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Promises

“If you cough one more time, I’m gonna’ cram my tail down your throat!”

The pub went silent as Bryn’s growl rumbled away from the oche. He was on the verge of winning and some snarky sod had begun hacking when he went for his next shot.

A cubbish giggle was suppressed by a scraggly looking fox sat at the bar, hunched over his nth beer and feigning a stupid pout. He was lucky not to be seen, let alone smelled. You couldn’t hide anything in this country.

Bryn turned back, his eyes screwed into concentration on the dart board, ears swept and tail taut. Single, treble, and then double-top to complete the Shanghai. He brought the dart back, the moth-eaten flight sharp and grinding like a plastic rail running down the right-side of his muzzle. He’d thrown so many that the scarring from his nose to his right eye was as distinct as a maroon-red tattoo. The dart flew home with a satisfying thud… but he didn’t react.

In fact, hardly anyone did. That was pretty much standard nowadays, especially since he’d left Meinir and moved in with Gavin. This was his home, or at least it had been. The tiny village of Cadnoys, a virulently conservative and fox-dominant hamlet, was home to residents that were expectant, introverted and exceptionally unforgiving to anyone of different fur colour, species or scent. Brynmor had been a pillar of this community up until a matter of months ago.

He was a traditional digger who had built many new fox earths in the village and renovated pretty much all of them. Bry’ was a beer-drinking, dart-playing, rugby-loving fox who had never shied from getting his paws dirty. He kept a bowl of water by the oche for that exact reason. Sure, the digging business wasn’t what it used to be – many just wouldn’t call on him anymore - but his paws and claws still got clogged and matted with clay and loam from a hard day’s work.

Bryn just padded forward after his victory, taking the darts from the board and sliding them into his left breast pocket. His opponent had just snarled, huffed and walked away. He didn’t wanna’ shake paws with that.

“Another win for the faggot, huh?!”

Bryn’s ears switched instantly and he strode over, grabbing Col by his scruff and slamming him down onto the bar. Glass and liquid went flying, with those sat around scattering like mice to cower by the settles.

“Say it to my muzzle, crwt! I fuckin’ dare ya’!”

“Aghhh, get the fuck offa’ me!”

“If I hear you say that again, I’m gonna’ stitch your fuckin’ maw shut with my own set o’ pins!” Bryn held one of his darts to the fox’s throat, pressing against the flesh.

Colin just whimpered and coughed before Bryn picked him up off the bar and threw him to the floor. The patrons were used to this. They just gawked, laughed and left them to it. Some avoided it purely because they thought touching or smelling Bryn’s scent was enough to infect them with his “disease”. The landlord was Bryn’s saviour, even though he’d been as much of a gossiping thorn-in-the-tail as his bitch of an ex-wife. Meinir could go fuck ‘erself! She’d got plenty of practice while he’d been working his tail off. Payback was bittersweet, cos’ it had cost Bryn the patronage and, for some, the respect of the whole village.

Col had been left to rub his neck and squint his eyes through his drunkenness, a scent mixed with anger, defeat and embarrassment. Bryn just scowled and padded away to the dingy bathroom at the back of the pub.

“I guess you give ya’ prick to anyone who’ll ask!”

Bryn hesitated, snarling but thinking better of returning and kicking the living shite outta’ him. He found relief behind a slammed door and the fading of hops and cigarette smoke to a ureic, dirty ceramic aroma, filtered by a single wire-glass window. He leant his paws to the sink, sighing as he braved to look up into the mirror. The pale orange of the street light mixed with the empty bathroom bulb to cast annoyingly deep shadows across his thinning fur. His muzzle was sore with the travel of the flight, and damn it all, his ears and his ruff were starting to show grey again!

Losing her was one thing. Losing his pelt and his colour was a totally different kettle of fish. He couldn’t stand it. They could all yell and scream at him forever and a day about how “evil” he was for straying from the foxes’ ways, from his designated female and cub. Colin could run his drunken muzzle ‘til he turned blue, as blue as that husky ho’ he was screwin’ on the side. But Bryn’s aroma was more than all this. It was everything.

He’d been bleeding himself to coat the grey areas for weeks now; and Gavin was not happy. Today would be no exception. Paws damnit, the darts were just sharp enough and there was no way he was gonna’ get seen with silver slipping into his fur.

