Was this what everyone was supposed to have? Those of the world who had not made any holy vows, who were free to court and be courted, legally or not – was this what it was supposed to be?

Malachi could hardly stand to watch. His limbs were light, languid in Arthur’s grasp. Every press of his lips sent a warm, pleasant shiver through him, like little shocks radiating outward from the spot. It wasn’t the effect of opium, that had long ago worn away and left his throat dry and thoughts disordered; it was just there.

A tingling capped his fingertips by the time his arms had been thoroughly explored by Arthur’s mouth. The coloration of his face proved more obvious, stretching down across the bruised, bitten landscape of his shoulders, over scars and a collection of moles.

He was grateful for the way his hair curtained his eyes, providing but a sliver of the view of Arthur’s smile. He was overwhelmed by such focused attention, and he asked him if he needed anything else?

Malachi shook his head, but the movement was slow.

“You,” he said, before clarifying with another shake of his head, “what can I- do for you? What do you want?”

The flustered priest lifted, sitting up just enough to reach Arthur. It was a little difficult with his legs around his waist, and he had to set a hand behind him on the couch to stay at the upright angle. He kissed along the side of his neck, a hungry mess of breath and sharp teeth.

“Please. Anything you want, I’m yours.”

If there was something Arthur loved most in the world, it was this.

Malachi's sluggish movements and the droopy set of his eyes.  He wasn't even thinking through his words and was slow to speak, struggled to move, and he wasn't even high.  The effect just a little bit of attention had on such a figure of a man was endlessly entertaining.

And this man was all his, Malachi even said so himself.  There was no more of the last man who had touched him, broken his heart.  It was all Arthur.  All of Malachi belonged to Arthur, and if his words weren't enough the bandages and bruises were surely evidence enough.

Arthur's hands cupped Malachi's face, carefully like it was made of glass, and pulled him away from his neck.  Through glasses that weren't even his own, the doctor inspected Malachi's face face with the utmost attention.  Nothing escaped his scrutiny, not a single flaw or fine point or perfection.

Most of it was perfection.

"I want to shatter you completely," he told Malachi.  "I want to beat you bloody and near dead like you did to me, and kiss you back together on this very couch again and again."

His thumbs rubbed against Malachi's cheek bones and reached across the bridge of his nose, where Arthur was still broken and bruised himself.  Malachi hadn't held him gently like his before he bashed his face into his, but Arthur was an understanding man.  He would treat Malachi better.  It was in his nature.

"I want to paint my walls in your fucking blood and parade you around town on a leash, so everyone knows exactly where their precious priest disappears to when he's not at the church."  Arthur leaned in and kissed Malachi, between his brows.  "Would you let me do that?"

If disappointment formed itself of flesh, and bone, and blood, then after so long of clinging to his side, it would take the physical form of Malachi. Embody itself in his image, as it embodied him through folded hands, and schooled expressions, and doors that always closed.

He wasn’t afraid of being hurt. He was afraid of what he was turning himself into, and of how little resistance he had to the change.

Being wanted in any shape was enough for him now, no matter how unrecognizable, wasn’t it? If he wanted him shattered, it was better than not being wanted at all.

But it was clear that the request perturbed him, the moment Arthur mentioned a leash.

Malachi swallowed and his throat felt – worse. Scratchy, as if he’d been screaming, but in truth it was just terribly dry. He stared up at Arthur with a clear note of concern.

“…They would arrest me,” he said, neither confirming nor denying his question. “They would arrest you.”

The look in Arthur's eyes turned stony as his question was ignored.  His finger's stopped their gentle caresses across Malachi's skin, and the doctor contemplated implementing the use of his nails against him.

"You promised me anything," he said.  "Did you not mean it?  Or are you taking back your words?"

Perhaps Malachi would be more agreeable with opium.  Of course kind words and kisses were not enough.  This was, what, Arthurs third time seeing Malachi?  There was still so much he needed to do with him, but in the meantime opium would bridge those gaps.

Arthur dropped Malachi's face, his hands coming instead to rest on the prone man's chest.  His eyes never left his face.

"Is a leash really where you draw your line?  Or is it be the constable's chains that has you worried?  Or, is it something else I'm not getting?"

