Len watches Kabal's face for what feels like a long time, especially for the guy who can't breathe, waiting for Kabal to scream 'You've been Punk'd' in his face, like a psychotic Ashton Kutcher straight out of the deep-fryer. That would make it easier to kill him.

There's a blue tinge to Kabal's scarred lips, and he still hasn't cracked. That's commitment.

For the first time in this conversation, Len's starting to believe he might be legit. It's too much to fully process right now.

"Put the mask back on. You're no good to me more-dead." Is that an answer? It's going to have to be. At least while they're in public. Time might have stopped for an entirely unromantic moment, but the party is still going on around them. Len is going to punch the next person reaching between them for shrimp in the throat.

Can't these crustacean-obsessed losers tell they're having a moment? Fuck it.

Before Kabal can put his mask back on, Len leans in to graze his lips with a barely there kiss. Uncharacteristically soft.

"Stop looking at them, and start looking at me. Or I'm gone. Got it? I don't do second place." Not again. He can't take it anymore.

If this goes down the way it did with Mick, Len's swearing off tall, brawny, charbroiled chunks of beef brisket for good. Platonic, romantic, or chaotic.

He'll go vegan. Like everyone else who hates themselves.