Stars popped into his vision. Ronan's knuckles were sharp and hard, and the side of Kavinsky's head was not the best place to be hit. The bottle dropped out of his hand and shattered, unlike Ronan's beer bottle on the counter, at their feet.

There was no beat or pause or hesitation. Kavinsky lashed his hand out for Ronan's throat, expression vicious and sneering. He was fucked up all to hell, drunk and high on his own shit and whatever Hell had to provide, but there was a clarity in moments like this. There always had been.