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"Hey, love? There's a letter here for you!" Adrian's voice floated upstairs to the study from the front hall.

I frowned: I wasn't expecting anything. "Who's it from?"

There was a pause as my fiancé studied the envelope. "I don't know. Small, tidy handwriting, though. Looks like UK stamps."

I frowned, then sighed. "Probably my parents."

Hooffalls on old wooden stairs covered by thick carpet rumbled through the house; a moment later Adrian appeared in the study door, a tray of coffees in one hand and a pile of letters in the other. "Here, love."

"Thanks." I took the letters from him, leaned back in my seat for him to put the coffee on my desk and then turned a little to watch him go and settle on the sofa. Our morning routine: he exercises, I write, we get together for coffee and, frequently, exercise together. As it were. Today, as every day since we met, I watch his svelte pony form as it sashays around the place; he flicks his tail deliberately a little higher to let me see the rounded, toned cheeks of his rear: he knows it turns me on, and I know that he knows that I know that he knows. As he settles down his brown eyes catch mine; sparks fly, as they always do, and my muzzle parts in an unconscious pant. His eyes twinkle and the small shorts he's wearing get even smaller. And so do mine. Damn, I love my husband-to-be.

"What's it say?" he asks, breaking my trance.

"Huh?" My mind is pulled away from my desire, the ache in my sheath, how my pointed tip is rubbing against the inside of my boxers: I sleep nude, but I always put on a t-shirt and boxers, at least, to write in. It's the nearest thing I come to getting dressed at 6 am. It's good enough.

"The letter." Soft equine lips nubble at the rim of his bowl before he dips his head slightly and slurps.

"Oh. I haven't opened it."

"I'm shocked. Such lack of diligence."

"Screw you, you only just brought it in."

"Promises, promises." Now his eyes are registering a challenge: sex this morning will be almost a wrestling-match. Good. I love it when I have to fight to be on top, it makes me even hornier.

"Hmph. Let's see." My fingers tear open the large envelope which has been well-sealed with sticky tape for its long journey. It's a struggle to find purchase and I can hear Adrian chuckling. I shoot him an annoyed look, which makes him only chuckle more, and then finally a claw slips into a crack and I'm in. I pull it open wide and tip it out, producing a small pile of journals, including the parish magazine of my parents' church, and a note from them. "Huh. The same as usual. Journals, the parish magazine, letter from my folks --- wait."

"What?"

The envelope adorned with my mother's tidy handwriting - my mother does all the writing - is thick with paper. I frown, arousal subsiding a moment.

"Love? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I reply, taking a couple of quick laps at my drink and then carefully opening the letter. "It's a bit thick for a letter from Mum, that's all."

"Maybe it's another set of flyers for how to pray away the gay." Adrian's voice is bitter, sarcastic.

"No..." My voice is slow, I'm reading. The pages aren't large, but there are a lot of them. I'm lost in the words, so I don't see Adrian move, or feel his presence next to me as he kneels, but I do noticed when he puts his hand on my arm. I start. "Whuh?! -"

"It's me, love. You looked... Well, first it was your ears, then your eyes, then your lips, and..."

I realise I'm angry, hurt, frustrated. All my feelings are churning around inside me, visible on the outside but not on the inside. With a growl of frustration I put the letter aside with a couple of pages to go. "It's my mother. She's being her usual fucking self. Talking about everything except you, trying to ignore the wedding, saying how she felt I'd disappointed her, all the praying she's done..." I can't help but snarl. Adrian, strong and broad, takes it, lets it wash over him and away. "She... she just doesn't get it. She fucking doesn't get it, Adrian! And she never will! It's... Fuck, fuck, fuck!" My hand comes down on the edge of my coffee bowl, tips it; hot coffee goes everywhere, over the desk, over me, over Adrian. We jump out of the way and I end up on top of him, my head on his chest.

