bad call, she grabbed and held up a sign (lettered on both sides) reading FONEBONE'S OPTOMETRY - HALF OFF THIS WEEK. If the opposing team brought a penalty on themselves, she had a sign reading WE LEARN FROM OUR MISTAKES. When our side made a goal, the sign read IN YOUR FACE... ER, I MEAN, WELL PLAYED, CHAPS. Encouragements, teases, cheers, good-natured ribbing, all were actually enjoyed by fans from both sides. You'll find her on MuzzleBook a lot.

Meanwhile, Vikas, a sleek, Indian-born cheetah who was all but raised on the football fields of his homeland, is one of the best goalies anywhere. I would even compare him to professional-level goalies - and when he graduates this upcoming spring, even his honors degree in pre-med might not hold his attention for long. The scouts have been looking him over, after all. For me, however, what makes him a spectacular player (above and beyond his apparent ability to nab nearly every ball that comes even close to the goal) is that he never forgets that everyone makes mistakes, and he never holds that against anyone. I have the idea that Philip, as a defender, probably isn't meant to get the ball and move it forward; however, Vikas showed his confidence in Philip as a team player by passing the ball a short distance to him, knowing that Philip would get his bearings on an open fullback to push the play forward. Philip obliged beautifully, his powerful dingo's paws making a nicely faked dribble backward before smacking the ball right to Seth's nimble hindpaws. I have no idea if that dog can hunt, but by damn he can dribble a ball.

There was clearly a moment of confusion on the field. As I say, not only had Philip made a blunder only seconds ago, his position as a player was not one usually used to get a ball downfield. I had the feeling that the other team's defenders weren't expecting to have an error-making player trusted with the ball that quickly, and they seemed a little slow on the uptake. They were right to think that Seth would be the best set-up player for a forward assault, but they were counting on Vikas to pass first to almost anyone other than the solid young freshman Rottie, so they were on the wrong side of the field to stop the set-up from Philip. By the time they realized their collective mistake, no fewer than six pairs of hindpaws were tripping over themselves to close the gap.

Robbie was wide open on the far side of the field, and Seth spotted him instantaneously. One swift laser-straight kick sent the ball flying directly to Robbie, who barely did any shifting or dribbling - he was in perfect position, and just between you and me, the look on the opposing goalie's face was priceless. The young squirrel knew exactly who he was facing down, and he also realized that he was going to have to face him alone - his sweeper was AWOL, so far ahead downfield that he was almost in front of his fullbacks, which is a major error for the sweeper position. The goalie was completely on his own, and by the horrified look on his muzzle, he bloody well knew it.

Robbie sized up the competition in a heartbeat, set his face in that tight little smirk that (if you knew him well) telegraphed that he had found and locked on to the exact place that the goalie had left open. He kicked sharply and hard at the goal, a pointed-toe kick that went from zero to escape velocity in about half a second. The crowd was on its feet even as the ball was still in the air, because they could see immediately that the opposing goalie had misinterpreted Robbie's body language, and he'd left a hole in his defense that only widened as he leapt into the air in the wrong direction, flicking is long, thick tail in some vain hope of knocking the ball at least slightly off course. The roar of the crowd increased with the speed of the football, which pushed against the interior of the goalie's net so hard that some of us probably thought that it would rip right through. The cheers were huge and raucous (home team and all), obliterating every other sound in the region.

I was aware of all this, although my attention was elsewhere. As Robbie's toe connected briskly with the ball, every other eye in the place was on the flying comet that scored the first goal of the game. My eyes were on Robbie, as he pulled up almost in slow motion, his eyes closing sharply, his face twisting into a grimace. Something in the look made my fur stand on end and my tail twitch sharply. The crowd was still cheering as I started making my way toward the sidelines. Robbie's teammates had come up to congratulate him, but in only a few seconds, they realized that he'd been hurt.

