Oh, to be held close to Malachi and strangled to death.  To be kissed awake by him and then sent back to sleep forever, just as quickly, to feel his warm embrace cover him entirely like a blanket as he faded away.

To have his head bashed into a bloody pulp and then left to rot by the man who so claimed to love him.

Arthur yearned.

"Malachi," he whispered, lower than before, "I hate to change the topic of conversation so suddenly, especially because I am thoroughly enjoying it, but I must insist that we do before I get on my knees and suck your cock right here and now."

In London, would he and Malachi share a bed?  Arthur hoped so.  He'd never been so close to Malachi, not since their tryst in the alleyway.  If Arthur knew how much he'd miss the close proximity, he'd have savored it more in the moment.  He'd have done more than savored it, he never would have allowed Malachi out of his sight.

"Tell me about that woman you call your mother, perhaps?  Or your house in London?  Anything but this, or I really may not be able to control myself."