If disappointment formed itself of flesh, and bone, and blood, then after so long of clinging to his side, it would take the physical form of Malachi. Embody itself in his image, as it embodied him through folded hands, and schooled expressions, and doors that always closed.

He wasn’t afraid of being hurt. He was afraid of what he was turning himself into, and of how little resistance he had to the change.

Being wanted in any shape was enough for him now, no matter how unrecognizable, wasn’t it? If he wanted him shattered, it was better than not being wanted at all.

But it was clear that the request perturbed him, the moment Arthur mentioned a leash.

Malachi swallowed and his throat felt – worse. Scratchy, as if he’d been screaming, but in truth it was just terribly dry. He stared up at Arthur with a clear note of concern.

“…They would arrest me,” he said, neither confirming nor denying his question. “They would arrest you.”