J would let him. He'd enjoy it, he says, as long as it was Mitch who was doing it. And all he'd have to do is turn the knife in his grip, add just a little bit of pressure. He feels lightheaded, as that hits home, just how easy it would be. The power in a blade, in a gun, in his fingertips, to change the world around them. It's the same soaring feeling as just two nights ago, when he was sewing J up in the back of their van. This is why some people kill.

But he still knows the worst thing about death, and the most important thing about having that power over someone else. Once they're gone, you never get them back. And he's angry at J, yes. But not angry enough to lose him like that. To throw him away.

There's a hint of a smile on his lips, as he pulls the knife away. Hooks the tip of the blade under J's chin, like a lover's finger. (He shifts his position to get more comfortable, groin pressing briefly against J's, and -- oh, he really would enjoy it. He shifts again, more deliberately, watching J's eyes.)

"But then what would I do?"