I haven't cried in a long time, but now I do. The tears come following the anger, the bitter frustration, and I can't stop them. "It's not even as though she hasn't met you," I say into his fur, to his right nipple to be precise. "She's met you, she likes you... she just won't... Every time she's nice to your face and then we're back to square one, she sends me a letter like this, telling me how she wishes you were a nice girl and I were a good pup who'd give her a litter or two of grandchildren..."

"Is that what she said this time?" From my position, curled up on him on the study floor, Adrian's voice is even more sonorous than usual.

"Not quite. No," I say, forestalling his reaching for it, "don't read it... please. It's just more of the same."

"All right." His hands are strong and comforting, his lips warm where he kisses my relaxing ears.

I take a breath, calmer now. "I'm sorry, my love."

"For what?"

"Just... being like this. Crying all the time. Being a dumb puppy."

"You're not a dumb puppy. You're a lovely, very intelligent, grown male Husky. And you're my fiancé, and my life, and I love you with all my heart and want more than anything to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you."

I feel my mind say, God only knows why, but I suppress the urge. I can be taught. It just takes a while.

"Are you feeling better, love?" I nod and mumble yes. "Okay. Think you want some more coffee, or shall we go and cuddle in bed a bit more?"

"Mmmh. Bed. Please."

"All right, bed it is. Now then... up's-a-daisy..." He's barely bigger than I but he pulls me from the floor, picks me up and tucks me into his arms like a new wife. I slip my arms around his neck and let him carry me to bed and lay me down there like a crown jewel on the finest of velvets; later, when we've dozed a while, we spend a little time polishing each other's sceptre.

*

A few days later, I hear the phone ring, but I don't answer it. I'm concentrating on a story, an idea that came to me, and I'm letting it out while I have it in mind. I hear Adrian, downstairs, pick it up and speak. "Hello?..." There's something about one side of a conversation that is automatically causative of curiosity. Despite my concentration, I find myself listening. "Oh, Mrs Fairlie, hello. How nice of you to call." Now I am completely curious, and defensive: it's my mother on the line. What the hell does she want? Hasn't she done enough damage? "Yes, James is busy at the moment, so I'm afraid he can't... No, we're both quite well. ... Yes, we did receive the letter, thank you. James was wondering what had happened to it, he was waiting on one of the journals." Liar, I was doing no such thing! Still, I think to myself, my mild-mannered equine certainly knows his manners. "... the letter? Oh yes, I think he's read it. No... No..." He sounds confused, that's strange. "Well... well, yes, I'll tell him. I'm sure he'll be glad to know you can make it to the wedding. No, Mrs Fairlie, it's no problem at all. We look forward to seeing you. Yes, I'll be sure to tell him. Thank you. Yes, you too. Goodbye."

The phone settles back into its cradle in a plastic clatter and then hooffalls on the stairs again. "What did she want?" My voice is a low growl, I can't help it. "Apart from ruining our wedding at the last minute."

Adrian's face is set in a moue of concern and mild displeasure. "She asked if you'd read the letter."

"We both know I have."

"Well, actually, she was more specific. She asked if you'd read all the letter."

"Huh. Probably saved the best until last. You know I didn't, and I'm not going to, either."

"She was quite specific that I tell you that you should, that she asked if you had and, if you'd thrown it aside as you always do, please to read it."

My turn to frown. "That doesn't sound like my mother."

He grins, displaying a full array of white, flat teeth. "My thoughts exactly. And since it's not the full moon, and there don't appear to be any of the Plagues of Egypt at the moment ---"

"Stop it, you, and pass me the letter." I'd thrown it in the bin the other day; fortunately we hadn't got around to emptying it yet. It was still as I'd left it, folded back on itself with a couple of pages yet unread. He passes it to me, and I start to read where I'd left off, near the bottom of the page.

Jim, there's nothing I can really say that's going to unwind the past. We can't turn back the clock, neither you nor I: you know what the Poet, old Khayyam, said about it:

The Moving Finger writes, and having writ Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

You have all the wit - your book sales are proof of that - so that leaves me with the piety, which I'd be the first to admit to. What's the point in denying it? But we both are what we are, and what we were as well --- we definitely can't change that.

