He could imagine it.

If it was any brighter in the booth, he might have pulled Arthur’s collar aside to see it for himself. But that would have involved getting far closer than he intended to, without a proper reason.

Like bashing in his skull, of course.

Malachi bit down hard on the soft inside of his cheek. Somehow the confessional felt even smaller. Hotter, where his white collar scratched against the marks on his neck.

“I hope you die,” was his answer, and he turned to exit the booth.

It was the first time Arthur was actually seeing, watching Malachi leave.

And he couldn't stand it.

Without hesitating, Arthur shot up from his seat and grabbed Malachi's arm, turning him back to face him.  He took another step closer, just so that their' chests were touching.  The doctor had to tilt his head back to look up at Malachi properly, stretching the new and healing skin on his neck where he had nearly been cut open.

Nearly.

"Kill me yourself," he challenged, staring into hard black eyes, "if you really feel that way, darling."

Malachi was fast, but Arthur moved faster.

They were even closer than before. Too close. He could feel Arthur’s breath between them, and knew his own could be felt the same. As far back as he pressed against the door, the doctor was right there, looking up at him.

His heart skipped a beat.

Wordlessly, the priest raised a hand. His thumb gently traced along the line he’d made in Arthur’s neck, nail pressing lightly into the recovering flesh. From one side of it to the other, his touch dragged; inspecting, admiring, admonishing.

“You would like that far too much,” he murmured, lifting his eyes back to the doctor’s face.

“Are you that ready to end things so soon?”

Arthur moved easily beneath Malachi's hand, baring more of his neck for his inspection.  He hoped it was up to whatever standard Malachi had for it.  He had not been cut deep enough to cause any serious harm, but the skin covering his throat was thin and delicate.

This injury would certainly leave a scar.

If the shirt Arthur was currently wearing was any indication, he had no intention to hide it, now or later.

"Not with you," he whispered.

He dropped the devil mask, lifting his hand to the cut on Malachi's head.  With the pad of his finger he touched it, gentler than he's ever touched Malachi before.

"But for you?  For you, I would end it all."

It wasn’t even covered. Malachi had changed him, left behind permanent marks of himself on Arthur, and he hadn’t even bothered to try and cover or mitigate any of it.

He wanted to lean away, when he saw Arthur raise his hand. More so when he touched him, finger pressed so lightly to his own healing skin. But he didn’t. It made his skin crawl; it made his heart flutter.

A frown subtly curved at the corners of his lips. For a fleeting moment, he just looked… sad.

Sliding his hand slowly from the healing scar to the nape of Arthur’s neck, Malachi pulled him closer, and softly kissed the bridge of his broken nose.

“Stop lying to me,” he muttered, and let his hand drop back to his side.

“Do you torture everyone this way? Or just the ones as sick and filthy as you've deemed me?”

Arthur wanted to roll his eyes.  He very nearly did, but kept his annoyance masked behind fluttering blinks.

Was Malachi really still on this?  As if Arthur wasn't right?

What right had he to accuse Arthur of lying when he was a priest, claiming to love Arthur?

No one loved Arthur.  He was unlovable.  He always had been, and he always would be.

"Just you, Malachi, and don't act like you don't deserve it."  The doctor's gaze turned hard, and his own hand fell to poke Malachi's chest.  "Don't act like I'm not right.  You're either a liar yourself, or a whore."

His head tilted, looking up and down Malachi as much as he could so close, and scoffed.

"Look at yourself, Malachi.  You're as bad as me, even if you're better than hiding it beneath your cassock and pride, but I've seen you without all that.  The real you.  Do you want to keep it hidden and keep suffering, or allow yourself to indulge?"

What was he calling him a liar for?

Malachi forced his gaze to remain steady on the doctor’s face, even as he itched to open the door and step out. Escape. Run away from him, and all of the conflicting, terrible things he made him feel.

“Indulge in what?”

What did Arthur want but to upset him, and provoke him, and torture him with glimpses of false devotion in between? His hands pushed back against the door as he took a step forward, crowding the doctor’s legs against the bench instead.

“What do you get out of this if you’re right, Arthur?”

If he's right.  As if he isn't!

"Indulge yourself in me," Arthur hissed, nearly being knocked back down on the bench.  "Me, and every other sin you think you are better than.  Do that, and I get to indulge myself in you."

Still staring up at the other man, Arthur pressed his hand against the stitching in his shoulder, digging in slow and relentlessly with his own nails.  Pain bubbled up from it, slow and hot, and when Arthur pulled his hand away to show Malachi, blood stained it and his shirt.

"You want to do this again?  I'll let you.  As much as you want to.  You get what you want, and I get what I want.  Hurt, blood, control, and you."

Without even flinching, Arthur pressed into the wound he’d made, and Malachi was transfixed.

Did he know that he’d stabbed himself with the same knife? That the newest scar on his thigh looked so much like the one on Arthur’s shoulder? That he’d drawn a line across his neck with the very same blade that had carved lavender into his skin?

Of course he didn’t. And he knew how much the blood meant anyway.

“You’re sick,” he repeated, but the words rang hollow and quiet. They meant little when he couldn’t take his eyes off of Arthur’s bloody hand.

Hurt. Blood. Control. Him?

Malachi’s next inhale was shaky. Long fingers slipped around Arthur’s wrist, holding the image in place. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the way it glistened in the dark.

“What kind of control?”

The words would have been an insult coming from anyone else.  The words should have been an insult, but they were said to one Arthur Adams, who never claimed to be anything but sick his entire life.

"Just over your body," he whispered.  "That's all I want."

Under his shirt, his shoulder continued to ooze.  The blood slowly spread over his white shirt, and he could feel it dripping down his back.

Malachi was so close.  He was so tempted to lean in and close the distance between them, bite and bruise those lips anew, but he wanted an agreement first.  He wanted Malachi to admit that Arthur was right, that he was depraved, that he was a liar and a whore and that he was disgusting, just like Arthur had said he was, and he wanted Malachi to admit that he liked it.

"I'd like very much to devour you, every inch of you.  And in return, you can devour me, too."