The gentle touch was no comfort, but he could not pull away from it, either.

Malachi stared at the floor. The weight in his chest begged for release in the form of tears, but he couldn’t do that either. He just stared, and held his throat, and remained still beneath the brush of Arthur’s hands through black hair.

The questions registered, if only distantly. He knew what they meant. But all he heard was nothing, you’re nothing, you’re less than dirt.

Of course he was hurt. He’d been hurt for weeks, and though the external signs of it had mostly gone, he hadn’t the first idea what was wrong inside. It wasn’t like he’d seen a doctor, and he’d been coughing up blood since then. That night, and when he’d picked up Nettie from her club, and several separate instances more.

It just hurt. He didn’t need to know anything else. It would always hurt, and he would always make it worse.

Malachi moved, eventually. What strength had been knocked out of him slowly returned, and he pushed himself to sit upright against the wall.

“Y-ou to-ld m-e to,” he scraped together, fixing an uncertain look on Arthur’s face. “Wh-y?”