Warnings: Whatever lines previous chapters have skirted around, this one crosses beyond a doubt, if in a way that is largely without too much description. If this is likely to bother you, please skip the sixth section of this chapter, marked by an x in place of the second dot.
Notes: Whilst it is true that things often get worse before they get better, at some point they must logically be as bad as they get. I won't say to enjoy this one, but I will say that from here on things do indeed get better.

We're born with millions
Of little lights shining in the dark
And they show us the way.
One lights up every time we feel love in our hearts;
One dies when it moves away.

We're born with millions
Of little lights shining in our hearts
And they die along the way
Until we're old, and we're cold,
And we're lying in the dark,
'Cause they'll all burn out one day.

All The Little Lights - Passenger

Chapter Seventeen - They'll All Burn Out One Day

As work days went, that one was not the most productive, although by half one when Arthur gave up, signing off and shutting down his computer, he had at least come up with a plan. Sure, it wasn't much of one; more the beginning of a plan than anything else, but it was something. Three somethings, even, vague as they might be.

First, he was going to call Gwen and Lancelot to cancel their dinner.

Second, he was going to pack enough stuff that he would be able to go a hell of a long time without going back to Valiant's house.

Third, he was going to end things with Val.

So, yes, vague, but it was something.

He sent Elena home, too, figuring that at some point his father was going to come looking for him, trying to work out why Arthur hadn't picked up his phone all morning, and he wasn't going to subject her to that.

.

.

.

Once in the car, Arthur turned on his mobile, having determinedly shut it up after the third call from his father. Six missed calls, placed at regular, half-hour intervals, all from his father, along with a text from Val, apologising for being such an irritable git that morning; Arthur didn't delete it, but he didn't read any more than the two lines that came up on the display.

Instead, he scrolled through his contacts until he got to Lancelot's number, inhaling deeply and wishing for a fortifying whiskey before pressing the call button.

Lance answered quickly, his voice terse, more brusque than Arthur had ever heard him, or at least more brusque than he'd ever been with Arthur. "Arthur," he said, no greeting beyond that. "How surprising."

"Hello, Lancelot," Arthur answered, trying not to sound overly pointed about it. "I need to talk to you."

"No."

"Look," Arthur said, "Can you tell Gwen that...hang on, no?"

"That's what I said," Lancelot said, quiet in a way Arthur found odd, borderline intimidating, which wasn't exactly Lance's usual manner. "No, you do not need to talk to me, and no, I will not be telling Guinevere anything."

"But-"

"No, Arthur," Lancelot repeated. "Gwen has talked about nothing but this dinner for the last fortnight, and the only way I'm telling her you won't be there is if you give me a damned good reason why I should."

"I'm-" Arthur started, the words breaking up with Valiant sticking in his throat. "It's…I…"

"You what?"

"I…Valiant…" Arthur said again, and all the words he thought should come after than never materialised. I'm leaving him and he's cheating on me and, most telling of all, like unburying one lie was bringing all the others to the surface, he hits me. But Lancelot knew that, about the violence at least; Arthur might have spent months denying there was anything for anyone to know, but Lancelot wasn't quite as stupid as he was, wasn't dumb enough not to put together Arthur sleeping on his sofa, bruised and bloodied, with him and ignoring Val's phone calls and come up with the right answer.

It wasn't always bad, Arthur had told himself, and had somehow managed to believe that was enough.

"Valiant what, Arthur?" Lancelot demanded, and even if Arthur knew he wasn't trying to be cruel – as if Lance could ever be any such thing – it didn't mean it didn't feel that way. He just wanted Arthur to say it, something, like saying it was what it took for him to accept it, and yet, somehow, all Arthur could hear was Lancelot's voice, months ago, asking, Do you think it's a good idea to move in with Valiant?

Lancelot would never say I told you so, probably wouldn't even think it, but that didn't mean Arthur wasn't going to feel it every time he saw him.

"Nothing," Arthur said, because what was one more lie? It was over, whether or not he told Lancelot right this minute. "I don't have a good reason, damned or otherwise. Tell Gwen I'm looking forward to it."

"Arthur, that wasn't what I meant."

"It's fine, Lancelot," Arthur said, even if this time he was pretty sure it wasn't. "See you at seven."

He hung up before Lance could reply, trying not to consider the absolute failure of step one a bad sign.

