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The sun slowly sank into a haze of smog, the light turning the foetid sky a sickly orange and glinting dully from office towers and countless cars on the freeways. Deep in the bowels of the city, amidst the din of sirens and the roar of traffic, a lone stag flipped up the collar of his jacket against the filthy shower of gutter water pouring from a freeway overpass. A dull, cloven hoof kicked a can along the cracked pavement, his footsteps leading him with the unwavering certainty of routine to a squat brick building in the shadow of the glittering lights of the city. The towers of the city centre soared into the polluted sky, segregated from this underworld of cheap liquor and concrete by the edifice of the freeway.

Gerald shoved on the saloon door, and ducked inside. The interior of the bar was even gloomier than its exterior, somehow; the place seemed to exude a miasma that swallowed any light attempting to penetrate it. It was one of those bars where the regulars were the only patrons, where the bartender, a stout, one-horned bull called - inexplicably - Toes, knew every patron and their poison like the back of his gnarled hand.

As Gerald entered, the bartender looked up from polishing a glass, grunted something unintelligible and slid the glass down the bar towards the stag, closely followed by a half-empty bottle.

'Put tonight on my tab, wouldja Toes?' the stag muttered, pouring a glass and downing it in one swallow.

'Yer tab's due fer payment, Gerry. I cannae keep frontin ye like this,' he grumbled, folding his enormous arms across his equally enormous chest.

'I know, I know. I'll pay it off tomorrow,' Gerald waved a dismissive hand to the bartender, and poured a second drink.

Toes growled menacingly, if quietly. He'd heard it all before, but somewhere deep in his black heart was a spark of empathy, and he could tell as well as any other that the young buck had fallen on bad times, whether by his own machinations or not. So, he let Gerald's tab sit for another night, and left the stag to his sorrows.

An hour, maybe two, passed, and the last hints of daylight faded from the stained windows of the bar. A few patrons came and went, but by and large the only sounds were the scratchy jukebox in the corner, the murmur of voices and the rhythmic click of billiard balls. Gerald had very nearly drained his bottle when the door swung open with a crash, and an enormous stallion clattered in, reeking of smoke and sweat, his jeans and vest equally filthy. He stomped right up to the bar and sat down heavily. Toes wandered across, pouring the stallion a pint of black beer and handing it to him. The equine drank silently for a moment, and Gerald found himself staring without intending to. He exuded the same despair the stag felt for himself. A man who'd lost something, which he couldn't regain. But overlaying the despair was an instability, a learned violence that oozed from him like ichor and rendered him the kind of man you'd cross the street to avoid crossing paths with.

Gerald knew the city had been hit hard by the financial downturn some years ago, but there were comparatively few labourers, tradesmen and skilled workers still struggling for employment. And by the looks of him, the stallion was exactly that.

'Whatcha lookin at, prettyboy?' The stallion suddenly growled, baring his teeth to the stag.

Gerald, while no muscle-bound hunk, was hardly effeminate. Beneath his coat, his body was solid and toned, a hangover from an earlier career as a stage actor and model. Hard to believe that it had only been nine months since his last contract. It felt like a lifetime ago. 'S-sorry. Didn't mean to intrude,' Gerald muttered, staring at his glass.

The equine snorted. 'Like hell. I saw you checkin me out. What, you think I'd be into a poncy little faggot like you, huh?'

Gerald flushed brightly, but resisted the urge to rise to that insult. He instead poured another drink, sipping at it with clipped, measured movements, his heart hammering.

'Now now, Darcy, leave the lad be, eh? I'll nae have any o' that in my bar,' Toes grumbled.

'Pssh. Fuck off. Wouldn't have picked you as the sort to allow trash like him in here. There's a fag bar across town, maybe you should fuck off there, eh prettyboy? Or do I need to break that pretty face o' yours, teach you not to come places where real men come?' The stallion sneered.

With a profound sense of inner calm, Gerald took a deep breath, gently resting his glass on the bar, and stood stiffly. A gentle creak of leather, and with no further warning, the stag's fist thundered into Darcy's jaw, snapping the stallion's head around, spilling his beer onto his chest and sending him crashing to the floor.

Gerald immediately regretted it.

With a roar, the stallion surged to his hooves, and charged at the much smaller stag, who dodged aside at the last moment and raised his fists. Toes, his face livid, marched around the bar to stand between the two, glaring heatedly at Gerald.

'You're done, sonny!' He snarled.

Shoving Toes aside, Darcy made another charge at Gerald, and this time, the stag wasn't quick enough. The stallion's enormous fist connected with his temple, and Gerald spun around, and fell like a sack of wheat.

***

Bruno took a deep breath of clean, seaside air as he stood on the back deck of his quaint little beachfront home, watching the early morning sunshine glittering on the calm bay in front of him. The stillness and tranquillity of this place couldn't be further removed from the city. Every day he was thankful for his decision to remain here, where his father and his grandfather had lived and worked, instead of pursuing a life in the concrete jungle as his younger brother had done. Every so often he wondered what had become of Gerald. The younger buck had been curiously absent from any communication with him more or less since the birth of the twins - who were biologically Gerald's children. It had been a hard time for all of them. Gerald's profession was hardly conducive to family life, and the twins were a product of a short, fiery, but ultimately unsustainable relationship he'd struck up with... someone. Bruno honestly couldn't remember her name, only that the moment the boys had been born, they'd been taken from her by social services and delivered to their father. All he truly knew, and all he really cared about, was that the boys had been born into a dysfunctional and destructive environment.

