It was all so quiet. Muffled, even when they spoke, as the stone failed to reflect and seemed to absorb the noise instead. Whether it really did or not, Malachi could not have been sure, but that was how it had always felt to him.

He wanted to apologize for bringing Arthur here. To ask forgiveness for having exposed something so personal, vulnerable, something that upset him far more than even he would let himself ever express; it was over, now, and once he stepped out there was a chance that he would never set foot in this little room again.

Was it wrong of him to feel some small measure of sadness at that?

Terrible, it was. Everything about his youth after his father abducted him had been terrible. But, just as he loved and missed his father, this house – this cell – meant something to him. It would hurt, letting it all go.

Malachi let the scrap of fabric (what remained of it) fall back to the floor.

“Nothing, now,” came his answer. Dust knocked from his fingers when he pat his hand against his leg.

His father had not suffered. Not any more than anyone else getting the life strangled out of them, that was, but Malachi had hardly cared. It had been long enough now that he missed him more than he hated him, these days.

Holding the candle aside, Malachi turned to face Arthur. The flame flickered and reflected back at him in his lover’s eyes, a beautiful gradient of greens and golden yellows.

“Neither of them have ever seen this,” he said. “Miriam and Levi. Miriam knew, but she didn’t… know.”

It was the closest thing to an excuse that he could scrape together for her, but it was one that he thought worth mentioning all the same.

Malachi reached for Arthur’s hand, fingers still smudged with old dust.

“I thought about burning it,” he whispered. “All of it. But… all of it is mine. If I can find someone to buy this place – we would be set, wouldn’t we?”

Whether they had seen this or not, whether they knew or knew or didn't, they weren't ignorant.  Just because they hadn't seen this didn't mean Malachi didn't exist here.  He supposed that that was the excuse Malachi told himself, to explain his supposed family's inaction.

Arthur was not so easily convinced, and he was not so forgiving.

The dust was dry against Arthur's hand.  He held Malachi tighter.

"Burning it would be nice," he whispered.  It took a moment before Malachi's words - we would be set - fully sunk it.

"I don't need money to be happy, Malachi.  I just need you.  And - what I said at breakfast wasn't a lie, money isn't always great for a doctor, but.  I swear, I'll give every pence I earn to keep you in luxury if that's what you want, and I'd do so happily."

Happily doesn't even begin to describe it.  Arthur would do it lovingly.

"If you want to sell this place, Malachi, I will gladly help you.  The same goes for if you want to burn it down.  But please don't make that decision for my, or for our sake.  This is your home.  Whatever you want to do to it, or with it, is your choice, and yours only."

Burning it would be nice. And it only sounded nicer when Arthur was the one saying it, voice drawn low into a whisper.

Malachi did not care about the money, in the end. Not any farther than it related to ensuring that he was not a burden on Arthur, now that he would be staying with him. Even without selling the estate, he had more than he knew what to do with – an amount that would not last forever if he was careless enough to buy frequent gifts, but still a larger sum than many in Whitby would ever see.

Some of it had come from his father, but a good portion of that he had left to Miriam and his brother. Most of it, now, came from several other inheritances he had worked himself into over the years.

That Arthur was so willing to give everything he had, even after seeing the estate…

Swallowing thickly, Malachi set the candleholder down and exchanged it for Arthur’s other hand.

“All that’s mine is yours,” he whispered, a soft fondness in his gaze.

“If you are up for it, Arthur… after you kill her,” Malachi squeezed his hands. “Let’s burn it. Destroy any evidence that we even touched her. I don’t ever want to come back here again, once I go home with you.”

Now that Arthur was his home, wherever he went.

"I would love nothing more," Arthur promised, but it was a lie.

In truth, there was something he would love more than burning this wretched place to the ground, and that was getting on his knees and presenting the ring he'd bought brand new to Malachi, asking him to be his husband, and hearing Malachi say yes.

But there would come a proper time and place for that, and it was not here and it was not now, as much as Arthur wanted it to be.  He would not rush things, not this, not them.  Malachi deserved a proper, well thought out proposal, and Arthur was determined to give it to him.

"You'll never even have to think about London again after tonight, my love," he promised more still, and this time it was truth.  Slow and careful, he stepped closer to Malachi and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss upon his lips.  His forehead met Malachi's shoulder afterwards, and rested there for a moment.

"Is there anything you want to bring out of here, before tonight?  Out of the house, even?"  He wasn't sure if here was anything Malachi thought worth saving in there, but he thought he should ask just in case.  They had come all this way for something besides murder, hadn't they?  Clothes or... something.  Bloodlust overshadowed it all in Arthur's memory.

It was a nice thought. Never letting his mind wander back to the streets of London, through the gardens that surrounded the Brennan estate like snakes coiled around their nest. Unrealistic it might have been, but then he had always thought that wanting love was an unrealistic think to hope for too.

Malachi closed his eyes as he accepted the kiss. Arthur’s lips were still a warm comfort against the cold, heavy air that permeated every inch of space within the cellar, and the hands held within his own were a grounding presence.

He leaned his cheek lightly against the doctor’s head, after placing another kiss to the top of it. His hair still smelled of the fancy floral shampoo that Malachi had washed it with before.

“I will get my clothes out first,” he confirmed, “but nothing else. It makes sense for my clothes to be gone, as I have not lived here in years, but taking anything more might raise suspicion.”

There were plenty of things he would have taken, had he the space and the time to do so. The piano in the grand hall, the first thing he’d been allowed to enter the house for; the cane, and the guns, and several other items from his father’s room. But he did not need those things.

