Maybe Arthur had provoked Malachi, but it was Malachi who lied.  And maybe Arthur was a hypocrite for telling him not to, but a priest should know better.  Arthur was not a priest, and never would be, so he had no oath to honesty.

His shoulder twitched and rolled in a circle, testing the pain and mobility of it once Malachi was done.  It felt fine - he had no way to know what was right and what was wrong.  He only knew his own stitches had been weak and sloppy, and Malachi's felt clean and precise and was done much faster on top of all of that.

But Arthur didn't bother saying as much to Malachi.  Too much effort, he figured, and he didn't want to talk about his shoulder anymore.  He wanted to kiss Malachi.  So that's what he did.

Arthur kissed Malachi like he had the first time, at the brothel bar, like he wanted the man to eat him because he did.  He couldn't get over how good it felt to be torn apart and put back together by the same person.  He wanted it done to him a million more times, and he wanted to do it to Malachi until he was more thread and needle holes than person.

Hands pulled at the buttons of Malachi's cassock, slowly pulling away the cloth from the mans own bloody skin and Arthur kissed there too.

"Feels perfect," he muttered against skin wet from blood and sweat and spit.  It was Arthur's favorite taste.  "Shall I return the favor?"