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“I thought you was burglars. And you are. You’re stealing my chicken.”
“Isn’t it our chicken?”
I gently put down the top of the Ideal Standard Concept Space close coupled toilet with soft close seat. “I’m not sure we’re reached that specialour chickenplace in our relationship.”
Now there’s chicken in play, Gollum streaks over to Jonathan and starts rubbing against him in thatfeed me, feed me, I’m dyingway. Jonathan crouches down and feeds him. “I shouldn’t have… I may… I was too harsh earlier.”
“You think?”
“I believe it’s a possibility, yes.”
“What clued you in? Was it when I said,stop treating me like crap? Or when I said,I’m leaving in the morning?”
Jonathan looks genuinely pained, though I think mostly because he doesn’t know how to say anything even approaching sorry. “I’ve reflected.”
“Big of yez.”
For a while he doesn’t say anything, he just lets Gollum chase every last bit of chicken from his fingers and then goes to wash his hands. After that he grabs the bread I bought earlier. “Do you want a chicken sandwich?”
“My chicken sandwich?”
“Yes, do you want me to make you a sandwich with your chicken, your bread, and your”—he looks at the spread that’s already on the side—“I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.”
I’ve not eaten and I’m not proud. “Go on then.”
“Then how about I do this, and you put the lid back on the toilet and”—Jonathan clears his throat—“put some trousers on?”
In all the excitement, I’ve kind of forgotten I’m standing here in a pair of grey tartan boxers. “Good idea,” I say. “I’ll go deal with that.”
When I get back, with a ratty dressing gown tossed over my pants, Jonathan’s sitting at the table, already tucking into a chicken sarnie.
“How is it?” I ask, plonking myself down opposite.
“It’s good,” he says.
I’m about to complain that it would’ve been better if we’d eaten it when I made it, but the truth is, the best thing about a roast is having it cold after. Instead, I take a bite of my sandwichand I feel a bit weird that Jonathan Forest made it. Not bad weird, just weird weird. Because he’s about as domestic as a timber wolf, and I’d say about as nurturing but I reckon wolves take care of each other and shit.
At first, we just eat. Which is fine on account of I’m not really sure what’s going on. And maybe nothing’s going on. Maybe we’re just both hungry. But there’s something about the way Jonathan’s being right now, with the sandwich and the not having a go, that makes me feel… I’m not sure what it makes me feel. But I do know one chicken sandwich isn’t enough to convince me everything’ll be hunky-dory from here on in. And even now I’m not quite sure what would be.
I glance across the table, wondering how to break the silence, or if I should. Jonathan’s taken his version of casual to the next level because not only is he not wearing a jacket, but he’s undone his top button and rolled up his shirt sleeves. I don’t think he’s trying to show off or win me over with his forearms, but well. There’s a decent chance he could. You’d be able to get a good grip on them like. Besides, it’s nice in this day and age to see a feller who doesn’t manscape.
What can I say? I like my men like I like my employment prospects: rough and hairy.
“Sam,” he says, looking up abruptly.
“Aye?”
He heaves a pained sigh. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“If I was going to die, I’d have probably died already.”
“The doctor said a couple of weeks. Is your memory even starting to come back yet?”
Fuck. “Bits and pieces,” I try, hoping I can build those bits and pieces into an off-ramp sooner rather than later. “I mean, I can roast a chicken, so I can probably look after myself. Probably better than you can.”
“About that.” Jonathan heaves another pained sigh.
“About the chicken?”