Gerald had been tearing himself up over what had happened. At the time his relationship had seemed so solid, so true and virtuous, but it had crashed with astonishing quickness. So when he'd turned up unannounced one morning on Bruno's doorstep with a fawn in each arm and fear in his eyes, Bruno had unquestioningly taken him in. At that stage this house had been new, and it was a small miracle that Gerald knew where to even begin looking for his older brother. The adoption process had been fairly straightforward, and Bruno and Gerald's parents were of course supportive of the decision.

And now, twelve years later, Bruno felt an immense surge of pride at seeing what handsome and insightful young fawns he'd managed to raise, all on his own.

The mug of delightful coffee in his hand sent tendrils of steam around his fuzzy muzzle. Even though it was spring, it was still cold in the mornings. The stag shrugged his fluffy dressing gown a little higher around his shoulders, sipping the Costa Rican filter coffee and humming appreciatively. It was a fairly typical Tuesday for Bruno; once he'd finished his coffee, the stag headed inside and gently woke up Dieter and Kristian. The twin twelve year old boys were surprisingly easy to get out of bed, something that Bruno was silently grateful for.

Rubbing sleepy eyes and scratching tummies, Dieter and Kristian staggered downstairs several minutes later, and with the relaxed ease of routine, Bruno slid two plates of scrambled eggs and toast across the rustic kitchen counter towards them with a broad grin.

'Nnnf. Yes. Breakfast. Thanks dad,' Dieter muttered quietly.

'A pleasure, lads. Enjoy! Kris, you okay buddy?' Bruno reached across to ruffle Kristian's messy hair playfully, taking note of the boy's first set of antlers, almost big enough to break through the skin for the first time, but not quite yet.

'Mmh. Sleepy,' came the muffled response.

'Well... It is seven in the morning. But maybe you two need to go to sleep earlier, instead of staying up so late on the PlayStation, hmm? Or whatever else it is you two do at night?'

Two little faces turned downwards, ears flattened, cheeks flushed.

'Oh come on, there's no shame in it, you know that. Whatever it is. I'm just teasing you,' Bruno chuckled, and poured himself another coffee. After a moment's thought, he rummaged in the cupboard above the breakfast bar for a moment, and produced a couple of smaller cups. 'Here you go... Just a little bit, it's quite strong, but this should wake you up!'

Dieter's ears perked forward, and his nose twitched at the familiar smell of coffee. He looked down at the little cup half full of bright, tawny liquid, and back up at his father. 'Really?'

'Well... Yeah, you're going to school, so I don't have to deal with you if it makes you hyper!' Bruno chuckled, draining his mug again and moving around to sit with the twins to eat his own breakfast.

Once he'd got the twins dressed, fed, caffeinated and bundled off to school on their bikes, Bruno cleaned up the kitchen quickly, dressed himself, and made his way slowly through the ancient little town, up to his workshop in the artisan district. Alessandro, the little dragon coffee roaster, was already there, and already full of coffee and enthusiasm. As usual. Bruno only spent the morning at the workshop, and by lunchtime he was on his way home to do his paperwork from there, free from distractions - but not before an extended coffee break at the Cog & Cup.

***

Gerald's eyes slowly opened, and he groaned in misery. Hungover, and sore from being knocked senseless by Darcy the stallion the previous night, he had definitely seen better mornings. As his eyes slowly focused, he began to make out some details of where he was - a familiar place. The stench of alcohol and the general filth of the city hung thick in the turgid air. The tiny cot bed he lay on creaked as he rolled onto his side, his antlers hanging off its edge as he covered his eyes to shield them from the morning glare streaming in through the filthy window. His head throbbed, his stomach ached, and he winced as he rolled onto ribs that felt suspiciously cracked. Apparently Darcy had landed a few more blows after he'd fallen. Underneath it all was the crippling fear that he had run out of options. He'd hit rock bottom. He was alone in the vastness of this uncaring city, forgotten in its gutters. Once again, as most days, his mind replayed the events that'd led him to be cast out of the acting scene.

He'd been filling a minor role in a Broadway production of Les Miserables, and it had been going spectacularly well. Gerald's troupe had been touring the country, playing two shows a night sometimes, in front of adoring crowds. The money was good. The atmosphere was priceless. Gerald had been living the dream. A series of cameos and extra roles had led him slowly to the bright lights. He'd been an underwear model on the side, exploiting his undeniably sculpted body to earn enough money to sustain himself while the acting picked up. Occasionally, he still saw a billboard with his own buttocks plastered across it. A strange sensation, to say the least. He was, however, susceptible to the vices of show-business. His money was spent as quick as he earned it, quicker in some cases. So when the bottom fell out of his life, he had no safety net to speak of.

One evening, after an uproariously successful show, Gerald had been out on the town, drinking and celebrating with several of his colleagues. Being who they were, they ended up as the centre of attention, naturally. And then, suddenly, Gerald had made eye contact with Him. In his mind, Gerald replayed that evening as he slowly rose to consciousness, as he often did. Whether for pleasure or self-punishment, he didn't quite know. Perhaps both.