The game was, officially, still in play, even though the clock was stopped for the injury. I avoided crossing onto the field itself, to prevent confusion if nothing else. Vikas had signaled the team's coach and the medico who always volunteered to keep an eye on our lads for each game. A couple of Robbie's teammates had made him stay seated on the ground while they waited for the doc. Several of the opposing team were watching from a short distance; crowding in, even if genuinely concerned for another player, was considered an invitation to trouble. I was silently grateful that the other fellows had enough sportsmanship to be worried and enough sense to stay back.

Despite my impulse to dash over to my lovely rabbit, I made myself stay at the team's benches on the sidelines while Robbie was seen to. After a minute or two, a pair of Robbie's teammates helped him stand on his left hindpaw, as he held his right away from the ground. I thought I could see blood on the silvery tips of his toes. After a moment of protest, Robbie finally let his friends form a chair for him to carry him off the field; it was as much a celebration of the goal as it was to help him get to the benches on the sidelines. Referees began conferring with coaches of both teams, and I swiftly lost interest in them as Robbie came closer.

I knew he'd be fine, but it's a lover's prerogative to worry. He was smiling as his friends set him down on the bench nearby. "There," I heard Allen tell him. The lean meerkat grinned. "And remember: All glory is fleeting." He nimbly dodged Robbie's playful swat toward his tail.

"Back to the field, you two," Coach Barnaby remonstrated. The large red panda, himself quite the football contender in his time, cast his eyes over the remaining players, settling on the other lop-eared rabbit on the team. "Pritchard, you're in."

"Tough act to follow," Pritchard told Robbie with a grin and took himself off to midfield. I was dimly aware of the decision of the coaches and refs to get the rest of the game going - about six minutes left on the clock, and a home-team lead racked up. The crowd wanted to see how this was going to play out. I was more interested in what the doctor was saying.

"If you're very lucky, lad, we'll only have to amputate half the paw." The old badger grinned, knowing that Robbie was as well aware as he that the problem was minor. "You got a mid-toe claw twisted, didn't ye? I would have thought that this old reprobate of a coach would have told you how to make a proper toe-kick."

"Penberthy, do your stinkin' job, the kid looks like he's hurting pretty good." Barnaby looked Robbie in the eye. "Okay, what happened?"

"I got the shot," Robbie said quietly, with a little well-deserved smugness. He shook his head. "I know, Coach - I got eager, didn't prepare my paw properly. It's not bad." He inhaled sharply through his teeth as the medico touched the paw gingerly. "Not too bad, anyway."

Penberthy dipped into his bag and got out the basics of any first aid kit - antiseptic, gauze, bandages, tape. "I'd give you a quick shot of ethyl chloride to numb it a bit, but there's a little blood - not good to use that stuff on an open wound. Here, let's have a closer look. I'm guessing you jammed your claw right enough to pull it, di'n ya?"

Robbie said nothing, looking away from the medico's fiddling and finally seeing me not far away. He smiled - oh, how I love that smile, worth a thousand words of reassurances, whether about himself or about me. Toward me, he had the decency to blush just a little for his folly, and I smiled back, glad to know he was all right and in good paws. He yipped a bit as Penberthy worked as gently as he could; sterile gauze pads came away with blood on them, rather a lot I thought, but I knew enough medicine to know that it's not necessarily a bad thing for a wound to bleed a bit. I wasn't about to go weak sister and panic until I knew what was going on. From the medico's reactions, I suspected that it stung pretty good, but no serious damage had been done.

Robbie was cleaned up, patched up, and looking better by the time that the game was over, with the score 1-0 over our challengers. As the home team crowd cried out exultantly (and even the visitors gave a polite round of applause), Robbie's teammates came over to make sure he was all right and to celebrate the victory. Many from the opposing team at least waved a good-natured paw toward everyone. In particular, I had to give the opposing goalie credit - he actually came over to make sure that Robbie was all right, and he joked (with a mischievous flick of his tail but not a hint of meanness) that at least he might not have to block another shot from Robbie anytime soon. He got a lot of chuckles and appreciative back-slaps from our team. Good manners will out, at least on this field of honor.

