Arthur’s voice forced him back into focus, along with the steady massage of his hand.

It was… strange. For how impossibly frustrating he could be, Arthur’s instructions did well to soothe Malachi back into a state of relative calm. Drawing in a slow, deep breath, he nodded, and his body remained still after that.

He hated it. How sensitive he was to the mere question of who patched him up. It was ridiculous, and Malachi did not know what to do with it but to shove it to the farthest recesses of his mind and let it run out of oxygen without him.

Malachi’s gaze returned to its curious inspection, watching the doctor’s hands while they worked and allowing that to distract him. Arthur was impressive, and not just because Malachi had never seen a doctor work before.

Should he have put the salve over Arthur’s shoulder? Some bandages over top, too? He hadn’t even mentioned anything else before he’d kissed him.

“I-…” he peered up into Arthur’s eyes, shielded by the priest’s own glasses.

They really were a lovely shade of green.

“I’ll be alright. I’ll leave it alone,” Malachi promised, not sounding all too happy about it.

“The other scar is on my thigh. If you wanted to look at it.”

He didn’t move to show him himself, however. His hands were still above his head where Arthur left them, and without the persistent stabbing of a needle and thread, he was too comfortable as he was to move.