***

The okapi boy was wallflowering in a corner, his large, brown eyes fixed undeniably on Gerald. He was pretty, very pretty, and his demeanour marked him out as being more interested in the attentions of males than of the women who kept casting their eyes over him. An immaculate pastel yellow shirt and waistcoat accentuated the curves of his torso, and his pants were like a second skin, burgundy fabric hugging and displaying the modest bulge and perky, toned buttocks they simultaneously hid. Catching his eye, Gerald flashed him a characteristically cocky grin and worked himself slowly over towards him, but did not approach yet. The okapi, his ears flagging and perking, had approached Gerald in kind, sending the clearest signal yet to the stag that he was the object of his stares. As the evening progressed Gerald had extricated himself from the adoring attention being piled upon his troupe to approach the okapi directly. He was shorter than Gerald, although not by much, and the long, curved horns on his head were polished so that they glistened with an oily slickness. His fur was immaculately groomed and looked so soft that Gerald wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through it, to taste the sweat wicked from the boy's skin and to feel him undulating and grinding their bodies together.

"Are you always so pretty? Or did you put in a special effort tonight?" Gerald grinned, standing close to the okapi to be heard over the general hubbub of music and voices. "What's your name?"

"Arman," came a musical, lilted reply. His cheesy pickup was met with silence, but the delicate, tentative press of a thigh to his crotch signalled the kid's intentions pretty well. And Gerald let it happen, alcohol and lust clouding his judgement.

The next thing he remembered, he had his lips locked with the okapi's, as the pair of them staggered out into the dark of the evening and drunkenly back to the hotel that was hosting the troupe. They were the first ones back, and no explanations were needed, although the concierge had raised an eyebrow at seeing the pair hurriedly staggering through the foyer to the elevators, their hands all over each other.

Arman's heart hammered in his chest. Could this be real? The stag who'd been the subject of so many of his teenage fantasies was taking him back to his hotel room... The okapi boy was barely sixteen, but Gerald hadn't asked, and Arman hadn't seen the necessity to tell him that, or who he actually was. Or rather, who he was related to. Gerald kicked the hotel room door closed with a rumbling bleat, immediately rounding on Arman to push the pretty, slender okapi up against the wall, eliciting an almost equine squeal from him. Their lips met in a passionate, needy kiss, and Gerald was quick to notice the okapi's inexperience. That only fuelled his lust the more, awakening a desire in him that he was not expecting. The firm ridge in Arman's skin-tight burgundy pants rapidly became the focus of Gerald's attention as his own rapidly filled out, held towards his left hip by the fabric of his pants. Slowly kneeling before the okapi, Gerald gazed up at him with drunken lust, fingers tugging and yanking at the belt and buttons keeping Arman's manhood from his sight. And he wasn't disappointed. Once freed, a solid six inches of the darkest ebony, thickly foreskinned shaft bobbed steadily upwards to erection, the fleshy hood parting just the tiniest bit to expose tender flesh within only when fully erect. Hurriedly, Gerald freed himself as well, the stag's slightly larger, circumcised member twitching eagerly.

Arman couldn't do anything but stare, his fingertips caressing the older stag's cheeks and ears and antlers as Gerald gazed with undisguised lust at the pulsing, uncut member in front of him. The scent of it was like nothing the stag had encountered; it was almost spicy, a subtle clove-like aroma mingling with the more familiar, musky scents of masculinity. Gerald ran his hands up and down Arman's thighs, and curls his fingers around the okapi's shaft, tenderly sliding the foreskin back to expose the precum-slick glans within. With a soft groan, Gerald took him into his muzzle, his soft lips gliding over the okapi's glans and down his shaft. His lungs filled with the earthy musk of an adolescent ungulate, and the stag opened his eyes to stare up at the okapi's face. Arman didn't want to tell the stag it was his first time. But the thick pulses of salty, creamy warmth which jetted softly across Gerald's tongue after barely ten seconds might've been all the indication that was needed. As it was, Gerald simply swallowed heavily, and grinned up to Arman. "Fuck. Am I that good?"

"B-better... Sorry...." Arman breathed. There was no way he was leaving without getting his fill, though.

"Don't worry about it. I take it as a compliment."

As he softened, albeit only a little, Arman pulled away from Gerald and moved to the large, messy bed, removing the remainder of his clothes and flagging his knee-length, tufted tail, giving the buck a telltale glance at the warm, velvety cleft of his buttocks and sliding fluidly, gracefully onto the bed, on his hands and knees.

"Fuck..." Gerald breathed again. His heart raced, and he staggered forward, awkwardly ripping off the rest of his clothing, absently smearing precum along his pink, tight-cut cock, making it glisten with his arousal.

Sliding onto the bed behind Arman, Gerald gripped those hips firmly, again putting his mouth to use as he pressed his muzzle between the firm globes of the okapi's butt, eliciting a girly squeal from Arman. Collapsing forward onto his chest on the bed, Arman closed his eyes, panting heatedly and rolling his hips back against Gerald's skilled... very skilled tongue. Unnoticed, the okapi's phone buzzed in the pocket of his discarded pants. Missed call. The third one in the half hour since they'd left the club.

As Gerald reared up over the okapi, pressing the heated length of his rigid penis between Arman's buttocks, the okapi giggled softly, and curled his tail up over his arched back, peering back at Gerald with such an adorably sensual expression that Gerald nearly blew his load right there and then. That was a face Gerald desperately wanted to paint with his lust...