Vikas sat next to Robbie, tousling the rabbit's long brown headfur affectionately. "Don't make me freak like that, will ya? You probably took a few years off my life!"

"I thought all felines had nine lives."

"My family raised me a Hindu, my friend, but that doesn't mean that I want to experience my next reincarnation all that quickly!"

Robbie laughed with his teammates. The medico gave his admonition - keep off the paw for at least three days, change the bandage at least once a day until we're sure that there's no more bleeding, and put a paw cover over it to protect it for at least a week. "After that," he said, "we'll get you back onto the field, and not an hour before." Penberthy turned toward me after his pronouncement. "And you, you decadent old todd. See to him, won't ye? I swear the lad acts like he's got no sense!" His wink took all the harshness out of the comment.

"All right," I said as the team began to head for the showers. "You're coming with me, mister."

"I'll need a shower."

"You'll need a sponge bath, if you keep this up!" I laughed. "We'll have to make sure all that bandaging is wrapped in plastic before you get bathed, and I don't fancy having you one-pawed in a slippery shower... or fondled by your teammates, which makes for an interesting picture I must say. So unless I get a rousing insistence that I join in with that particular orgy...!"

Coach Barnaby raised an eyebrow so high up his forehead that any number of Star Trek fans would be envious. "Do we need to update you on the moral turpitude clause in your professorial contract?"

"Research for a novel?" I tried. "After all, I am the Writer in Residence."

"Somehow, Professor Deschenes," Vikas told me with a grin, "I don't think that's what 'getting some A's in your class' really means."

"Bonus points for originality, yuv? bill? k? sam?na." Vikas bowed to me, his grin increasing; he'd been trying to teach that phrase to me for months. I turned back to Robbie, putting a forepaw gently on his shoulder. "C'mon, you... let's get you home. Think you can hop on one paw?"

That question earned me the single most excruciatingly sarcastic look that I've ever gotten in my life.

---

The ride home wasn't a long one, and in spite of his injury, Robbie was in good spirits. I loved the way that he described his goal much as I had imagined it - he had indeed spotted the goalie's hesitation and indecision, and that was all he need to plot the trajectory as accurately as a NASA launch. While he described the attack with some mild and well-deserved embellishments, I was thinking ahead for whatever necessities we might need to keep him going for a few days. As we pulled into the driveway, I mentioned that I thought I had a crutch or cane somewhere in the garage.

"I'm not broken for life, dad," he teased.

"Call me 'dad' one more time, and you will be! Just thought it might make it easier for you to get around for a little while. Unless, of course, you want me to carry you everywhere."

"Tempting." He chuckled softy, leaned over to kiss me, and I took advantage of the offer to make it linger a bit. As Mae West had observed, how can anyone have too much of a good thing? "Thank you, Grayson," he said softly. "I don't think I'll need a crutch, but I'll take some help getting into the house."

"Done and done, sahIB: "

His legs were quite strong enough that the sound of one paw hopping was a Zen koan no longer needing to be meditated upon. "You do realize that I'll have to contact your parents, if only to assure them that you haven't been the victim of spousal abuse."

"Oooh!" he grinned happily. "Blackmail material!"

"Hey, I've got a stadium full of witnesses!"

"Okay, so how much can I get out of you before you can prove otherwise?"

I unlocked the door, muttering, "Oh, as if I don't already do everything you ever want?"

"There's still that pony I never got for Christmas."

"As I recall, you got him for Thanksgiving of your senior year in high school, and I'm not going to make any wishbone jokes until you're well enough to show me personally exactly how that was accomplished. We'll want photos for the family album! Now," I said shooing him through the door, "let's get you settled."