.

.

.

The packing was easier, largely because he had most of the afternoon to do it in and not a lot that he would actually need. His laptop he left at work, along with all the various papers and whatnots he usually brought home with him, figuring he wasn't going to get any more work done that night than he had during the day.

His phone charger went straight in the bag, as did his toothbrush, and enough pairs of boxers to last him a good while; all the things he gone back for in the past, all the things he damn well wouldn't come back for again. Clothes went in after that, then the book he'd been reading for the last week and a half. His passport, the paper counterpart of his driving license, his mother's engagement ring and the chain it lived on.

Bag packed and stowed in the boot of his car, Arthur stuck his wallet and phone in one pocket, his car keys in the other. All that was left was the rest of the afternoon, an unpleasantly awkward dinner, and a conversation.

.

.

.

It was quarter to seven before Valiant got home from work, which meant they were almost certainly going to be running late before they even left the house. Any other day, Arthur might have asked why he was so late, but today wasn't any other day. Today, Arthur didn't care.

There wasn't time for the conversation before they went out, even if Arthur had been planning on breaking up with Valiant before going for a meal with him and two of his closest friends. All Arthur could do was lead Valiant outside to the car, checking his pockets for everything he'd put in them far earlier as he went. Outside to Valiant's car, even, because Valiant always wanted to drive and Arthur wasn't going to make breaking up with him even harder by pissing him off.

Val drove like he usually did, faster and wilder than Arthur was really all that comfortable with, but since they were short on time he wasn't about to complain anything about it.

.

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.

For the first few minutes, everything seemed to be going well. Yes, Gwen and Lance were already seated when they got there, and yes, Lance looked really quite surprised that they turned up. Challenging, too, and examining, like he was looking for the bruises Arthur had been trying to hide by cancelling; they weren't there, this time, but it wasn't exactly an unfair assumption for Lancelot to make.

Everything went well to begin with, better than Arthur had expected. Val didn't so much as blink when Gwen stood up to hug Arthur when they got there, didn't look at all concerned as Lancelot spent far too long staring at Arthur, didn't make any effort at all to order for Arthur.

Polite chit-chat carried them through their starters, general questions about health and well-being and work, mostly posed by Guinevere. It couldn't last: with the main course came things far less innocuous, at least to Arthur's ears.

"It feels like forever since I last saw you, Arthur," Gwen said, soft and lovely, as guileless as ever; if there was one person Arthur was certain had no idea about the true nature of his relationship with Valiant, of the bruises that sat on Arthur's skin like the continents on a map and the fear that curdled in his stomach, it was Gwen. Gwen, whose heart was everything, whose next words proved her ignorance. "Merlin's party, wasn't it? The last time we had a real chance to talk."

"Erm," answered Arthur, because whatever he said would do nothing more than dig his own grave. If he lied, Gwen would question him, not realising there was a reason for it, and if he told the truth…He wasn't going to tell the truth. He might have been stupid enough to stay for so many months, might have been stupid enough to ignore everyone who told him he shouldn't, but he wasn't stupid enough to make it worse now.

"Yes," Gwen continued, smiling, oblivious to Arthur's complete unwillingness to discuss this. "It was, I'm sure of it."

"And when was this?" Val asked, effectively covering up Lancelot hissing, "Guinevere," under his breath.

Gwen looked at Arthur before answering, her smile fading slightly but still not quite making it into the realm of a frown. "A couple of months ago," she said, hesitating a little. "You had some family thing, I think, which is why you weren't there. Arthur wasn't too specific about what it was."

"No," Valiant said. "I can't imagine he was."

Finally, finally, Gwen seemed to realise something was wrong. She smiled, bland and beautiful, but said nothing further, instead changing the subject to something ridiculous one of her students had said that day. It was too late, of course, but hindsight told Arthur it had been too late for months. Too late when Arthur moved in with Valiant, too late when he went back after that first blow. Too late so many months ago, at the party filled with his father's sort of people, when Arthur had snuck out of the hall with a man his father would approve of, a man who seemed to be everything his father ever wanted him to be.

Far, far too late.

Gwen's work conversation took them through the ready of their mains, up until the moment the waitress appeared to take their plates and offer dessert menus.

Arthur didn't need to wait for Valiant to answer to know what he was going to say, however much he hoped to be wrong. He wasn't, of course, but it would have been nice.