"Go easy, big guy... it's... my first..." Arman murmured, shuffling his knees apart a little on the bed, his dark, plump balls swinging just gently.

Gerald laughed. "You hardly needed to tell me that, Arman. It's obvious. Making me feel like a lecherous old bastard here!"

"D-don't worry! You're so hot," Arman breathed. "I've been... dreaming of this for... long time."

Gerald bit back a groan of lust, leaning forward and pressing Arman down onto his stomach on the soft bed, to reach and rummage through the drawer beside the bed for a tube of lubricant. The more the better, he figured. The adjacency of a mostly-empty tube of lube and box of condoms to the hotel's ubiquitous Good News Bible never failed to make him smirk with irony, and he knelt up, cupping his left hand beneath his cock as his right squeezed lube onto it. There was no feeling in the world comparable to slipping within a tight, willing partner, and Gerald relished every moment of the hours that followed. The heated moans. The sweat soaking their fur. The fluid, heated gyrating of bodies against each other. Gerald rode the edge of his first orgasm for several long moments, before pulling out with a muttered curse. Arman twisted his head around with a gasp, and burst out into musical laughter as the stag shuddered and convulsed above him, the warm and heavy splatter of slick, pent-up seed against his upturned buttocks, his taint and the back of his balls making him want more... to want this not to end.

But end it finally did.

As the sun lanced into the hotel room early the following morning, Gerald was rudely awakened by a heavy, angry pounding on the door. His eyes flew open at the same moment as Arman's. The okapi was covered in Gerald's lust in no uncertain terms. The fine fur of his chest, abdomen, butt, face, crotch... all of it. And Gerald was covered in Arman's. A mixture of stag and okapi ejaculate plastered and crusted in their fur, and their mouths tasted of each other. In spite of it all, Arman had awoken hard as a rock, and if it hadn't been for the pounding on the door, Gerald would've eagerly swallowed all the okapi boy had to offer him then and there.

There was no denying what had happened between them... repeatedly... all night. And as the door was finally opened by the hotel manager, a much older okapi stormed in, his horns glinting menacingly in the morning light, nostrils flaring at the acrid, pungent stink of sex that filled the room. Arman squealed in fright and covered himself with the sheets, and Gerald swore, leaping to his hooves with no regard for his own nudity.

"What the FUCK is this?" the okapi bull roared, his thick, sub-Saharan accent made terrifying with his rage. "You DARE?!"

The pieces fell into place for Gerald with a sickening crunch. Arman... Desmond Usekundi's son. The founder and owner of his troupe. And Gerald had just broken a cardinal rule - spent all night breaking it, indeed.

"Arman. Get your damned clothes on. You and I will TALK about this. Later. For now. You. Gerald Hirschkoff. You will NEVER perform in this town again. Your career ends here. Today. Get out of my sight. If I ever see you again I will be the last thing you ever see."

***

There was little point in dwelling on it. But Gerald couldn't help himself. There had been something about Arman. A sensuality, an eagerness and a desire he'd never experienced for another creature before. His youth only made it hotter, a realisation that Gerald had been unwilling to admit to himself. And it was beyond his ability to control his body's reaction to his memories of that one night. The stag grunted, his hips thrusting upwards through his saliva-slickened hand as he masturbated, his slow, firm pace making quiet, rhythmic wet noises as the cot bed creaked and complained beneath him. Doing his best to ignore the pounding in his head, the stag worked his shaft fitfully, pausing after a dozen or so strokes to allow the pain in his skull to subside.

The moment of orgasm caused him to gasp, his hooves bracing onto the bed as his hips lifted clear of it momentarily, his seed spritzing up through his clenched fist to lightly splatter his belly, the remainder of it drooling lazily over his fingers and into his unkempt, thick pubic fur.

Wiping it off onto his chest, Gerald lay there for a moment longer, before dragging himself upward out of the cot bed and into the tiny bathroom. There was no shower, but he used cold water in the tiny basin and a hand towel to clean himself as best he could. His head cleared slowly, and he drank several large glasses of water, staring at his scruffy self in the grimy mirror. There was no way he could stay here, not a damned moment longer. The only way was up. Any further downward would be the end of him.

Barely ten minutes later, dressed and with a backpack containing the totality of his belongings, Gerald opened the window of the tiny room he'd stayed in. He couldn't face Toes. He couldn't pay his tab, or hope to repay the old bull for his tolerance.

So he ran.

Scrambling down a rickety drainpipe to the filthy alley behind the saloon, Gerald mustered what little dignity he had left and strode out into the mass of highway overpasses and filth-encrusted sub-streets, heading inexorably towards the city core along with countless thousands of daily commuters, each of them oblivious to the dank, stinking underbelly of the city they laboured to maintain even as they drove their luxury sedans along great glittering ribbons of concrete right above it.

Fishing through his backpack for his wallet, Gerald walked into the train station, fighting his way through a tide of morning commuters in the opposite direction, intent on leaving this place and never returning. It had nothing more to offer him, and Desmond Usekundi had made it clear he had nothing more to offer the city, either. His teeth grit in determination, he shoved his way through, the metaphor for this very position not lost on him - thousands of people bustling mindlessly into the city while he alone struggled to leave it. A train ticket was all he could afford, and he experienced a moment's panic when his bank card took almost a full minute to approve his purchase.

Single to Stillwater Cove. One way.

***

"Ground control to Major Tom.

Commencing countdown, engines on.

