A short story to mark St Dwynwen’s day, the 25th of January. With chickens.<br><br>Marc returns home from London to his isolated Welsh cottage for good, having found his ex boyfriend shagging someone else in their bed. Who’s the thin, freezing cold man with the bruised face he finds in his barn? Will the tenuous connection between them grow, or fade away?

Playing Chicken

He still looked like someone who’d been quite badly beaten up and was living rough in midwinter. He was a good-looking young man though. Tall...taller than Marc’s not-quite-six-feet, and slim. Obviously under-fed. 


“Sit,” Marc said, nodding at the chair closest to the fire. “I made you tea.”


Mal eyed him cautiously and then glanced down at Anghared. The dog was still lying at his feet but had raised her muzzle and was looking at Marc thoughtfully. She blinked at him and put her chin back down on her paws, and Mal seemed to take that as a good sign and collapsed into the armchair. It was a club design and he rested his head back with a wince. 


“Here.” Marc passed him the mug. “Drink that and then I’ll look at your head. And your ribs.” He raised a brow as Mal opened his eyes. “Or is it your arm?”


Mal pulled a face. “Ribs,” he said, shortly. 


Marc went out to the car to get his kit, leaving him clutching his tea in both hands, hunched toward the fire. 


Chapter 5