His hand paused before it could reach for the doorknob. Arthur’s fingers burned a hole in his arm, and Malachi didn’t turn.

He could still just walk out. It would be so easy. The doctor might pull at him, might hit him, even, but he could make it. Even if it meant leaving Arthur another bloodied mess on the floor, he could make it.

He wanted to, so badly.

Malachi squeezed his eyes shut and stood still, instead. Tense. Ready to move if he had to.

It was all just an act. Everything that wasn’t hitting and bleeding and hurting him was just a prelude; something Arthur must have tolerated solely for what he could do to him after. Malachi knew that. To Arthur’s credit, he had never tried to hide it.

“My- indulgence?”

Every syllable scraped against his throat and left it raw, but he pushed through the growing degradation of his voice.

“I- tried to give you what you wanted, and- you–”

An awful noise ground out from his throat that should have been a groan. Malachi finally turned to face him, grabbing both of Arthur’s arms in his strong grip.

“I don’t know how to please you. I- am trying, and everything I do is just – wrong! I just want to mean something to you!”

There were the tears, glossing over red-rimmed eyes. And why? Why had he turned around? Why was he standing here, holding Arthur’s arms in a death-like grip, shaking him like all of the answers would fall out? Why did he want a man as terrible and cruel as Arthur to care for him at all?

“Is this what you wanted to do to me?” he bit out. “Is this the ruination you wanted? To reduce me to nothing for the crime of just- just wanting to be wanted by you? Am I making you happy now that I’m fucking ruined, Arthur?”