Check ignition, and may God's love be with you..."

Just occasionally, a particular song just strikes the perfect note. Strums all the right chords. Major Tom made the grade, and the papers wanted to know whose shirts he wore, at the precise moment Gerald's train burst out of the station into the sunshine, climbing onto the elevated track that would take it rapidly out of the city. His old life, his career, his name in lights - his everything - faded into the distance behind the speeding train, and Gerald could not bring himself to even look back. Slouched in his seat with a pair of cheap earbuds plugged into a battered iPod, the buck leaned against the sun-warmed glass, watching the increasingly green landscape flit past outside the train as the track once more returned to ground level.

"Can you hear me Major Tom,

Can you hear me Major Tom...

Can you hear me Major Tom..."

The train only made two stops. One at the university campus some miles outside the city, and the second, an hour or so later, at its terminus in Stillwater Cove. Gerald dozed for most of the journey. He would've contacted his brother, but he didn't even own a phone any more - he'd sold it some time ago to pay Toes for another night. Why had he stayed so long? Why had it never occurred to him that he didn't NEED to stay? Maybe it was his foolish pride. Thinking that Desmond might have eventually forgiven his transgression and welcomed him back into the troupe. Maybe it was a kind of Stockholm syndrome, an addiction to the very thing that kicked him to the dirt. Or maybe it was just pure stubbornness, an inability to recognise when something wasn't working for him in time to prevent it turning into a full-blown disaster.

Just like the twins.

His heart did a little somersault in his chest as the train squealed to a halt at the terminus, the familiarity of the tiny old station at Stillwater Cove jolting Gerald's senses very much into the present moment. How old would the boys be now? Ten? Eleven? It was immensely fortunate that Bruno had agreed to adopt and raise them as his own. Gerald was hardly fit to look after himself, let alone two kids. Following their birth, their mother willingly given them over to social services, and they'd soon been deposited - metaphorically - on Gerald's doorstep. Their relationship had broken down beyond all repair only months into her pregnancy, and she'd made it patently clear she was not interested in raising his kids, especially if that meant she had to SEE him occasionally. He'd done his best to prepare to be a father. But a life of show business is no easy thing to reconcile with single-parenthood, even for those whose careers rise to meteoric heights. For a buck in Gerald's position, struggling to make ends meet even for himself and travelling around all the time, raising two kids as well was just impossible. And, as he'd just proven to himself yet again, he was incapable of making a decision that wasn't self-centred.

The decision to give up the twins for adoption shattered Gerald's heart. Bruno had been there for him throughout the process, and it has softened the blow considerably to know that the boys would be raised within his family still - close enough to be able to see them whenever he wanted. But to never be called "dad..." To miss their first faltering steps, their first words...

It seemed deeply incongruous to Gerald to have such dark thoughts, to be consumed by so much failure and self-hatred, as he walked through the charming, happily bustling streets of the town he was born in. He hadn't been back here since he gave the twins to Bruno. He'd occasionally had a message or a missed call from his older brother but had never made any attempt to return them. And now here he was, about to rock up unannounced on his doorstep again, to fling himself once more on Bruno's charity. What else could he do?

The town was largely unchanged from how he remembered it from his childhood, and Gerald took to walking along the beach, around the gently curved foreshore of the ancient volcanic caldera the town, its bay and its ridge of hills surrounded. Aside from anything else it was a beautiful place to walk, but it also assisted Gerald in finding his brother's house.

***

"Hey Deets! Wanna go up to dad's workshop after school?" Kris asked, jogging up and jostling alongside his twin brother as the school broke for lunch, the old bronze bell in the squat tower above the library bonging out the hour.

"Chyeah, sure! Treehouse time, or...?" Dieter grinned. The twins had been spending most of their afternoons after school lately building a new treehouse in the boughs of an ancient oak in the woodland behind the artisan district, on a parcel of land Bruno had purchased a few years ago to save it from any further development.

"Well...yeah, I ain't doin' homework up there! Weather's too nice," Kris snorted.

"Amen! I'll text Dad, tell him we'll go there straight from school," Dieter chuckled, pulling out his phone.

As it turned out, that was a good decision.

The treehouse was close to being finished. From the ground it was barely visible, high up in the canopy of an oak so large its branches formed a dome of greenery a hundred feet across, within which the air was always cool, crisp and fresh. Surrounded by dense woodland on all sides, it was beautifully secluded, but still close enough to Bruno's workshop in the Artisan District to be accessible and safe. The twins rode their bikes as far into the woods as they could, before dismounting and pushing them the rest of the way to the treehouse and leaving them leaving against the bole of the enormous tree. A rope ladder hung down from a branch some thirty feet from the trunk of the tree, and the boys climbed it one by one. The branch was plenty strong enough to hold them both, and wide enough to comfortably walk on. Bruno had insisted, though, on clearing a few of the smaller branches from it, and installing guide ropes suspended from even higher branches. Even though the forest floor beneath the oak was laid thick with soft moss and loam, it was a long way to fall, still.

Dieter and Kristian made their way up the branch towards the tree's centre, to where the treehouse sat, nestled amongst a nest of boughs and securely fixed in place. It was a wooden structure, pre-fabricated by Bruno in his workshop and assembled with the help of a series of ropes and pulleys. It had been quite a significant undertaking, to say the least, and had taken almost a year. But finally, here it was - a sturdy wooden platform with an external landing, a lockable door, a gabled roof and windows in all four walls, glazed and weatherproof - it was more of a small house in a tree, than what most people might imagine the word 'treehouse' to mean.