He let it pierce the thin flesh of his tail like a makeshift hypodermic, wincing as the blood came. Bryn knew, as he dabbed his paws to the sticky red humour, that this was wrong. Gavin would have his guts for garters!

But he was also well aware of what else may happen if grey fur showed. It caked to his ears well and the aroma was just weak enough to throw off even the most discerning noses. He worked with soil and detritus, cast iron sheets and nails all day, every day, so the slightly rancid, acidic smell of decayed blood was never gonna’ be picked up on. No one dared ask after him as he left, sure to swig the bones of his beer as he padded into the cold. He was on nothing but an inner autopilot, to get him home to the cavernous, one-up/one-under he called sanctuary. Gavin had likely been working all day, so the poor sod would be just as knackered.

The village was dead quiet, bar the sounds emanating from the more sozzled tails amongst them back at the ‘Gruff and Growl’. It all followed Bryn back down the hill and into the mist that had settled in the valley. There was so little to him anymore, spiritually that is. There was little more than worry carved across his muzzle even on his days off, on his better days when Gav’ would remind him precisely why he took his parents’ twisted view of racial purity and chucked it right back in their faces. Blank green eyes followed the odd stray fly as homeless insects braved the cold, Bryn’s pebble nose twitching at the smell of wet tarmac, moss and the stains of oil from bleeding tractors and beat-up cars.

There was something that he hated about this place, yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Perhaps this was why he just couldn’t stop himself. The feeling of violation was worth it to cover up his neuroses and to be a part of Cadnoys again. He didn’t want to be hated. Bryn was trying so hard.

By the time he got to his front door, under the lemony porchlight that eked across his scarred muzzle like a dying firefly, it was already gone nine o’clock. A deep sigh and the turn of a lock later, and Bryn’s nose was full of the scent of home, of lanolin, last night’s dinner and cold pantile. The house was quiet save for the snip and slice of a certain someone’s barber shears. Gavin still had a customer.

Ducking in and under, Bryn padded on down into the house. Being set below the road on a slope was both a blessing and a curse. When it was warm, the house was cool; but when it pissed down, the leaks… paws above, the leaks! So yeah, the only other irritant in Bryn’s sensitive ears was the incessant drip of water from the rafters of their corrugated iron-clad roof. Damn things would always move, the leaks that is, meaning that Gavin and Bryn would have to shift pots and pans around the house like a game of space invaders.

“Hey babe!” Gavin murmured happily, not turning to see the older fox come home but keeping his cloven paws happily busy across the ruff and ears of his last customer for the day.

Bryn just looked over, smiling and nodding at his partner and their paying visitor. He just wanted to rest, out of the light and out of the draughts, away from strange eyes and scents. The clipping slowed as Gavin admired his work, propping the mirror on the draining board of their sink and allowing his patron to turn this way and that.

“That’s awesome, looks good. Cheers Billy!” A younger voice broke the cold darkness, under the moonshine light of the larder and its pale, sickly beam.

“Any time, Ieuan. See ya’ next month!”

The rustle of a wallet, the smell of a vulpine ten-pound note and the olfactory ‘thank you’ of another satisfied fox sank into the nose one hit at a time.

Eventually, the heavy pad of footpaws was up the stone steps, out the door and made final by the hefty shut of the front door. It was silent again, blissful, ignorant quiet, Bryn closing his eyes and putting his footpaws up on their coffee table. He knew Gav’s customers were fine folks for the most part, but he could never relax around them. He couldn’t truly relax around any of his kind anymore. Gavin trotted quietly from the kitchen and turned his muzzle around and into the lounge, seeing his mate resting and that thick vulpine muzzle lost in the stutter of the crappy TV reception.

“Hey.” There was a concerned smile streaking across Gavin’s maw.

“Oh, uh… hey Gav!”

“You’ve been awful quiet since you got in.” Gavin came into the room, his usually loud hooves now deadened by the motheaten rug that sat at the room’s heart. He was counting his takings as he went, but his eyes were on Bryn. The smell was of loss.

“I made two hundred today” he murmured nervously.

“That’s… that’s great, love.” Bryn’s every word was punctured with a sigh, his demeanour cursing everything to fall through the floor like a lead weight.

