Rhianne Aile

“...do you want to do the exercises here where you can sit in the kitchen chair, or in the living room so you can slump on the couch after?"
"Oh, living room, definitely. Closer to the scotch too," David muttered as he stood and walked in that direction, ignoring the small smile he'd seen on Trace's face.
He collapsed on the couch, telling himself to grow up. Being a big baby would annoy Trace, who'd leave, and where would that leave him and his barely healed shoulder? He rubbed at his eyes and told himself he needed to suck it up.
"Sling off, please," Trace said as he walked in with the piece of paper the therapist had given David to take home. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he slid on his glasses and started studying the diagrams. "This shouldn't be too bad."
"You're not the one with the broken shoulder."
Trace didn't respond to the jibe as he sat down next to David.
"All right. First exercise. You're going to hold your arm, elbow bent at ninety degrees, and lift it up and out, away from your body."
David watched as Trace copied the movement drawn on the sheeet, and he had to stifle a laugh.
"What?" Trace glanced up at him.
"You look like a chicken," David snickered.
"Well, I am the cock of the roost, C'mon, chickadee. Flap that wing," Trace instructed with a wink.”
― Rhianne Aile, The One That Got Away