No, no, he – he wasn’t getting it. Concern turned to worry as Malachi noticed the shift in the doctor’s demeanor, and tension held his limbs still, pulled tight like a string ready to snap.

He had meant what he’d said, of course he had. He hadn’t said a word he hadn’t meant since… well, since he’d given him a false name, and that was it, wasn’t it?

Malachi was silent for a long moment.

“No,” he insisted, quieter now. “I’ve meant everything I’ve said.”

His teeth worried at the inside of his lip, already bitten and bloody, as he considered his next words.

“I don’t want them to send us to workhouses, or prison, or God knows where else.”

I wouldn’t even get to see you, he didn’t add. Suddenly it felt too familiar, too sentimental.

“Is that what you want?”

Everything?  Malachi meant everything?  Arthur wanted to laugh.

Were workhouses and prisons the worst thing Malachi could imagine?  Was his vision of hell just a stone room, alone, no one to cut him open and not even a knife so he cut cut open himself?  What happened to fire and brimstone?

"And if it is?"  Arthur frowned, one finger rubbing along the tape on Malachi's chest as if to pull it up.  Every time he got close, the finger smoothed it back down and moved on.

Malachi meant everything he said.  Of course he did.  Because he was the most honest man in Whitby, he had to be, he was a fucking priest.  Except when he wasn't, except when he was a whore in a brothel named Solomon, except when he was drunk and high and bloody, except when he loved Arthur.

Those were the only reasonable times it was to lie, of course.

"Would you deny me?"

If it was what Arthur wanted?

Malachi didn’t break the other’s stare, no matter how much he wanted to. Every time his finger rubbed against the tape, it tugged lightly at the raw, reddened skin beneath.

This was ridiculous. His life in the priesthood was already doomed, and now Arthur asked for him to sacrifice a life outside of it, too? He’d never been free from anything, not in his whole life.

Another deep breath. Slow. An attempt to steady himself, if nothing else.

“No,” he finally said. “I would not deny you.”

Arthur blinked at the blow rise and fall of Malachi's chest, moving his hands that rested on top of it ever so slightly.  His head tilted at the answer when it finally came.  The disbelief was obvious on the doctor's face.

Eventually, his head fell back and Arthur seemed to be in thought.

"I want you to prove it.  Only, I can't remember if I even own a leash at all.  Funny, isn't it?"

He owned a lot of things, and a lot of odd things especially, but he'd never owned a pet so he had no reason to own a leash.  Arthur had never been a dog person, and cats were - fine, but he'd never felt so passionately about them as so actually go out and get one.  Anything other than that seemed like too much work for him.

"But you know," he said, moving Malachi's legs from off of him, "I do probably own some rope.  That would work the same, wouldn't it?"

It felt like an eternity, waiting for Arthur to speak.

It provided Malachi the chance to regain a semblance of composure, if only in the release of tension through his limbs and the smoothing out of his expression. He couldn’t kick the slightest furrow of his brow, but he looked up at Arthur less like a cornered animal and more like the careful man he was.

Funny. Right. Somehow it wasn’t near enough to make him laugh.

There was no protest as Arthur moved his legs.

Malachi simply stared, and willed the annoyance that bristled within him not to grow. He was telling the truth, what did he have to prove anything for? Of what use was a leash when he was bound to him already, willingly?

“I suppose it would,” came his answer, unaffected and low.

Was his love, so freely given, not enough? Did it taste sweeter for being fake and forced out of him instead?

“Find it, then, if you need proof.”

Malachi must think he was bluffing.

He could think what he wanted.  Arthur didn't respond as he disappeared to another cluttered room, in search of a rope to tie around Malachi's neck.  He wished he were the type of person to keep nicer things around - a nice leather leash would go beautifully against Malachi's pale skin and dark bruises, but of course he had nothing of the sort.

Only after a few long minutes of searching through piles and boxes and piles of boxes did Arthur find something.  An old thing, fraying and discolored and made of hemp.  Arthur tested it against his own skin and figured he wasn't going to find anything better, even if it was scratchy and uncomfortable.  He returned to his office with it in his hands.

"Come here," he said to Malachi, "let me tie this around your neck.  Sorry for any irritation it may cause your skin."

Arthur did not sound sorry at all.