“I don’t–” he cut himself off, eyes opening into the shadowed darkness.

“There… might be something else in my father’s office. I will check and grab it beforehand, if so.”

Lifting his head, Malachi released Arthur’s hands just to pull him into a close embrace instead.

“Well, my love,” he murmured, “are you ready for dinner?”

Clothes!  Arthur had gotten it right, then.  He was proud of himself for remembering, warm and happy despite the dark and dismal cellar room they found themselves in.  Even more so when Malachi wrapped his arms around him, and Arthur did not hesitate even a second before returning the gesture.

"No," he answered, "but let's go anyway.  Dinner waits for no one."

Still, he held onto Malachi for another long moment before pulling away, just far enough to take his hand again.  With the other, he picked up the candlestick Malachi had set down and gave the room around them one last look over before moving back towards the door.

Dinner waited for them, along with the bright sun beyond the rickety ladder.  After the pure darkness of the cellar, the sun seemed unbearable - no wonder Malachi squinted against it so much.

Arthur put out and se the candle holder down before climbing up the ladder and resurfacing onto green grass.  He leaned back over to help Malachi up and dusted himself off, immensely grateful for the clear air in the garden.

casually, he asked, "Are you familiar with the poet, Edgar Allen Poe, darling?"

As the flickering light allowed for one last glimpse of the room, Malachi reminded himself that it was the last time he would ever see it. It was, quite possibly, the last time anyone ever would, if the last remaining entrance was to be covered and destroyed.

For a fleeting moment, the idea saddened him. The room would remain cold, and empty, and alone underground; it would still exist within the soil, forgotten. He could almost imagine himself in it, under the dirt, keeping it company until his bones joined the others and he, too, was forgotten in time.

He looked one last time upon the fabric that had slipped like spider’s silk from his hands, and closed the door.

Malachi’s eyes were shut as he ascended, adjusting to the light through the barrier of his eyelids. Once he was up, he closed the cellar doors, fixed the lock, and appreciated the fresh air provided by the gardens.

“Oh, ah…”

That had not been a part of his regular reading with the church.

“Somewhat, but only vaguely,” he admitted, turning to lead them back through the maze and towards the front of the house. “Why do you ask?”

Arthur would always prefer to see Malachi in the sun.  The way the light caught on his hair and made each individual stand shine, made his skin glow, reflected against the blackness of his eyes; it was the most beautiful, to him.  It was only in such bright light that Arthur could truly appreciate every miniscule detail about his lover.

It had taken years, but he was glad Malachi came out into the sun eventually.  Arthur would make sure he was never forced to hide from it again.

Walking by his side, Arthur brushed off the shoulders of his vest to make sure all the dust from the cellar was gone, continuing their conversation idly as he did so.

"He wrote a poem when he was alive, called The Cask of Amontillado.  It's about a man tying up and leaving his friend in to perish in the catacombs under his home.  He chains the man - Fortunato - up, and builds a wall to keep him there.  I hope you don't get offended hearing this, but I'm fantasizing doing the same to Miriam."

The only downside of doing so, of course, would that her death would not be certain.  If they were to burn down the estate, there was a chance someone would find her after putting out the fire, and rescue her.  Arthur could not allow such a thing to happen.

"I don't think it is wise, though, as we are on a bit of a schedule.  So I will think of some other methods over dinner, and run them by you, if you'd like.  Now that I think of it, I have a collection of Poe's work in my house you could borrow, if you're interested."

Offended. The implication that he would be offended was almost more amusing to Malachi than the similarities he shared with the story.

He had never been chained. That, at the very least, he could claim.

“How terrible,” commented Malachi, in a tone far less serious than the concerned expression he wore along with it. Truly, it would be an awful way to die. Many times he had thought himself on the brink of death within the cellar room, locked inside without any hope of ever getting out on his own – but his father had always returned eventually.

Poor Fortunato, he assumed, had not been so lucky as to be met with the candlelit silhouette of Lyle Brennan in his final hour of need.

“You are welcome to run them by me,” he agreed. “But you do not have to ask me first. If something feels right to you in the moment…”

Malachi glanced over. Wiped the last bit of dust from the back of Arthur’s shoulder, and let his touch linger there while they walked. “…Then do it. I will be grateful for whatever you decide, and… this is your first, isn’t it?”

Miriam did not deserve the honor, but she was a perfect sacrifice all the same.

“How do you feel, love?”

His first.  The phrasing, however accurate, brought a gentle blush to Arthur's face that he couldn't explain.  He was nearly thirty, a man in every respect of the word, with a job and a house and a lover - and still, the thought of sharing a first of his with Malachi made butterflies flutter in his stomach.

Sure, this first in particular was murder.  But what did specifics like that mean, when the true sentiment was so much more than that?

"I'm not sure," he mused, pushing his glasses higher on his bruised nose.  "Nervous, I suppose, but also... excited."

The blush darkened.  "There's really no one else I would rather be doing this with than you, Malachi."  Ugh.  This was more humiliating than declaring his love for the man.

Clearing his throat, Arthur lifted his throat and blinked once or twice, trying to think more about how he was feeling.  It was not something he was accustomed to doing.

"I feel... sort of like I want to hurry up, rush through dinner, but also I want to make the moments leading up to it last forever.  Like I need to memorize every detail before it happens, because I know afterwards, they will be the most difficult to recall."  He smiled sheepishly, glancing at Malachi from the corner of his eye.  "How was it for you, your first time?  Much different?"