I snort and wave the paper around in a fey gesture of cynicism.

"Keep going." Adrian's voice is soft.

... we definitely can't change that. But we can change... well, how we go forward. I can't say that your declaration of homosexuality filled me with joy. What did you think, you'd just say, "Hi Mum, I'm gay! I like taking dicks under my tail, isn't it great?!" and I'd spring into a paroxysm of delight, break out the lavender-coloured streamers and toss them over you? Do you have any idea what it did to me? But of course you don't: it's all about you, isn't it? You didn't stop to think what kind of effect it would have on me, that it's a two-way relationship, that what you decide to be - sorry, my dear, we must be proper about this: what you are - is just what it is and that's it. I'm not from the same world as you, I'm not from a time when that sort of thing was visible, talked about --- dammit, James, it wasn't even bloody legal when I was young! And you expect me to accept it de se_, like it's the most simple and straightforward event in the world._

Oh, James. I'm sorry if this comes across as angry -- because I'm not angry, I'm hurt, I'm hurt and afraid and I don't know what to say or do. I can't... I wish I could, I truly wish I could, but I can't condone your lifestyle -- let's not argue terms, just for a minute. Please.

My eyes flick up, and catch Adrian's for a moment. He's just watching me read and waiting.

... Please. I can't get over the fact that, to me, it's wrong. To me. I... don't even want to think about what you and Adrian do in bed - and it's none of my business. But... But the other main fact here is that you're my son, James. And despite what I may have said in the past - and I know we've had our share of angry words between us - I do love you. I was so angry at you and hurt by what you'd said that I tried to stop loving you, tried to deny that you were my son, that you were just some changeling who'd been given to me in hospital. But I can't deny it, and I won't any longer. I love you, James, my handsome, wonderful son. I don't know if I can love Adrian, but I know you do, and that he has made you more happy than I've ever seen you in your life, more at peace, more able than ever before.

I don't know if you can ever forgive me what I've said and done. I don't think I can forgive you for being gay -- because it wasn't your choice, so there's nothing to forgive. I don't agree with it, I don't believe it's right, but it's how you are, and I love you. I can't love your sexuality, James, but I do love you, very much.

I know I said I didn't want to be at the wedding. I've changed my mind. Please, James... please may I come? Please? In spite of everything, I want to see my little puppy get married to the male he loves. Because I love you. Please?

I hope this finds you well and happy. Give my best to Adrian.

Love,

Mum.

I lower the letter and look up at Adrian. There's a lump in my throat and when I swallow I notice that my eyes aren't focusing and my muzzlefur is wet. I get up out of my chair and step over to him. "She wants... she wants to come to the wedding."

He nods, a slow tip of his head. "Do you want her there?"

Pain breaks my heart, anger and frustration and hurt shattering. "Yes." My voice is a bare whisper.

"Then that's settled. She'll be there. At the top table."

"But the caterers --- It's less than two weeks ---"

"Leave that to me."

"But ---"

"What did I just say?"

I swallow again, look into his eyes. "'Leave that to me.'" I can't do his bass rumble, but I try. And it wins me a smile. "Precisely," he says. "Leave it to me." And then he pulls me close, holds me again, rocks me gently from side to side and strokes my back.

Two weeks later, we're husbands, laughing and blushing and unable to keep our hands and lips off each other. My mother sits next to me, smiling, a little uncomfortable but making a good effort to hide it. It's not until some time later, roughly when we adopt our first child and mother is coming to visit, that Adrian tells me there was no problem with the caterers because when I'd told him to take Mum off the guest list he'd ignored me: "Stallions know best," he said, grinning wickedly with that twinkle in his eyes, and despite the imminent arrival of Mater I give him a precise and thorough demonstration of precisely what I think of that.