The fox remained silent, sat on the sofa and aimlessly flicking through the channels, this drawn, defeated look on his muzzle. But he suddenly flinched, almost as though he had remembered something. He sat up and turned on his tail with a bemused look across his muzzle.

“Billy?”

“Yeah, you know? Bill, billy goat, gafr, Gavin?”

Bryn still looked completely lost.

“It’s a Welsh thing, love. Close but no leek, you know!”

“But you’re not. A goat I mean.”

“I know” Gavin couldn’t help sound a little incredulous, “But I’m not about to go correcting my best customers, Bry’!”

He just smiled briefly, shrugging and returning his gaze to the grate of the TV, his muzzle’s coarse fur licked by the shadows of the fireplace flames.

Gavin being Gavin wasn’t giving up. He wandered over and sat on the arm of the sofa, leaning into his mate.

“I love your paws all dirty like this.” Gav’ reached down and caressed a hoof over Bryn’s free left paw, “running ‘em through my woo… whoa, whoa! What the hell did you do to your ears?”

He’d noticed. The cuts and the scarring were one thing, but this long stream of horrid, dried black blood was just too much to ignore.

“Nothin’”

“Nothing?!” Gavin got up, shock forcing him to lower his head in near-defense, pressing his cloven paws to the sofa and staring at his mate, “Hoof in a handbasket, do you think I’m blind?! Babe, you can’t keep doing this.”

“Leave me alone Gav’ will ya?!” Bryn just shook it all off, heaving himself from the sofa and lumbering away into the kitchen.

“Fat chance!” And now his mate was chasing him through the house, “Is this all about Siôn again?”

The fox stopped, sighing deeply, paws hung at his sides like he’d been hit by a storm shower.

“Bry’?”

“It’s not about Siôn.”

“Well what the fuck?” Gavin had caught up to him, and was now standing right in front of him, trying to meet his gaze, “Are you freakin’ out about turnin’ grey or somethin’?”

“You could say that.”

“But why?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?!” That thick fox muzzle came up from the floor, from being lost in the grit and the dust, eyes burning in incredulousness, “I’m vilified enough being who I am let alone being labelled as some wannabe wolf!”

“You know I don’t mind.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“Well then who?”

Silence again.

“Bryn please.” Gavin reached out and touched his mate’s forepaw, stroking it gently, “I hate seeing you like this, and I don’t want you to be hurting yourself either just for someone’s…”

“It’s everybody Gavin!” He cut him off, turning away into the dark to hide the tears that were trickling down that strong muzzle, “everyone in this paws forsaken village! I’m one strand of silver away from being outcast and banished.”

Gav’ couldn’t say anything. He just pulled him into a hug, holding him tight as the fox’s eyes looked upward to disguise his upset. Bryn was a fox’s fox after all. There were some things about which males of any scent or species could ever let on. To smell him break down was enough.

“I don’t want to make things worse” Gavin murmured as he clung to Bryn’s warm paunch.

“You don’t babe. Really you don’t.”

“No… I mean this.” The ram reached for the sideboard and picked up a letter, handing it to his mate with about as much nerves as if he were about to drop from a height, “it’s from Meinir.”

The fox’s belly pushed outward and then drew back in in a deep sigh of resentment and irritation. Gav’ just hugged him tighter. Bryn didn’t need to really look at it to know what it was about; the smell of the words and the paper was enough.

“That fuckin’ bitch!” He growled, letting go of his mate and remonstrating to nothing but the darkness, “she won’t be happy ‘til I’m fuckin’ dead!”

He stormed away, padding into the lounge and, with the letter screwed up and flung to the dying log fire, the silhouette of the fox’s ample frame just crumpled, paws tearing in frustration at his ears. Gavin’s body felt weak, helpless and wan.

“You know what this means right?!” Bryn just couldn’t let it go.

“I know” Gavin sighed tearfully.

“Paws above, I give her enough every month, now she wants more?! I’m gonna’ have no fuckin’ tail left by the time I’m dead and buried.”

“Would you just quit sayin’ that?!”

“Well it’s gonna’! Fuck me!”

