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

“Bath?” he said. “Or body-heat?”


“Ugh,” he screwed his face up. “Do I have to?” 


“Yes,” said Marc firmly. “I don’t want you to die on my first day home for two and a half years. If that’s all right.”


“Yeah, sorry. It’ll warm up in a bit now the Rayburn’s lit, but it’s horrible.” It was tucked right at the back of the house against the hill with a tiny window that never got any sunlight on it. “The water’s hot though. I put the immersion on when I got in last night.”


“No dogs in the bathroom,” Marc told Anghared severely, as she made to follow Mal. “There’s no room, for a start.” He looked at Mal. “Can you manage?” 


“Yeah, now I’ve got my top off.” He was still bare chested. Marc could count every one of his ribs under the bruising that was still coming out on his left side. Despite that, he was a nice-looking man. Sinewy and muscled, skin that had been soft under Marc’s palms. 


Chapter 6