"I've had a long day," Valiant said, smiling, always smiling. "We should probably head home, Arthur."

For a moment, Arthur thought about arguing, insisting on staying for dessert with his friends, putting off what was likely to be a pretty intense fight for a little longer. But it would only be a little longer, and the fight would only get worse. There was no point, none at all.

"Arthur," Lancelot said once Arthur and Valiant had stood up, money for their share of the meal on the table. He pressed Arthur into a hug instead of offering his customary handshake, tight and secure, like he thought Arthur needed holding together, like he somehow thought he'd be able to do so. "Come with us," he said, quiet but with all the certainty of stone. "You don't have to go with him."

It would be easier, Arthur thought, to agree with Lancelot. So much easier, so much safer to go home with him and Gwen, spend a night or two on their sofa, maybe another few at Merlin's or Morgana's or even his father's, maybe. It would be easier, he thought, at least for now, but in the long run it would only be worse.

After those nights at Lancelot's, at Merlin's or Morgana's or Uther's, Arthur would only end up going back again, would only end up the worse for his brief escape.

"Please," Lancelot said, still too soft for Valiant to hear. "Please, Arthur."

"It's okay," Arthur answered, just as low, giving Lance's shoulders a quick squeeze before stepping back. "I'll call you tomorrow," he promised, given Gwen an equally swift hug. "Enjoy your dessert."

(He didn't call)

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x

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"Get in the house," Valiant snarled when the car pulled to a halt after a glacially silent ride, and Arthur didn't think for a second about refusing. It was over, yes, as soon as he told Valiant that, but that didn't negate the fact that refusing to enter of his own accord would probably only result in him being dragged in.

"I can explain," he said, as Valiant locked the door to the house behind them, locking them in and pocketing the key, and oh, did Arthur wish he'd stayed in the car.

"Can you." Valiant demanded, not a question, crowding Arthur backwards until his back hit the wall; Arthur swallowed, wordless. "Come on, then, Arthur. Explain."

Up until the moment he spoke, Arthur was fairly sure something of an explanation was what he was going to give. It wouldn't make anything any better, not when Valiant wasn't going to believe him whatever he said, but Arthur hadn't actually planned on pissing him off further. However much of an idiot he might have been lately, he wouldn't have said he was actually stupid enough to provoke his abusive not-quite-ex-boyfriend. His mouth, however, had other ideas.

"Who was the redhead?" he demanded, more horrified by the words than the fist that slammed into his face just after them.

His head spun with the force of the blow, blood blooming on his tongue, and yet, stupidly, it wasn't enough to stop him. "Did you fuck her?"

"What is it to you?" Val answered, and instead of the blow Arthur was expecting, the blow he raised an arm to block, Val's hand closed around his wrist, twisting inwards until the bones locked and Arthur had to fight down a scream. It hurt, worse than all the bruises that had come before, enough that Arthur's knees wobbled and the only thing keeping him on his feet was Valiant's grip.

"Whore," he hissed, mouth on Arthur's ear, angrier than Arthur had ever known him, still twisting, twisting until Arthur was almost sure he could hear his bones creaking under the pressure. "How often have you been on your knees for Merlin?"

"Let me go," Arthur managed, and it was supposed to sound steely, assured, determined, but the shameful sound that left his lips could only be described as a whimper. "Valiant, let me go."

It was a little firmer the second time, but still not himself, still not strong enough for Valiant to offer any reaction other than laughter, low and breathy. "Oh, Arthur," he said, soft as silk, a tense hoarseness to it that made Arthur's knees weak when he first started dating Val. It made him sick now, pressed between the wall and the man he loved, sick and scared and horribly certain he knew how this would end, the pain in his arm pinning him there, unable to fight as Valiant pressed hard against his thigh. "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur."

Valiant laughed, and to someone who didn't know him it could almost be taken as amused. "It's not a difficult question, Arthur. How many times?"

"Never."

"Liar!" Valiant's other hand dug like a claw into his hair, pulling so hard that Arthur felt his hair tear loose in the second it took him to tilt his head back. His mouth dragged across Arthur's exposed throat, a mockery of affection, and he'd always been in the habit of leaving marks on Arthur's skin but until the second his teeth sunk in they had always been more love than bite.