I got him situated on the couch for a bit, his paw properly raised and pillowed, then left him to survey the kitchen for what we might need for dinner. He called out a request for a soda, and I complied, bringing a half-liter bottle of water as well. He looked at me with a disapproving eyebrow, and I reminded him. "Soda dehydrates, and you've been running about for a few hours, counting your warm up. You know you're not going to make me change my mind about this."

"No, I guess I'm not." He chuckled and took the water first. "You know, you really don't have to mother me. I'm a reasonably grown bunny."

"Want me to stop?"

"Never."

"Good answer." I smiled at him. "So now that I've got you right well ensconced on your throne, your majesty, what shall we do next?"

"I really should take a shower. I probably stink."

"You smell good to me."

"I always smell good to you."

"Funny how that works out." I sat next to him. "We can work out something for a bath, if you want one. I think I've got dinner figured out. You want to go lie down for a while?"

"That's something else you always think about with me."

"Complaining?"

"Nope." Robbie laughed and leaned against me, a smile on his sweet muzzle. "I can't figure why I should feel this tired. I'm not usually so worn out after a game."

I put my arm around his shoulders and squeezed him gently. "I put in a direct call to Bill Nye the Science Guy, and he passed me on to some smart-mouthed doctor named Gregory House. It would seem, he explained with exaggerated patience, that you had a good shot of adrenaline from the injury, and now that it's wearing off, you feel tired. You're feeling your body's reactions just like everyone else would. Not, I hasten to add, that you're exactly like everyone else."

"I guess I should nap. Could you do me the favor of arranging a spare flat sheet for me to lie on, so that I don't get my bed stinky?"

"Of course. Unless you want to make _my_bed stinky."

He nuzzled against my neck affectionately. "Kinky."

"Stinky Kinky: Pheromones and More. Sounds like a really weird perfume shop, probably located right between Spencer's Gifts and Hot Topic." I kissed the top of his head. "Of course, you may want to sleep alone tonight; I sometimes kick in the middle of my dreaming, and I'd hate to hit your paw."

"Ow," he said softly, grinning. "We might risk it anyway."

That was when he yawned, and I knew it was time to get him into one bed or another. "When hungry, eat; when tired, sleep," I intoned in my best Zen master voice. Gently, I moved away from him (something that I always hate doing) and stood. "I'll get a sheet from the linen cupboard. I'll come get you when I'm ready."

"Compromise." He held out his forepaws to me. "I'll go with you and balance briefly on one paw while you take twelve whole seconds to lay out the sheet."

"In your vastly weakened condition?" I opined in great melodrama. "Oh, the pain, the pain!"

Don't let anyone tell you that rabbit tongues can't produce excellent raspberries. (They have other delightful talents, I might add, but let's not linger on that idea at the moment.) Laughing, I helped him up and, with very little assistance on my part, he made it down the hall to his room. I propped Robbie up just inside the door and made a great show of counting out the seconds as I ran to the cupboard for the sheet and threw it open, spread it upon his bed, and presented the finished product with a flourish. I helped him wheel around and sit on the bed, stood nearby as he hugged me around my middle. No matter how much control I may think I have, my tail always starts flicking with great amusement and pleasure when he holds me. I daresay I'll never have any secrets from Robbie.

"Okay, Pelé," I said smiling, petting his chestnut brown headfur softly. "How much of these clothes do you want to take off?"

He pulled away from me, put a finger to his muzzle coquettishly. "Hmm," he said, "let me see... I'll take Stripped Nekkid for $1000, Alex."

"Jackpot!" I shouted with a chuckle. He needed very little help with his shirt, shorts, and jock strap. It was the socks - one sock - that would be a problem. Knee-high, open at the heel and just above the toes, the sock on the bandaged paw might not want to slide easily over the bandage. I took off the left sock first, and we considered the second.

"How tender is that toe?" I asked.

"Enough that I wouldn't turn down some acetaminophen," he admitted. "Here, let me try first."

