Now that Crichton has backed off, Arthur escapes that strange tense zone of too-close-for-comfort to find himself feeling like a real piece of shit.

"I trust you," he says, though his voice is still somewhat dead. "I-I don't want you to think it's about not trusting you."

It's about... shame. Cowardice. The almost physical pain of remembering what he did. God, never start a nice conversation with Arthur, because he's damn skilled at ruining it.