The sting of that was nothing, though, as dull as child's plastic cutlery compared to the bonfire blazing in his arm, bland as a winter's morning against the snap of bone when Valiant twisted just a little further.

The next thing Arthur knew, he was on his knees, his arm limp in Valiant's grip, an inhuman howl ringing in his ears. Inhuman, but his.

"Shut up," Val ordered, and Arthur tried, more afraid now than he could remember being in his life. The closest thing to silence he managed was a sob, muffled behind closed lips, and Valiant dropped his wrist like he would a tray hot from the oven, exchanging it for a boot to Arthur's ribs.

He doubled over and the next punch caught his face, as did the one after that, again and again until Arthur crumpled onto his side, the impact jarring his arm again, hard enough that Arthur's thoughts flew away like ash on the wind, taking with them any tiny chance he had of wrestling himself free.

"Please," he said, as Valiant pushed him on to his stomach, forcing Arthur to support himself on his good arm to keep the other from being trapped underneath him, and, "Don't, please," as Valiant's hand pulled his belt free of its buckle and yanked open the button on his jeans.

He lost count of how many times he said it in the minutes that followed, as Valiant tugged his jeans down and forced his legs apart. It didn't matter, anyway, didn't matter that he begged and pleaded and promised that nothing had happened, that Merlin was nothing more than his friend. It didn't matter, when each desperate word was answered with Valiant's breath on his neck, Valiant's curses in his ear, Valiant staining his soul until Arthur knew he'd never be human again.

"Her name was Sophia," Valiant said an eternity later, standing up and stroking a hand over Arthur's bowed head, not even bothering to tuck himself away again; Arthur wanted to look up at him defiantly, wanted to not be broken, wanted to do anything but kneel on the floor, biting back sobs. "Clean yourself up before coming to bed."

.

.

.

The shower was running before Arthur could convince his legs to start working again, a flight of stairs and a locked door between he and Valiant, even if the lock wasn't on the right side for Arthur's comfort.

Head pounding almost as hard as his heart, Arthur forced himself to his feet, trying not to whimper as the motion jostled his arm and sent shiny-bright shards of pain across his chest. His toes wiggled, as did the fingers on his left arm, but his right hurt. A lot, enough that he stopped trying, instead staring at the floor, trying to work out what came next.

His jeans were around his knees, and even though the thought of fastening the button and the zip and buckling his belt again was enough to make him cringe, he could still pull them up with a single, clumsy hand. They'd stay, he hoped, long enough for him to get away. His shirt was a lost cause, ripped and ruined as it was, but his coat hung on a peg by his head, close enough for Arthur to grab, even if the agony of wrestling his broken arm into the sleeve was enough to steal his breath.

Shoes were going to be impossible, he thought, but a glance down at his feet told him they weren't necessary: he was still wearing the shoes he'd gone out in, the shoes he'd worn as his boyfriend raped him just inside the front door of their house.

He'd just walk a little way, Arthur told himself, forcing his feet out of the door as the shower upstairs cut off. He would call a cab as soon as he made it around the corner, out of sight of Valiant's house. Out of sight, out of mind, he thought, with a laugh that turned into a painful cough, rising from his gut to rip his throat apart. He could fly to the dark side of the moon and put out the sun and it still wouldn't be out of mind.

The look on Val's face was burned irrevocably on his retinas and in his mind, as was the hurt in every single inch of his body, the churning nausea in his gut, and the moment where he stopped fighting, the moment where he just gave up.

"Young man," he heard distantly, vaguely, the tinny silence of music through headphones as the train roared through a tunnel, some tiny part of his brain still in tune with the function of his ears. It wasn't directed at him, though, because Arthur wasn't young, wasn't even sure he was a man. Old, yes, and broken, too, a toy ripped to shreds and thrown away, no longer fit for purpose.

"Young man!" he heard a second time, with a higher degree of urgency, this time accompanied by the agony of fire and acid and bloodbloodblood as someone grabbed his arm.

"Your shoelaces are untied," the woman said, old and shrivelled like a prune, the top of her head barely making it to Arthur's shoulder, a dog yanking on the lead in her hand. For a moment, he thought he maybe recognised her, had seen her around the neighbourhood before, and had a moment of gratitude for the fact that he was moving out, if only because it made vomiting on her shoes slightly less awkward.

Unconsciousness came upon him like a sudden, unexpected storm, and Arthur welcomed it.