He pulled the sock down from knee to heel, then began working the bottom portion toward the bandages. The fabric had a lot of stretch to it, but it was also designed to be a fairly tight support to paw and calf. A few moments of fiddling about revealed that removing it gently wasn't likely to be a successful process.

"Scissors?" I suggested.

"They're practically new!" he objected.

"And replaceable. I'll make room in the budget." I smiled at him. "I hate wasting things, too, but it's probably for the best. We'll keep the other sock as an extra, in case you wear out one of a new pair. I'll go get the scissors. And that acetaminophen."

Moments later, as Robbie downed the pills with what was left in his water bottle, I knelt before him and readied myself for the operation. Before I began, I took the moment to appreciate the young lepine's beauty. Soft silvery-gray fur covered most of him, set off by the beautiful cream-white from his chin, down his chest and abdomen, turning to a matched pair of inside-leg chaps down his thighs. His chestnut brown headfur matched his lovely eyes, and he remains to this day one of the most beautiful young lads I've set eyes on. And I have the privilege and honor of calling him my mate.

"Calling Dr. Chase," he said, grinning. "Dr. House wants you in surgery."

Mimicking Hugh Laurie as best I could, I answered, "I don't recall actually wanting Chase anywhere at all, but he'll do in a pinch." I snipped gently and the sock came away easily enough. Pivoting in place, Robbie sighed and laid himself out on the bed, stretching luxuriantly (not to mention quite seductively). "Blanket?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I'm okay right now; if I get chilled, I'll fold the rest of the sheet over me."

I leaned over him and kissed his lips softly. "I'll figure out something to help get you bathed before dinner," I said. "Get some rest. Holler if you need me."

"I always need you," he said, a sweet smile on his muzzle. "But I can manage without you for short periods."

That earned him another kiss. "I love you, Robbie."

"Love you too, Grayson."

I smoothed his headfur gently, gathered up his clothes. and left him alone to doze for a while. I'll be honest: I did hold his shirt to my sensitive muzzle before tossing everything into the hall laundry hamper. I'm a slave to my senses, which any fox (if he's being honest) will tell you is part of his nature. Our ancestors lived or died by their noses and eyes and ears; just because some of us evolved into what we are today doesn't mean that we've lost our instincts. At least, in my not-so-humble opinion, we shouldn't lose them. The theme appears often enough in my novels and stories, and I try to din some of the idea into my students' brains during their classes with me. I have no idea if I'm particularly successful at it, but in my own case, I know that I would be lessened immensely had I no appreciation of my beautiful bunny's scent.

And no, not because I want to brown him in butter and juniper berries.

---

Some time later, while I worked at a particularly tough scene in my latest novel, I heard the front door open, then close just a little too enthusiastically. Mildly disturbed, I rose from my chair in my workroom and wound through to the living room in time to see a very large, athletically buffed, antique golden-furred bear, his blond headfur partially kept inside a baseball cap spun backward on his head, his darker bronze chest fur peeking out from beneath his athletic shirt. He tossed his gym bag down onto the sofa with a small measure of disgust.

"Max, are you all right?"

The young male looked up at me, startled at first, his peridot green eyes expressing surprise and a little embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry, Grayson. Just frustrated." His voice, ordinarily a rich, smooth baritone, was laced with the jagged edge of irritation. "I shouldn't let small things bother me so much."

"What happened? Come on, sit down and talk to me for a moment."

He moved over to the large recliner that we had bought especially for him (being some 206cm tall, not to mention 153cm at the chest and 122cm at the waist, can require one to make some concessions to the furniture budget) and sat with slightly less grace than I was used to from him. He sighed heavily, passing a forepaw across his strong, smooth muzzle. His eyebrows knotted in an expression that I'd learned meant as much to him as it would if my tail were flicking agitatedly, as if trying to swat something. "It might be easier if I found another gym, but I hate the idea of running away."

"Back up, luv, you lost me at the bakery."