Standing on the deck together, Dieter rummaged through Kristian's backpack to find the key, and opened the door of the treehouse. Inside was spartan; they hadn't yet brought any furnishings or supplies up here, but already there were a few old blankets and cushions from the workshop, some comic books and board games, and a couple of torches and lanterns.

"Ahh, home sweet home!" Dieter chuckled, sitting cross-legged beneath one of the windows. "Wanna play blackjack?"

"Hah! After the thrashing I gave you last time?" Kristian snorted.

"It's a game of chance, I'll get you this time!"

"Alright, you're on. First to twenty-one winning hands, wins. Loser gets naked, and stays that way until we get back to the workshop."

Dieter wrinkled his nose a little, ears flagging, but then shrugged. "Alright! Not like I haven't seen your dick a million times already..."

Kristian grinned, cupping his package in his hand lewdly before fetching a deck of cards and sitting cross-legged opposite his brother. Since there were only two of them, they took turns dealing, and kept score in one of their schoolbooks. It looked like it would be a fun afternoon.

***

Bruno left the Cog & Cup not long after three in the afternoon, quietly coasting his bicycle down the gently sloping streets from The Harrows to the bay. It was a circuitous route, by necessity more than anything else. Part of the charm of Stillwater Cove was its rabbit-warren streets, most of which were original to the town and centuries old. It took him several moments to register the hunched figure slumped on his front porch when he arrived home, and by the time he'd squealed to a halt and dismounted his bicycle, his brows were furrowed. Could it be?

Gerald was sleeping. Shallowly, but his eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and measured. Bruno hovered over his younger brother, glancing around the street as if to determine where he'd appeared from. Tentatively, he shook the younger stag awake. Gerald started violently, bleating fearfully and skittering backward on his buttocks across the porch, hooves kicking out before him until his vision cleared and he awakened fully to see his brother standing over him, hands outstretched.

"Bruno! I..."

"Gerald, what the hell are you doing here?"

His ears flattened, and he stood with a grunt, wincing and holding his cracked ribs in one hand. "I had to come... I'm sorry, Bruno, I have nowhere else to go."

Bruno frowned, but at length he nodded and moved past his brother to open the door, ushering him inside.

"Twelve years of silence, Gerry, and you just turn up unannounced looking like you crawled out of a dumpster this morning? What would you have done if it had been the boys who'd found you, not me?"

Gerald leaned up against the wall just inside the front door, his head bowed. Bruno was right, of course. He always was. "I don't know. I've lived on luck and chance for so long, I don't know any other way. But I really need your help, Bruno. I crashed out, hard."

"How long ago? It certainly didn't happen yesterday, did it?"

"No."

"How long?"

"Nine months ago."

"Jesus fuck, Gerald, why didn't you..."

"I thought I could get it back! I thought it would pick up again. All I needed was one role, an extra, a cameo, something, and I'd have been back on the wagon," Gerald exploded. "I made one mistake, one time, and that was it."

Bruno's face hardened, and he crossed his arms across his chest. "One mistake?"

Gerald's heart dropped.

"Bruno, you know what I mean..."

"Oh yeah, I sure do. Acting is a perfectly valid career choice, Gerry, but you gotta come to terms with the fact that you're in the spotlight. I don't think you ever did. You were like a moth to a flame. All you ever wanted was the attention and the fame. You had a major part in Les Mis only last year, didn't you? What the hell happened?"

Gerald stiffened, and he drew in a breath. "I sure as hell didn't come here to be judged by you! Maybe I should just leave. I shouldn't have come."

Turning his back, Gerald marched out onto the front porch, and hesitated. If he walked away now, what would he do? Where would he go? His heart told him to stay, but his brain - his asshole brain - screamed at him to burn his bridges and never look back.

Bruno's hand landed on his shoulder at precisely the right moment. "You know you've always been welcome here, Gerry. But I can't help you if you won't let me. Hard not to judge your actions, you fucked up pretty bad a lot of times. But if you tell me what happened, fill me in, I'll never mention it again as long as you learn from it. Alright? Now get your skinny ass inside, you desperately need a shower. I could smell you before I saw you!"

A tense moment followed, before Gerald finally acquiesced, and turned into his brother's embrace. "It was Les Mis that killed it."

"Tell me after you've washed yourself," Bruno chuckled, propelling his brother upstairs to the bathroom and tossing a towel over him.

***

"Ah HAH! Twenty to fourteen! You might as well strip now and get it over with, Dieter!" Kristian crowed facetiously, slapping down a King-seven-four hand on the floor between them.

"Awh fuck. Nah, you said first to twenty-one!"

"You're gonna win the next seven hands, are you?" Kris grinned.

"Maybe I will!" Dieter bleated, snatching up the cards and shuffling them.

"Hang on, I need a piss!"

Dieter rolled his eyes and giggled as Kristian hobbled awkwardly out onto the deck of the treehouse, and dropped his shorts and underwear to his hooves. Dropping the cards, Dieter stood as well, suddenly aware of the pressure in his own bladder, and moved out to stand alongside his twin, unzipping and dropping his shorts as well.

