An old bloody scarf — a means to an end.

He was supposed to go out in a blaze of glory, like all the legends before him. Brian-fucking-Kinney doesn't do things half-assed. He does them big or doesn't do them at all. He kills himself shooting a load all over his italian furniture or he doesn't die at all, lives forever, young and beautiful. The fucking scarf is his overpriced noose.

He considers tying it around his throat and pulling until his windpipe crushes and he asphyxiates with a half-smoked blunt withering away between his fingers. Not theatrical enough, but simple, the way he liked to live his life. He'd go out in a flickering light, like a candle whose flame douses in wax. He contemplates giving up on the scarf altogether, buy himself a real rope, a real means to the end. Yet still —

He ends up with the scarf anyways, silk stained with blood, wrapped around his throat as he thinks about what the fuck he can do with all the life in his hands. Tick tick. First words his sonnyboy said to him, last words he heard from Justin's mouth.

Tick tick. The fucking clock pounds like a jackhammer into his skull and the nurse slaps him on the wrist twice before he puts out the light. His blaze of glory is a cigarette snuffed out by his heel.

"Why the fuck hasn't he woken up yet?"

The pencil scratches on the clipboard as she breezes past him, more patients to attend to, more whipped assholes waiting at the door. She says, "He's suffered severe —"

"Head trauma, I get it." He breathes on the glass and watches it fog up, drawing a tiny smiley face in the condensation like when he was a kid. "Will he wake up or am I fucking wasting my time?"

There's a pat on the back, a squeeze to his shoulder. "You're not wasting your time."

She never says if he'll wake up but she whisks away before he asks again. Tick tick. The clock above the door counts away his life in meaningless seconds, and he swallows thickly through the bloody noose around his throat.

If Justin dies — tick-fucking-tick — he'll go out in a blaze of glory. A newspaper headline, a candlelight vigil, a public funeral.

"Like father like son," he says to no one.