Max snorted a quiet laugh and smiled at me. "Just some irritating homophobes. I suppose they're everywhere, like the poor and NSA drones."

"What's going on with them, then?"

"They're just being mouthy, little snide comments from time to time, making a big deal out of not being the shower if there's a 'fag' in there." He shook his head, removed the cap and rubbed a forepaw through his blond headfur, still a bit damp from the shower. "Not much I can do about it, I suppose."

I looked at him curiously. "Forgive me if I'm a little prejudiced in your favor, but what in the world would make someone want to challenge someone of your royal proportions? Do they have a death wish?"

That made him chuckle. Maxwell is the original gentle giant, with rarely an ill word or a raised voice to anyone. "I have no idea if they know that I'm gay. No, it's a young stoat who's joined the club recently. I've helped spot for him once or twice, when he was using the free-weights. He's still bench pressing a weight that I could lift with one arm, and that's absolutely not anything to be ashamed of; everyone has to start on the low end and work up, or at least they do if they're smart. Even so, there aren't many people there who are in that weight class, so he's been keeping more or less to himself."

"And someone is after him because he's gay?"

"That's the worst. I'd be willing to wager that he isn't." Max looked at me sadly. "I'm not sure if my 'gaydar' actually works, but I'm figuring that he's straight. He's just... well, the guy is a perfect candidate for the 45-kilo weakling in those old Charles Atlas posters. In his case, 45 kilos would be pretty well distributed; stoats aren't known to become sumo wrestlers or anything. The guy's probably a little shorter than Robbie, no real excess weight nor muscle. From what I can see of his workout, he's wanting to build more stamina than raw muscle, and he's dedicated himself to a good regimen."

I shrugged. "I've never been one for the gyms." I chuckled. "Sorry, of course you know that. The stories and social structures all come from you. You'd know better than I what to do."

"I really don't know," he said. "Gyms are pretty cliquish, and he hasn't really found anyone to work out with."

"You could offer."

"I could. I'm just not sure if it's a good idea. If those queer-haters know that I'm gay, I'd probably make things worse for the little mustelid. And I'm not sure what his reaction would be either. He was in the showers at the same time that I was this afternoon. I tried very hard to act no differently, not paying attention and not actively ignoring him. One of the really verbal guys started to come in, then saw 'the fag' was using the facilities and noisily decided to leave." Max's face showed real pain. "The kid looked over at me, maybe wondering if I was going to leave too, or maybe even assault him. I just finished my shower in my own time and left him to himself."

"That might be enough to start up a dialog with him," I suggested. "Next time you see him, talk to him. Straight or gay, he might welcome a friend."

"Sounds like something from the film My Bodyguard," he grinned, then sighed. "Won't do any good to wonder until I meet him next. You're right - I'll see if he wants to have a chat."

I smiled. "You and Robbie have both had interesting days."

"Robbie? What happened?"

I told him the Terrible Tale of the Torn-Up Toe, and Max winced once in genuine sympathy. "Bet that hurt like a bugger. He's not in hospital, is he?"

"Oh no, it wasn't that serious. He's dozing in his room." I glanced at the clock. "We could go wake him soon. I told him I'd figure out how to get him bathed with that paw in a bandage, so he could be clean before dinner. I got as far as figuring out how to stick his paw in a plastic bag and tie it around with rubber bands, and then I got stuck. I don't want him to slip in the shower, and a bath might be problematic in getting him in and out."

Max grinned. "That's what you keep me around for."

---

The solution was simple enough: Max could pick up Robbie with one paw, if need be. He ran a bath, then helped Robbie into the tub, stripped ("No matter how we work this, I'm going to get wet"), and he sat on the floor nearby; they talked while Robbie bathed. Robbie kept the bandaged paw out of the water, and Max used a damp cloth to clean whatever parts of said paw the bandage didn't cover up. I wasn't there to witness the removal process, but even from the distance, I heard plenty of giggling, laughing, and water sloshing, so I wasn't too worried. Clearly, Robbie was feeling quite a bit better.