Bryn’s headshake, a frustrated manifestation of his anger, was almost audible. Gavin didn’t need to see him, be at his side or even be in the same room. The poor fox’s tail gave off everything that he needed to know. Gavin could just draw sad breaths and brush away the fur that he’d clipped from his customers. The disposers would be there in the morning to incinerate it all. It was the law. Too much residual scent in the fur of strangers to have it lying on the floor of someone’s earth. It was like hard currency floating around the house. Other peoples’ currency!

“I’m sorry, hon’.” Bryn appeared in the kitchen, the letter forgotten now, “This isn’t fair on you.”

“It’s OK.”

“No. No it’s not!” The fox sighed, pulling Gavin away from his sweeping and hugging him tight.

Eyes were screwed up, and sniffles now crushed the once cozy atmosphere. To have him in his paws, the guy who’d given up so much just to be here, was all Bryn could ever really need. Gav’ put up with so much of his shot, it was difficult not to feel a huge pang of guilt when the young ram was the only one being a breadwinner; and in a fox’s earth to boot!

“You… you s… still want chicken for tea?” Gavin reached out of the cuddle and looked up tearfully into his mate’s eyes, “just that I know you scent-texted me earlier, and it smelled like you were undecided and…”

“Gav’? Gavin, honey!” Bryn held both paws to those floofy shoulders, comfily pillowed beneath a smart red sleeveless shirt, “whatever we have, it’ll be just perfect.”

That broke him into a smile, the ram wiping his tears from his white-brown flecked muzzle.

“I had this awesome recipe prepared for chicken so… if it’s OK, I mean… I know you’re stressed about stuff and…”

“Then chicken it is!” Bry’ touched noses with his mate, both paws now holding that maw gently, “I’ll go dig It up. I know I had three buried in winter storage.”

The fox turned tail and padded away to the front door.

“Babe?”

“Hm?” Bryn stopped, half in and half out of his mac’, his chunky auburn-red frame a sanguine-charcoal silhouette in the half-light.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, lambaka.”

Heh, lambaka!

Sure, dating a sheep, a male sheep at that, was strange enough for a fox. But a gay ram and an Israeli Jacob? Bryn sure had his work cut out to appease a community who had once embraced him like a son. There were enough bollocks on them both to handle it all, although Bryn had admittedly been more affected than Gavin.

“I still can’t get used to seeing you do that.” Bryn looked up from his half-finished dish, catching his mate, muzzle-full and chomping with glee on the thick, juicy chicken breast.

“Hm? ‘oo wot?”

“Precisely” The silly old fox laughed over a headshake, leaving Gavin to chew slower and go red – or as red as his wool would allow anyway – his hard palate savouring the flavor of soil-cured poultry. Served medium rare of course!

“I don’t think I’ve seen two parents as scared as yours.”

“You’re tellin’ me!?”

It seemed like years ago that a young fur-dresser, doing a favour for his city stylist boss, had met this deeply unhappy, soft-hearted and hardworking fox in his makeshift trimming shop on the other side of the valley. Gav’ left his urban upbringing behind to serve the rural communities with top quality trims, styling and tail-dressing. After seeing and smelling this community, he felt he owed it to himself and others to go out and learn about the world. Little did he know that one sniff of Brynmor’s scent and he’d swap his usual tofu and sycamore leaf dinner for the chicken-based fox delicacies of this chocolate box village.

The fox in this picture didn’t fit, but Bryn didn’t care. There was something about Gavin’s helpfulness, his intelligence and his sleek, horned beauty that had him at last leaving his wife for someone who treated him right.

Did it really matter that Gav’ was a ram? Was it of consequence that his Jacob wool, his horns and his impeccable dress sense were all rather effete? To the tails of Cadnoys, this was alien; and change was not welcome. Coping mechanisms came in the form of having a stony constitution and a thick skin underneath your fur. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.

Meanwhile, Bryn had made his way to the kitchen from the lounge, the gorgeous smell of wood smoke, cold stone and wet leather rising from their tired mancave. The cottage was warming nicely and with midnight approaching, they both found themselves at the old Belfast sink, disposing of dirty cutlery and plates.

“Meat-eating’s one thing babe, hooking up with a fox was something totally ‘out there’, ya’ know?!” Gavin smiled wryly, his cloven paws sudsy and elbow deep in the washing-up.

