An intrigued hum vibrated low in his aching throat. It was a good question – what would he do if the head shattered first, and not the glass? Quick as Arthur was to suggest the cleanup, Malachi could not think of anything but the mess it would leave spattered on the window.

Skin and bones and brains and blood.

Hair, too. There was not much of it left atop the man’s head, but it would stick to the glass just as well.

Before he could offer a legitimate answer, however, he felt Arthur’s stare on him, and reminded himself to look away from the target of their violent fantasies.

“You?” Malachi repeated, willing himself not to stare too long at Arthur’s smile. It was cute, and it lessened the annoyance that burned hot in his shoulders, and he couldn’t stand the sight of it.

“I already said that I don’t want you to die,” he whispered, “however. I would kill you with my hands.”

As if to demonstrate, he lifted them, palms upturned. If only they were alone, he would have placed them on Arthur’s skin to show exactly what he meant.

“I would… hold you close to me, your back to my chest. When you were sleeping, perhaps, and I would wake you…” Malachi paused, though it was unclear if the silence was intentional or if he had simply gotten caught up in his own answer. “…I would wake you, and kiss you, and keep you there close to me.”

Bruised fingers curled inward and fell to rest upon his thighs again.

“And I would slip my hands around your throat, just like that, and kill you.”

Malachi looked back to him, and concluded, “but if you pissed me off, I’d bash your face in and let the wild animals take care of you. As for the man and the window, I would eat his brain.”