If there was something Arthur loved most in the world, it was this.

Malachi's sluggish movements and the droopy set of his eyes.  He wasn't even thinking through his words and was slow to speak, struggled to move, and he wasn't even high.  The effect just a little bit of attention had on such a figure of a man was endlessly entertaining.

And this man was all his, Malachi even said so himself.  There was no more of the last man who had touched him, broken his heart.  It was all Arthur.  All of Malachi belonged to Arthur, and if his words weren't enough the bandages and bruises were surely evidence enough.

Arthur's hands cupped Malachi's face, carefully like it was made of glass, and pulled him away from his neck.  Through glasses that weren't even his own, the doctor inspected Malachi's face face with the utmost attention.  Nothing escaped his scrutiny, not a single flaw or fine point or perfection.

Most of it was perfection.

"I want to shatter you completely," he told Malachi.  "I want to beat you bloody and near dead like you did to me, and kiss you back together on this very couch again and again."

His thumbs rubbed against Malachi's cheek bones and reached across the bridge of his nose, where Arthur was still broken and bruised himself.  Malachi hadn't held him gently like his before he bashed his face into his, but Arthur was an understanding man.  He would treat Malachi better.  It was in his nature.

"I want to paint my walls in your fucking blood and parade you around town on a leash, so everyone knows exactly where their precious priest disappears to when he's not at the church."  Arthur leaned in and kissed Malachi, between his brows.  "Would you let me do that?"