“I’m worth it though, right?”

“Of course you are, silly tail!” Gav withdrew, drying his paws on a gingham towel that had hung to the front of their Aga.

His ears perked as he brought Bryn – this hulking-great fox – away from the work at-paw and stood with him in the dim light of the kitchen. Gav’s horns had this rippled, leathery sheen in the moonlight that struggled through the faded net curtains, his eyes ethereal but wide and happy at last. Bryn was just a supplicant in Gavin’s hypnotics presence, the smell of his tightly cropped brown-white wool, the feel of the keratin on his paws, and even the glint of that earring that hung as silver droplets from his left clipped ear, were a combination that held the fox in awe.

“You worry too much, that’s your problem.”

“I… I worry about us, Gav’.”

“You know I’m not gonna’ let anything happen to us right?”

“I know.”

Bryn felt small in the most wonderful way. A slight sheep of less than five-foot-five had the uncanny ability to bring this six-foot-something fox to a red-white putty of pleasure, problems and potential.

“You know… you could spend the evening pulling on my bell rope.” Gav pulled on his cute woolly tail with one paw, whilst he ran the other down his fox’s bare sternum, split to the air by the open top buttons of Bry’s workshirt. He bit his thick lip and slyly slithered a gaze up into those predatory yellow irises.

“Ah I dunno’ babe…” The fox replied, casual at first before growling and throwing his petit mate over his shoulder, “I figured it’d be more fun to suck on your bell-end!”

Bryn was not one to easily let go.

Gavin didn’t forget that night, moreso for the fact that within a matter of hours of an impromptu passion, his mate was mournfully barking into the night. The stupid old sod had undressed and sat on the corrugated tin roof, barefurred in the paws-damned rain to bark at fuck all! Gav’ just let him do what he thought was best. Perhaps it would help. Maybe Bry’ found it therapeutic. The ram listened from his pillow, the bare, cold duvet under which he had been left alone; again!

“Don’t let them get to you, hon. It’s gonna’ make you ill.”

“But… but I always used to, and now no one will join in. No one will even reply.”

What could Gavin possibly say?

“The bois would come over, we’d have beers and sit on the roof and bark all night.”

“Babe, you’re not eighteen anymore.”

“It’s not that!”

“Bry’, it’s not a measure of hatred, it’s just…”

“Just what then Gav, huh? Why don’t they want me anymore?”

Tearful muzzles met over a tense, hurtful silence.

“I… I want you.” Gavin’s whole muzzle trembled as he replied, “aren’t I enough?”

Fuckin’ fool never answered that, which of course stirred-up all the more ill-feeling and guilt. Gav had almost walked out that day. If it hadn’t been for Bryn prostrating himself barefurred and in floods of tears with his tail outstretched in submission, the sheep may have gone and never looked back.

It was him or this fucked-up community.

By the grace of whatever twisted god there was, Bry’ could not have both! It was just convincing him of that that was causing issues.

“He’s doin’ OK, huh?”

That came from beneath a winter coat, a strategically placed bobble-hat and muffled by cloven paws desperate to stay warm. Paws above, even with all that wool, the cold got to Gavin somethin’ chronic!

Both he and Brynmor had decided to be a part of the very small crowd gathered to watch Cadnoys RFC face off with St Dogmaels for their annual derby game. It was rainy, misty, foggy and damned muddy too. It was a miracle no one had stepped on someone’s tail and ripped it clean off. How they could see or smell each other in this weather, paws only knew?!

Bryn had wanted to be there nonetheless. His only cub Siôn was playing for the village team, and with his ex-wife in mind and all the anguish that the youngster had had to endure when his parents were together, obligation and guilt rang incessantly.

“Paws above, it’s freezin’!” Gav’ muttered into his gloves, “how… how long left?”

Bryn squinted at his watch, ears perking as he realized the time.

“Five more minutes, babe.”

Siôn was a lithe winger, distinct with his inherited dark red pelt and lengthy tail. Definitely his father’s cub! The attitude on the other paw, that was his mum’s! Paws almighty, was he like his mum?!

“More’s the pity.” Gavin murmured, unconsciously ending his thoughts out loud.

“What’s that babe?”

