God, Malachi was - he was crying.

He was crying, and continued to lie even as his voice went raw.  Arthur wished it would leave him all together so he wouldn't have to listen to him.  Wished he could move his arms enough to cover his ears, but Malachi's grip on them was too strong.  He couldn't move if his life depended on it.

Arthur couldn't be certain, but he suspected his life depended on it now.

"You..."  The words materialized in his mind, and the sentences they strung together made sense theoretically, but when Arthur tried to apply their meaning to himself, to Malachi, to this, to them - it didn't work.

Who would want to be wanted by Arthur Adams?  Something like that was a fate worse than death.  Malachi, standing before him now, was proof of that.

And he still wanted to mean something to him?

"You're actually making me quite upset," he managed after a long, tense minute staring up into watery black eyes.  "My shoulder, the - you're irritating the stitches, Malachi."

Still, Arthur didn't try to escape.  Who was to say if he'd ever feel these violent hands against him again if he pushed them away now?

"Everything you have done this far has been perfect, Malachi, you've done nothing but please me.  You've done nothing wrong!  Except, well, the lies, and breaking my glasses, and leaving me before - but you've atoned for those, all of those things."

Really only most of them, but Arthur didn't think he was in a place to be picky right then.

"If you wanted or - or needed more from me, you should have said something at the church.  Add to the fucking - those fucking conditions you hate so much, instead of just blindly agreeing to something you're gonna fuss about later!"