My sweet lovers came by my workroom, both naked, Robbie cuddled into Max's powerful embrace, his arm about the bear's strong neck, clearly enjoying being coddled and cared for. I smirked up at them. "I don't suppose the term 'dressed for dinner' has any meaning in this situation? Not that it has to, I suppose, but I figure it could make things a little less distracting for us if there were something to cover up that decadent display of raw male sexuality."

The golden bear regarded the rabbit seriously. "Black tie?"

"Only for bondage."

"Business casual?"

"It's nobody's business."

"Shorts?"

"Shorts."

Max looked at me with a grin. "No Speedos!"

"Shorts," I agreed. "I'll get dinner started. What shall you two be up to in the meantime?"

"Would you play for me?" Robbie asked his native bearer. Max raised his eyebrows with comic hopefulness. "Play for me, not with me."

"Oh pooh," pouted the powerful bear, then grinned again. "I'd love to. Got something I'd like for you to hear."

That gave Robbie all the excuse that he needed to fetch a kiss to Max's cheek. The bear blushed cutely and gave the rabbit a gentle squeeze.

"You're welcome to bring it in to the kitchen table," I called after them. I always did love to hear Max play guitar. "A couple more paragraphs, and I'll be right there."

---

The kitchen smelled of honey and ginger as I prepared one of my genuine authentic imitation simulated ersatz Chinese-resembling dishes. All of us cook, actually; Max is the undisputed champion of the grill, our combined rôtisseur and _grillardin,_and Robbie is unsurpassed in pastries of all kinds, as well as soufflés, quiches, and things made in the oven that are - if you'll forgive the gay cliché - simply to die for. I learned the majority of my cooking in my college days (including the Masters degree period), so my specialties are mostly the throw-it-together mixtures of something frozen or prepared, plus some cooked meat of one kind or another, seasoned with spices and sauces both plain and exotic. Generally speaking, everything ends up in one bowl, which makes the flavors blend nicely, as well as making clean-up easy. Nothing terribly fancy, but no one ever complained. The Iron Chefs in our kitchen are judged on a 100-point scale: 10 for taste, 5 for creativity, 5 for presentation, and 80 for not having to get up off your furry butt and cook it yourself.

Easy to see how we all get such high scores.

As I tossed together tonight's not-so-secret ingredients, I was listening to Max playing a variety of riffs on his guitar. We're a lucky trio in another way, as we all have at least some musical talent. Robbie picked up the violin from a fairly early age, and sometime after he met me, he became enchanted by the flute and penny-whistle. When he also elected to play football, his parents nearly had fits, fearing sports injuries. As they came to realize, Robbie's talented forepaws were in far less danger from this game than, say, rugby or even lacrosse (bang those _crosse_poles together a few times, and your paws will feel the rough vibrations for minutes afterward). When he was able to keep up with his studies, his practice, and his football all at the same time, they became avid fans in the concert auditorium as well as in the stands.

I'm the piano-picker in the band, and I've had my experimentations with electronic keyboards as well. For some things, nothing beats a piano, not even a sampled or electronic piano; it doesn't matter that the sound is "close," or even "exact" (har-dee-har-har), it's the sound and feel of a pianoforte in the same room with you that makes the difference. Would that I could afford a Bösendorfer 290 Imperial - oh, the sheer sensuality of playing such an instrument! And 97 keys? As Debussy, Ravel, and others have commanded, the Imperial would deliver... at a cost about equal to our rather large house. I was quite happy with my Steinway Model L Grand, just about 178cm long and ringing with authority in the lower and upper registers equally. Add the Yamaha Clavinova CVP-409, and I'm a key-pluckin' fool.