“Oh, nothin’. Just… uh… just thinkin’ about Siôn’s tries. Don’t think it ‘ll win it for ‘em though.”

Bryn nodded before turning back and reacting with anguish with another collapsed scrum and yet another missed opportunity.

As the whistle blew and paws were being shook, Bryn took his mate by the paw and they padded over toward where the pitch met the dingy changing rooms.

“Siôn?”

This mud-spattered and bruised fox of about six-foot-five was padding over with his teammates, tail drooped in defeat. His energy was sufficient to hear his father’s call, but his nose all the keener to see who accompanied him. His muzzle went from a half-smile, through a frown to a scowl in a matter of a second or two.

As the young fox approached the barrier separating the field from its small crowd, Bryn made forward to hug him; but Siôn was in no mood.

“Not now, Dad!

And he then literally pushed past him, leaving the poor fox stood there with tears starting into his eyes.

“Siôn?”

He trailed him, Gavin close behind, tails chilly in merciless gusts that swept across this exposed mountain-top pasture.

“Siôn? Siôn, I just wanted a hu…”

“You’re not comin’ anywhere near me, understand?” A snarl rumbled through Siôn’s chest, so deep and pronounced that one could almost see the sodden rugby shirt ripple with his bristling fur and quaking anger.

“But… but I thought I was takin’ Ty-Ty tonight?” Brynmor had been looking forward to having his only grandcub overnight for a long while.

“I’m not letting Tyler out of my sight, especially if you’re riding home with your furry little bum chum over there!”

They were faced-off now, snarling at each other so that both muzzles could feel the peel of gums and the fine mist of phlegm bubbling in torrid angst.

“Hey!” Gav’ perked up when he heard that.

“Hey what, ya’ fuckin’ perv?!” Siôn got past Bryn so far as to be almost totally towered over Gavin; but now his father had caught his muddy left paw in a vice-like grip.

“You’re lucky you’re my son, or I’d…”

“Lucky?” Siôn felt himself held, turning with a slanted scowl at his father, “Hah! I’m as embarrassed for you as I am for me right now.”

He pulled his paw free with a growl, ears back and set to fight.

“I’m obliged by this fuckin stupid agreement I laid my scent on years back when Tyler was born.” Siôn turned tail and padded away before stopping and turning back to see his forlorn father stood against the ghostly mist and mire, “We’ll be at that fuckin’ shack you call home tomorrow. But mark my words, it won’t be for much longer.”

There was nothing but the breeze and the freezing rain between father and son, but as far as Brynmor was concerned, it may as well ‘ave been a lake of hellfire.

“You’re… you’re still bringing Tyler with you tomorrow, right?”

No answer. Just the hard laughter, rough unwashed scents and profanity of the testosterone of two sets of all-male tails combined in this raw slit in time.

“Right? Siôn, please?!”

Bryn could plead his case to the elements, but his son was having none of it. Gav’ was left to pick up the pieces again.

_ _

“Tyler’s my life, Gav.” Bry’ was coddling his coffee mug as he sat forward in his lounge-room chair, tail drooped over the arm like a fluffy, lost bookmark.

“I know, love. I’m sure it’s…” The ram paused, sighing and gulping down a swash of hot tea, “I’m sure it was just losing the game that brought it all out. Try not to worry, ‘kay?”

Siôn’s only cub Tyler - Brynmor’s grandcub - was a darlin’. He was only seven and growing into a beautiful pale-red and pearl white pelt; and oh boy did he love being the violet of his grandfather’s tail gland! Going over to Brynmor’s was always a special treat for Tyler, somewhere his grandad could spoil him with clay-aged chicken sandwiches and his uncle Gavin’s marshmallow ice cream. Made from real marshmallow grasses you know!

It was enough to see him leave after every visit to have Bryn in tears, so paws only knew what would happen to his state of mind and tail if Tyler was stopped from coming over again.

There was a knock at the door at about eleven that Sunday morning, a shudderingly cold scent reaching beneath the door’s painted panels even before it was opened. Begrudging, vinegary spite! It’s all you could smell. Bryn was up from the kitchen table like a shot, his tail bouncing like he was but a cub himself again.

He knew who it was.

“There’s my cadno bach! Ty-Ty how you doin’?”

