06-13-2022, 03:32 PM
Oh! He was irritating his poor stitches. Malachi stared hard at the doctor for another long moment, frustrated beyond belief that that was his first response. And eventually – before that anger could rise, and rise, and slip beyond his own control – he let go.
Didn’t want to irritate his poor fucking stitches after all! As if yanking him back into the house by rope had done nothing to irritate the cross stitched into his abdomen.
His hands fell back down to his sides. Jittering, shaking as hard as if they were still holding on and shaking Arthur too.
A scoffed breath pushed from his raw throat, and the priest forced his glare away from the doctor’s face. Again, here he was, going on about the lies that Malachi so rudely burdened him with! How was a false name the worst of it? How did that strike Arthur as something so much more offensive and unforgivable than - than lying about assaulting someone that Malachi cared for so much?
Malachi took a shallow breath and willed it to keep every word bitten back behind his teeth. If, for a moment, his composure had been lost – he was quick to find it. His eyes were still wet, but no tears ran rivers down his cheeks. His hands still shook, but did not grab.
What did he even have to hold onto?
“You can’t give me what I want,” he breathed, in a lower tone closer to his own, but not quite.
“And anytime I ask for it, you tell me that I’m lying.”
No one could give him what he wanted. All they could do was pretend, at most, until they tired of him and left him high and dry the way they always did. Arthur would, too, he was sure of it; in time he'd tire of Malachi and maybe then, he would leave him outside, and stop trying to drag him back in.
Malachi shook his head in a short, stilted motion, and set his hand on the doorknob behind him.
“I want the same things that you do, Arthur. But I want more than that, too. I don’t want to just use and be used. So – fuck off,” he said, finally returning his gaze to his face, “and stop trying to keep something you don’t even really want.”
Didn’t want to irritate his poor fucking stitches after all! As if yanking him back into the house by rope had done nothing to irritate the cross stitched into his abdomen.
His hands fell back down to his sides. Jittering, shaking as hard as if they were still holding on and shaking Arthur too.
A scoffed breath pushed from his raw throat, and the priest forced his glare away from the doctor’s face. Again, here he was, going on about the lies that Malachi so rudely burdened him with! How was a false name the worst of it? How did that strike Arthur as something so much more offensive and unforgivable than - than lying about assaulting someone that Malachi cared for so much?
Malachi took a shallow breath and willed it to keep every word bitten back behind his teeth. If, for a moment, his composure had been lost – he was quick to find it. His eyes were still wet, but no tears ran rivers down his cheeks. His hands still shook, but did not grab.
What did he even have to hold onto?
“You can’t give me what I want,” he breathed, in a lower tone closer to his own, but not quite.
“And anytime I ask for it, you tell me that I’m lying.”
No one could give him what he wanted. All they could do was pretend, at most, until they tired of him and left him high and dry the way they always did. Arthur would, too, he was sure of it; in time he'd tire of Malachi and maybe then, he would leave him outside, and stop trying to drag him back in.
Malachi shook his head in a short, stilted motion, and set his hand on the doorknob behind him.
“I want the same things that you do, Arthur. But I want more than that, too. I don’t want to just use and be used. So – fuck off,” he said, finally returning his gaze to his face, “and stop trying to keep something you don’t even really want.”