Kristian was already mid-stream, and laughed at his brother, holding himself between thumb and forefinger and carefully aiming between the rails of the balustrade around the treehouse deck. "Hey Deets! If you can hit this branch for your whole stream, you don't have to stay naked until we get to the workshop."

"Deal!" Dieter grinned, clenching down hard to stem the flow at the last second, and waiting until Kristian was done. He peered down through the dense leaves and canopy to the wet patch on a branch some twenty feet away. "Whoa, really?"

"Uh huh."

"Alright...watch this!"

Dieter muscled his twin out of the way and leaned on the balustrade in the same spot, finally releasing and getting his aim just right before pushing, hard, to intensify his stream with an exaggerated sigh of relief. He easily hit the same spot as his twin, and grinned cockily as he shook off the last drops and pulled his shorts back up.

Kris, meanwhile, still had his shorts around his hooves, and seemed a little disappointed, to say the least.

"Hah! Bite me, bro," Dieter bleated, stepping back past his brother and smacking him firmly on the butt. "You can put your pants back on now."

Kris blew a raspberry, and instead, stepped out of them and joined his brother inside again, sitting cross-legged opposite him. "What if I don't want to?"

"Dude. You will literally take any opportunity to have your dick out, won't you?"

"Yeah, so? It's cool, we're all dudes, right?" Kris retorted, leaning back and idly toying with himself. It was immediately clear to Dieter where he was going with that, and in spite of his protests, Dieter found himself hardening in his shorts even as he watched his twin brother rise to attention before him.

"Ugh, alright..." Dieter rolled his eyes, mock-grudgingly pushing his shorts down again and kicking them aside.

"One more hand of Blackjack, Deets! Winner gets jerked off by the loser?"

"Did you bring lotion?"

"Duh, of course!"

Dieter rolled his eyes, of course his brother brought lotion. It had taken less than a week for the pair of them to plow through the entire bottle Bruno had bought them, and their father had only laughed when they'd timidly asked for more. So when Dieter won the hand, he bleated obnoxiously in victory and leaned back, legs akimbo, awaiting his prize.

Kristian, for his part, seemed only too happy to oblige, and shuffled across to sit alongside his brother, lotion tube in hand. He squeezed out a generous amount into his hand, and rubbed both palms together a moment to spread it, before reaching down and curling his right hand around his twin brother's half-erect penis. Kristian's was rock hard already, and only twitched even harder upon feeling Dieter's fill out and stiffen in his hand. Both of them were noticing puberty's early effects on their bodies by that stage; a slight thickening of the fur around their groins, and their balls and cocks were starting to grow, just a little. Enough that a clenched fist no longer completely engulfed an erect member, instead leaving the head visible.

Kristian twisted and squeezed and smeared his slick hand around his brother's penis, pumping it in a slow, well-practiced motion. Far from the awkward, frenetic tugging of their first few sessions together, this was now a routine operation. Kris grappled with his own member in his left hand, the boys' thighs pressed tightly together as all conversation ceased, replaced by the rhythmic, slick pumping of both of Kristian's hands, and a series of excited, shaky gasps and groans. Hooves scrabbled and clonked hollowly against the floorboards, and in the heat of the moment, Dieter lifted his arm around Kristian's shoulders, and licked his other hand wetly. Snaking his right arm down across his own body, Dieter bumped his brother's hand away from his own penis and took over, eliciting an excited, happy bleat from Kristian as the brothers masturbated each other.

Dieter rolled fluidly onto his knees, moving across Kristian to straddle his thighs, leaning his free hand on the wall over his shoulder. His breath was hot on Kristian's muzzle, and Kris gazed up at him, then back down at his rigid, lotion-streaked penis with a giggle. This angle was much easier to work with, and Kris doubled his efforts, his rapid, light stroking causing his brother's balls to bounce against his hand, precum dribbling from his bare glans over his fingers. Dieter, likewise, had increased the pace of his stroking of Kristian's penis, although in the absence of as much lotion, he gripped his brother's skin more, tugging it up against the back of his glans firmly and rapidly. The boys had experimented a lot with techniques over the preceding months. A lot.

So in spite of the lotion, it was Kris who came first.

He bleated, and shook beneath his brother, his free hand instinctively moving behind Dieter to grip his butt as he arched his hips upward, thrusting through his brother's hand, as several messy splatters of cum erupted upwards, to land in his tummy fur. It was still mostly clear, but the few drops that clung to his penis and rolled heavily down over Dieter's fingers were distinctly opaque.

The sight and sound of his brother ejaculating, and his hand on his butt (although he was reluctant to admit that) set Dieter off moments later. With a shudder and a series of rough, eager thrusts, he let out a triumphant "fuck yes!" as Kristian's hand tightened around the base of his penis, pulling sharply back on the already tight skin of his shaft. Dieter bleated, a forward thrust pulling his skin so tight it deformed his shiny, purple glans just at the moment of climax. His own seed, just the same as his brothers, rocketed forth with much more force due to his upright position, the first shot jetting stickily onto Kristian's muzzle, before the remainder pulsed more weakly down onto his groin and belly. Kris' tongue automatically shot out and licked up his brother's seed, silently grateful that Dieter's eyes were shut... he tasted good. Salty, and a little sweet.

As the boys came down off their high, they burst into giggles, and ended up laying on the floor of the treehouse in each other's arms for several long minutes before Kris fumbled around, finding Dieter's underwear, and used it to mop up the cum from his torso, to uproarious protest from his brother.