The beaming smile, the lift in aroma from this old father fox and the joy that Gavin got from watching his mate happy again was immeasurable. The ram remained in shadow. He didn’t want to cause trouble.

“Grandad!” Tyler practically bounced into Brynmor’s paws, snuggling into his ruff and giggling as he was mercilessly tickled.

“We’re not staying long.” Siôn was left stood in the doorway, garnering just a nod of acknowledgment before Tyler dragged Bryn away into the cottage, desperately wanting to show his grandad how much his tail had grown since they’d last seen each other.

Gavin stepped out of the kitchen and into the morning light, hooves about his mug and the sun catching the delicate beads on his Yamaka.

“You wanna’ tell me what this is all about?”

“Why the fuck should I tell you anythin’?!” Siôn growled, switching his son’s plush toy from one paw to the other, his brown-black eyes shadowed by even darker fur in his orbits and along his muzzle.

Gavin sighed before stepping up and out into the daylight, turning to see Bryn busy with his grandcub, before quietly shutting the door; and now his eyes were back on Siôn.

“You’ll break his heart.”

“What? Like he did me and my mum then. Justified as far as I can smell!”

“Your mum was and still is a slut!”

Siôn had had enough, slinging his son’s toy doggy to the damp ground before grabbing Gavin by the collar. The coffee went everywhere. They were lucky it missed all but the gravel and the grit, staining the stone and plaster wall with caffeinous blood.

“You dare speak about her like that, boy!”

“Try me, Siôn.” Gav bore his teeth as much as he could muster, his head instinctively lowering into the restraint, ready to take aim with those uncapped horns, “and I’m not your boy. I’m not anyone’s boy!”

Siôn relinquished with an angry huff, reaching to the back pocket of his dark jeans.

“If this is what it takes, then this is all I have to say.” He unfolded a letter and unceremoniously threw it under the ram’s sensitive, mottled nose, “sniff it, take it all in, sheep! I’m not fuckin’ comin’ ‘ere anymore, and I’m not going to be seen fraternizing with some queer fuckin’ grasseater who fancies himself a fox. Not around my son. Not ever again!”

As if Siôn had made his point, the fox spat at Gavin, missing his muzzle but catching his buzzcut-wool forehead, the phlegm hanging like putrid crystals from his right horn. He just reached up and swept it away, flinging it to the ground. He knew the fox wanted a response, a reaction to justify something awful; but Gav’ was never gonna’ give him the excuse.

“You know somethin’?! You and I should talk. Like grown-ups for a change.”

“I’ve nothin’ to say to you!”

“Really?” The ram fondled his now empty mug, a rage boiling beneath that mottled wool and catalyzed by the sound of his mate playing inside with the only lifeline he had right now. Tyler should never be the rope in this tug of war, “what about I tell your dear sweet vixen what you and I did together, hm?”

That shut him up! Siôn’s ears swept back and this gaunt, haunted look came over his whole façade.

“Hm? You’ve gone awful shtwm on me, Siôn. After all, what’s a little ‘harmless experimentation’, huh?” Gavin strode forward, his head inching lower again, ready to charge this vile specimen of a fox into the next street, “what’s wrong with givin’ the little ram a ‘good rammin’? Or is all this something that you conveniently forgot about in that fake uptight, button-down thing you call a life?”

“You wouldn’t dare?”

“Wouldn’t I?”

There was silence now, just the breeze blowing between them, a sickly guilt and shame rising in fetid waves from Siôn’s cowardly tail.

“Tyler?! Tyler, we’re leavin’!” The fox, knowing he was outdone and defeated, suddenly pushed past Gavin in a fit of tantrum.

Gav’ could watch in smug glee as his asshole of a son-in-law scrabbled at the door, before unlocking it and bellowing at his only cub.

“ TYLER! We’re goin’, right now!”

“But I want to spend more time with grandad!”

“Now, boy!”

Leaving Bryn in their wake, Siôn grasped his son’s paw, making him cry.

“Good to see ya’, closet case! Always a pleasure.” Gavin murmured slyly, leaning back against the front wall of their cottage and sure to nod his horns into the fox’s shoulder as he stormed past.

Siôn hesitated as he felt it, snarling as he turned over his shoulder.

“This… isn’t… over!”