“That’s all?”

If one listened close enough, they might have even heard the disappointment in his voice.

What an awful proposition it was, but what had anyone ever been to him but hurt, and blood, and control? What had anyone ever wanted but his body alone? He had absolutely everything to lose, and yet he could not clear his thoughts of what his niece had said.

Something new. Someone new. A new path – he supposed that this was about the farthest thing from what she meant by that. Arthur was just as bad as his father. He might have even been worse, because his father, at least, had claimed to care after every time he hurt him. He wasn’t sure that the man before him now was even capable of caring for anyone but himself.

Maybe, in time, Malachi wouldn’t be either. It seemed like a less painful way to live – without love.

Malachi pulled the doctor’s bloody hand close. Slow enough that he could appreciate the warm, metallic taste, he licked the blood from his palm, and stained his mouth red.

He took another deep breath, and whispered, “you're right.”

Then, without another word, dragged Arthur into a bloody collision of lips and teeth, teeth, teeth.

That's all, Malachi asked.  What more could he want?  Was there more Malachi wanted to give to him?  Arthur was confused, but only for a moment.  When Malachi licked his blood from his hand, his mind went blank.

Again, Arthur was caught between perfect and white and beautiful teeth and there was no where he would have rather been.  He let Malachi bite him, and bit back, along his jaw and neck and lips and tongue and then surrendered himself to the same.  It was terrible.  It was painful.  It was amazing.

He didn't pull away until he tasted more blood in his mouth than spit, and even then it was difficult for him to stop.  When he finally had, though, he pushed a hand against Malachi's mouth so as not to get distracted again.

"Listen to me closely Malachi," he said, his voice suddenly quiet and hard.  "I have one more condition for us, so listen close.  I will only say this once."

Fingers and nails dug into the meat of Malachi's cheeks, just as they had done with Arthur's own shoulder.  They were no less merciless.

"If you ever try to lie to me again, I will do worse than kill you.  I will make your life hell and then send you there myself.  Do you understand me?"

Malachi was breathless when a hand stayed his mouth, the taste of iron strong and oh so sweet on his tongue. He wasted no time on coming up with excuses for when he finally stepped out of the booth: already he had worn the unavoidable evidence of him, and now, there was no coming back from it.

There was no stepping back inside once he stepped out.

And Arthur dared to add another condition?

An agitated huff escaped through his nose when his cheeks were caught in Arthur’s grasp, and his glare darkened as nails pricked involuntary tears from his eyes.

Scarlet welled in the half-moons he carved, and traced down the priest’s pale face.

He had already apologized for the lie! When had he lied after that? If anything, Malachi should have been the one threatening him for it.

“I-” the movement of his jaw only dug the nails in deeper. “I’m not going to lie to you.”

Reaching behind the doctor’s shoulder, Malachi dug his fingers into the bleeding wound, twisting the fabric of his shirt around them. There was a difference in the way he dug in, the way he sunk his teeth into every part of Arthur he could get – even without the burden of hatred he’d felt before, it was harder. More vicious, even, without it, urged forth by something else entirely.

It was amazing, and it was terrible, and it was painful most of all.

“If you give me any more fucking conditions, I’m taking it back, alright?”

The way Malachi ripped into his shoulder was worse than Arthur's own fingers.  He clenched his teeth against the pain, the agony, but it wasn't enough.  His head fell forward and onto Malachi, biting down on the other man's shoulder in retaliation, even as he didn't try to get his hand away.

"Fine," he growled around a mouthful of fabric and skin.  When he pulled away, he was surprised to feel wetness on his face - Arthur looked up to see is maybe Malachi's blood had dripped onto him, but he saw nothing.  He wiped his face and only then realized they were tears.

Tears!  Malachi had actually managed to make him cry.  A response to the pain, sure, but it was crying nonetheless.

How embarrassing.

"Fucking hell."  Arthur shook his head and kissed Malachi again, wrapping a hand around his neck.  Not hard enough to choke, not this time, but hard enough to let the other know he could.  His other hand, weaker every time he saw Malachi, pulled at his cassock.

"I want to see you," he said, "are my marks still there?  Let me see them, Malachi."

“Fuck,” Malachi hissed as the other man bit down, digging in ever deeper with his nails. Only once Arthur had agreed did he relent, lifting pressure off the wound to let it simply bleed. He’d worried over it, before – might have felt guilt creep down his throat the night after he left him there, uncertain if he’d even wake, or if it would be the death of him. He’d even considered visiting again, against all his better instincts, to help him stitch the awkward spot.

He hadn’t, of course. And now, angered again as he was (why did he feel so angry?), he was glad that he had not.

“You-” a hand around his neck and another kiss cut him off. Why was Arthur making him talk? Didn’t he know that words were useless little things compared to blood, and teeth, and tears?

Another frustrated sound ground out from his throat.

“Be quiet.”

Malachi’s hands occupied themselves, pulling at the buttons of his vestments. While they did, the priest hovered close, and kissed the tears from Arthur’s cheeks to leave red smudges in their place. If he could keep his mouth shut, then Malachi would not have to listen to his false praise scattered through the rest.

He shrugged his cassock down his arms in a reveal of his own bruised, bitten shoulders. The cut across his chest could be seen too – none of them gone. They had hardly even faded, as if the priest had irritated the flesh so they’d remain.

“What do you want?” he whispered, clutching handfuls of the doctor’s shirt. “Show me. Mark me again. Indulge in me, please,” like the whore I am.

At least he was an honest whore.

The marks on Malachi's skin told Arthur more than his words could have.  Perhaps more than he wanted to know.  Yet, he couldn't stop staring at them, the bruises and bitemarks turned red and purple and black and blue.  The cut across his chest, the only thing marking it and not even made by Arthur's own hands.