"Hey, you came on me, so it's only fair you wear it home!" Kris laughed, tossing the damp garment over his brother's muzzle.

"It...it's getting dark out," Dieter suddenly observed. "Weird that we haven't heard from dad yet. D'you think he's alright?"

"We should get home..."

***

"...So he threw me out of the troupe, and blacklisted my name to all the other theatre and dance companies he knew in the city," Gerald concluded, hunched forward on his armchair on the mezzanine lounge and staring deeply into the mug of tea Bruno had made for him.

Freshly showered, he was feeling better, but the swollen, red hoofprint on his side stung like hell under the soap and water he forced himself to pour on it. Wearing Bruno's bath robe while his brother washed his clothes, Gerald felt strangely naked in front of the older stag, baring the shame that was the dumpster fire of his career. Bruno, for his part, listened attentively and bit his tongue whenever the temptation to criticise his brother's choices arose - which was often. In spite of the better part of a year living rough, couch-surfing or sleeping wherever he could, Gerald was still a handsome buck and in remarkably good physical shape. Once he healed and recovered a little, Bruno had no doubt he'd score work as a model of some kind again, but returning to Frosthorn would be out of the question, of course.

With a grunt, Bruno suddenly checked his phone. It was after 8pm, and he had two messages from Dieter.

"Fuck, the boys!"

"You what?" the vestiges of a smile plucked at the corners of Gerald's lips.

"They've been at the treehouse all afternoon, they've just gotten back to the workshop and it's all locked up, shit! I forgot to tell them I wouldn't be there this afternoon, I was planning to message them when I got home."

"Ah..."

Bruno quirked an eyebrow at his brother, before quickly tapping out a message to Dieter.

"You haven't asked about them even once since you signed them over to me twelve years ago, Gerry. How're you going to go with this?"

"Oh fine, fine," Gerald said airily, wafting his hand in the air. "Just tell them I'm their long-lost uncle or something, or a second-cousin, I don't know. You're better at white lies than I am."

Bruno glowered. "How would you know, long-lost brother of mine?"

Gerald winced, and buried his muzzle in his mug.

"Alright. Dieter says they'll be home in twenty minutes. I need to cook dinner. Please don't answer the door when they get here, alright? I want to break this to them gently. We have no secrets in his house, so I'm going to be honest with them."

Gerald's eyes widened, and he stood, pulling the bath robe closed and tying it around his waist. "No! You can't! It'll... it'll confuse them!"

Bruno rounded on his brother, and stared at him for a long moment. "Again, Gerry. How would you know?" he asked, quietly.

Gerald's ears flagged, and he slumped forward a little. "Of course. I wouldn't. Bruno, don't you think it's been eating me up inside, knowing I basically dumped them and ran? Not a day went by that I didn't wonder about them, or you. I just... I never had the balls to pick up the phone, even when I owned one."

Bruno's face softened, and he reached out, hugging his brother to his chest for a moment. "No one is ever irredeemable, alright? You can always come back from whatever you've done. Within reason, of course. It's just... hard for me to see you, so suddenly. I'd all but given up on seeing you again, years ago. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you're here, and I'm very happy, and very proud of the boys. They're smart, witty, full of mischief and there's not a nasty word between them, not ever. So please... trust me."

Gerald nodded, and pulled away, and then followed Bruno downstairs. Dinner was a straightforward affair - something out of the freezer, irreverently microwaved. The sweet potato and blue cheese frittata he'd been planning would have to wait until tomorrow.

As if on cue, ten minutes later the front door opened, and Bruno ducked out of the kitchen to greet his sons. Gerald, sitting in Bruno's massive armchair in the downstairs lounge, pricked his ears to listen, fiddling with his robe and the underwear Bruno had loaned him, ensuring his modesty as he steeled himself to meet his sons... no... his nephews... for the first time.

"Deets, Kris, I'm sorry I didn't reply earlier, is everything alright with you?" Bruno asked in low tones inside the front door. The twins looked a little confused, exchanging glances and looking back at their worried father.

"Uh... yeah dad, we're fine," Kris shrugged. "What's up?"

"Someone's here. Someone you need to meet," Bruno began, taking a deep breath and kneeling. "You remember how we discussed, years ago, that I'm actually your uncle, right?"

"Sure, sure, but you adopted us and now you're our dad. You always have been, always will be," Dieter folded his arms, almost stubbornly.

Bruno's heart pounded in anticipation, although Dieter's response made him chuckle. "Well...I... don't know how to say this easily, so I won't. Your father's here. I arrived home this afternoon to find him on the porch. He's going to be staying with us for a while. Are you okay with that?"

Kristian's eyes widened, and he peered past Bruno into the lounge, to where he could just see a pair of hooves protruding from his dad's chair.

"We're going to have to be, aren't we?" Dieter prodded his brother, who nodded.

"I just thought it was important that you know the truth. He wanted me to introduce him to you as a long-lost uncle or some such, but you guys are smarter than that, alright? Call him Uncle Gerry if you want, that'll probably make him more comfortable too," Bruno stood up, hugging his sons to his hips, and propelled them gently up the hallway, past the kitchen and into the lounge.

"Dieter, Kristian, I want you to meet your Uncle Gerald."

Gerald gave a thin smile, his heart hammering at a million miles an hour, and stood, turning to face them.

"Hello, lads."