London.

Arthur was going to meet his mother.  His wrist was caught in Malachi's tight grip, but it felt like it was his heart being squeezed.

Right underneath Malachi's other hand and still tender, Arthur's fresh stitches pulsed with the desire to be ripped open again.  Anything to distract from this feeling that was too good to be true.

"I told you," he whispered, "I will always choose you."

He wanted so badly to kiss Malachi.

"Will you wait for me?  I won't need more than five minutes."  If that.  What would he really need to bring with him to London except opium and money?  Arthur could spend weeks upon weeks on the same clothes without a second thought.

But he was meeting Malachi's mother.  He'd need to make a good impression on her.  More than that, he wanted to.