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

“I’ll just get another mug, shall I?” Marc said, rising smoothly. “And some more gingernuts. For Mal,” he said, pointedly, arching his brows at Dai. “Tegan will have your hide and mine if you fill up on biscuits here and don’t eat your dinner.”


“I can get it,” Mal said, following him into the kitchen.


“No, it’s all right. They’re right out here on the side,” Marc said. He turned with the biscuits in his hand and found himself chest to chest with Mal in the small kitchen. 


“Sorry,” Mal stepped back a pace. “I. Er.” He looked down at his feet.


Mal spoke softly, voice deep. “What he said. Dai. I don’t need any help. I’m fine up there. It snowed before Christmas and I was okay.” He looked at Marc with his head still bent, from under brown lashes with eyes clouded with uncertainty. “I’m doing all right. I don’t need anyone’s pity.”


Marc bit his lip. “I didn’t think you did,” he said, equally quietly. “I’m just trying to help a bit, that’s all.”


Chapter 10