[three’s company] cat can have a little bullet

This, Lo’kha decided, was not very good for his blood pressure.

It was a late weekend afternoon, overcast but not too much, the dry desert air a fair bit more bearable. J'tomo had that usual air of mischief around him that made Lo’kha want to punch his face (with his hand or with his mouth, he could never tell), and he’d made the innocent suggestion to maybe, perhaps, practice some shooting?

He had no idea that it also involved Sapho’li, who apparently could also assemble a gun without looking at it. (Not as fast as J’tomo, mind, but he was skilled enough.) There were a lot of things new to Lo’kha in this ... thing, they had going, the three of them (oh Menphina): the way Sapho’li’s face went soft whenever he looked at his husband, that mysterious outdoor hot spring in their yard, the way J'tomo murmured welcome home whenever Lo’kha took them up on their standing invitation to go visit. He’d girded his loins for all of these new things, but there was no preparing for his childhood friend’s ability to slot a gun together like it was nothing.

He’d gone out to the yard first, where there was some sort of ramshackle shooting range set up, and planted himself in the shade of a tree with a drink and an attempt at willpower. He could do this. He was a priest for gods’ sake, if anyone had to control a giant raging fetish for guns and gun owners who knew how to use them, it would be him, right? Right.