Robbie sat at the kitchen table, his right hindpaw up on a pillowed chair, smiling at Max fondly as the bear tuned his guitar. He made a bit of a show out of it, both from a sense of personal perfection and because he knew that it irritated Robbie a little. This sort of teasing goes on all the time in this house. The two of them had made good on their promise of wearing shorts, but that was all. I had no problem sneaking glances at the two of them, if only because they knew that I would, and that it fell into that same category of teasing. My rabbit's lean, toned form was no less appealing than it had been since the time we'd first met; in fact, if anything, he'd filled out quite superbly for a college senior. Max had always been ripped, the magnificent bronze of his chest and belly fur held taut against the muscular pecs and meticulously maintained eight-pack of abdominals. On a bear of his overall build, he was unquestionably any body-builder's model, but on him, it looked exactly right, proportional. So okay, he was a complete stud-muffin, but he was cut out to be (no pun intended), and I'm certain that neither Robbie nor I had any complaints.

I could easily sense that Robbie had about reached his limit of guitar tuning. I cleared my throat quite melodramatically; Max got the hint and started some actual strumming. "I've been going through your old CDs, Grayson - the ones in the common library downstairs. You never told me about the Kingston Trio before."

"Guilty," I chuckled. "I wasn't sure either of you would be interested in those guys. They're pretty mellow, almost countrified by today's standards."

"Dave Guard had some pretty good guitar riffs. I've been trying to pick up one of them. Hang on a second..." Max strummed a minor key chord, then the major, then began slowly to pick a pattern consisting mostly of the tonic and the fifth, with the minor and major third note alternating from time to time. As he grew more comfortable with the picking, he gained speed until he was making a sound that reminded me of a fast-moving train...

"Good grief!" I piped up. "That's 'Fast Freight,' isn't it?"

In answer, the bear brought out his beautiful low-end baritone and began to sing:

As I listen for the whistle, lie awake and wait Wish the railroad didn't run so near; 'Cause the rattle and the clatter of that old fast freight Keeps a-makin' music in my ear Go bum again... go bum again...

The chorus came up, and I harmonized with him:

Hear... the whistle blow... Hear... the whistle blow...

He picked up the rest:

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, The wheels are sayin' to the railroad track, "Well if ya go, ya can't come back... If ya go, ya can't come back..."

Robbie looked at us in open-mawed wonder. It was clear that he'd never heard the song before, and I don't care what genre of music you're used to, "Fast Freight" is a haunting little melody. With the second chorus, I could see Robbie's mind working, and by the third, he'd figured out exactly where his tenor note should come in - he nailed it the first time. Max, rightfully proud of his guitar skills, was happy to comply with Robbie's request for him to play it again. This time through, all three of us were able to chime in on the chorus, trying a few different harmonies (one or two really stank, which is often the way it is when we first get to working on a song), and in the end we realized that we had something new for our expanding repertoire.

And luckily, I didn't burn dinner.

Since Robbie was already comfortable there, we stayed at the kitchen table to eat. Robbie had told Max the details of the day's game (with just enough embellishment that I didn't dare make any untoward changes to the tale), so there was little to add (except for the part about "All glory is fleeting," which tickled the hell out of the bear). Max talked a little more about the young stoat at the gym. Robbie showed great sympathy. "I think Grayson is right," he said. "A friend might be just what he needs."

"I guess I'll find out next time I see him." Max shook his head, the forelock of his tousled blond hair dancing over his brow. "It's futile to wish that such things didn't happen, I know; I still do, though. I guess I'm still looking for a perfect world."

"It's okay," I smiled. "We're building it, one person at a time."

"Or two," Robbie grinned, looking at Max and myself in turn.

I raised my glass of soda. "I'll drink to that."

"You'll drink to anything," the rabbit retorted.

"Then I'll drink to that, too." I suited action to words as my lovers enjoyed a chuckle at my expense. It was another day in our world, in our triad, and I sent up a silent prayer of thanks to The Deity It May Concern that we were together. And for those wondering just how that happened... well, these pages are here to tell the tale...