Here was a doctor, jealous of a knife.

His hands touched the cut, playing the skin apart and running over the raised edges of it, cleaning his fingers of blood that beaded through.

"I am going to mark you darling, don't worry," he said, his voice far away.  "Your chest is so beautiful.  Your body, all of you really.  Oh, I can't wait taste you again."

But still, Arthur didn't move forward to do so.  His hands continued over Malachi's chest, past the cut and over the scars, tracing them with his fingers and eyes.  He seemed to be considering something.

"I won't defile you in the church, not at this time of day," he told Malachi, "but I will mark you, so you never forget who you really belong to."

With that, finally, Arthur dove forward and licked the length of that damn cut, the only imperfection on Malachi's chest, but it would not remain that for long.  Hands around his waist, Arthur pulled Malachi closer and dragged his tongue up his chest this time, biting back along his clavicle to his shoulder before doing the same on the other side.

"Who dressed your wounds?" he asked against hot skin, "they did a terrible job.  You should have come to me."

He hated the way it made him feel, standing there half-exposed and newly bleeding while the doctor spoke so distantly. While he hesitated against the hollow weight of his own words. His touch still seared his skin, setting fire to every faded scar, feeding voraciously into the agonizing toil of his wrath.

Arthur’s denial did not soothe it.

What happened to indulge your self in me?

The sound that scraped his throat was annoyed, impatient. What the fuck did it matter if they were in the church? Did he think that after everything he’d done to him, the way he’d fucked with his head, that Malachi could claim to care about the church anymore? That he could continue on the way he had before he’d met him?

Because he couldn’t. It was over. Everything was over. All he needed now was hurt, blood, control, him. And not even Arthur himself could keep him from it.

A pained gasp escaped his lips as Arthur traced the cut with his tongue. Malachi grit his teeth, burying his fingers in the other man’s hair as soon as he was pulled closer. Even so, the priest leaned into the press of his tongue, into the growing sting of pain and welling blood.

“And what- would you have done,” he breathed, “but make them worse?”

Bandage him up nicely and send him on his way? Maybe give him a hug on his way out, or tuck him into bed the way Nettie had?

As if Arthur wouldn’t have laughed in his face for even asking.

Fingers twisted through the strands, Malachi pulled hard on Arthur’s hair to force him to look up.

“Don’t pretend you want to do anything but tear me apart,” he whispered, leaning in close to nip at the soft skin of his ear. He traveled lower, pulling at the other’s hair to bare his healing neck, and let his tongue trace the wound.

“And I won’t ask you for anything else.”

Fresh tangy metallic blood trickled into Arthur's mouth as he teased it from Malachi's wound. He should rip away more of his skin with his teeth, turn the blasphemous mark into something that would scream Arthur's name to anyone who saw it. He resisted when Malachi tugged at his hair, but only enough that the pain rang through to his skull.

Did Malachi forget he was a doctor? Yes, of course he wanted to tear the man apart, but that was only half of the fun. The rest of it would be exploring every inch of him, inside and out, and stitching him back together before doing it all over again.

“Don’t pretend you want anything but to be torn apart.”  Arthur tilted his head back to bare his neck again to Malachi.  It was so easy to do so.  Too easy, maybe, but then again, so was Malachi.

His hands traced their way back up Malachi’s body, his nails less gentle and leaving red lines in their wake.

“Where’s that knife..?  Do you carry it on you in the church too?”

Arthur wondered if Malachi had been stabbed.  He imagined so, from their conversation at the masquerade ball, he figured so, but he was still curious; who had done it?  Was it for the same reasons he had stabbed Arthur, or less erotic in nature?  Where had it happened, and had it scarred?

Why hadn’t Arthur seen it yet if it had?

The urge to rip the rest of Malachi’s clothes from his body and search his skin for scars that didn’t depict flowers crashed into Arthur like a wave.  His hands stopped at Malachi’s shoulders, digging into the bruises his teeth had left days before.

“Give it to me, that knife.”

As if. There were more things that Malachi wanted than he didn’t, and that had always been the biggest problem in his life.

He exhaled an appreciative sigh against the soft skin of Arthur’s neck, leaning harder into him as nails scraped his scarred skin. For a moment the questions did not even register; his grip on Arthur’s hair just released and tightened again as his face burrowed in his neck.

Soft lips pressed kisses to the healing scar, memorizing the shape of it against his mouth.

“The…?”

Why was he always asking him things when he just wanted to feel?

The knife was on his person as it always was, though he had taken to tying it around his ankle in favor of the hidden extra pocket of his cassock.

Less chance of stabbing himself in the thigh again, that way.

Malachi finally lifted his head, eyes narrowed in their heavy-lidded inspection of Arthur’s bruised face. That knife was important to him! He wasn't just going to hand it over because he asked him for it.

Not without being difficult first.

“If you want it, make me.”

If Arthur had not wanted a fight, he would not have come back to Malachi.

Still, that did not mean he wasn’t considering slipping an opium pill into his mouth like he had done once already.  But to reach into his pants and retrieve his trusty tin, in the middle of all of this… too much trouble.  Rather than do that, Arthur pulled Malachi close, closer, and turned them around to push him down onto the bench in the confessional.

“Give it to me,” he repeated.  The doctor leaned in close, his knee landing between Malachi’s.  One hand pressed against the wall beside Malachi’s head to steady him.

“Or I will take it,” Arthur finished.  His weak hand cupped Malachi, thumb pulling at his bottom lip.  Doing so revealed more of the man’s teeth that he so loved.

Indilgence, they had agreed on.  But there was a time and a place for everything.