Notes: I haven't written in like eighty years so apologies in advance
His hands were visibly shaking.
Even with the vice grip he kept around his lighter and the pack of cigarettes concealed in the palm of his hand, Reigen feared the worst of the situation, was dreading the possibility of losing a handle on the lighter the second flame met air; it was the last thing he needed, the last thing he wanted to deal with right now- but then, when had he ever passed up the option of screwing everything up?
A single flick was all it took to bring the flame to life. Scrambling, Reigen dove his fingers deep into the recesses of the pack until a cigarette emerged from its depths. The box fell free from his grip, toppling to the floor without so much as a hint of acknowledgement from its previous holder.
He only caught the tip of his finger once before swiftly lighting the end of the cigarette and pocketing the lighter for later use, his nerves settling but his mind racing. Slowly, Reigen brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a deep drag of the toxic cloud filling his lungs and burning the walls of his throat before finally exhaling, watching through half-lidded eyes the string of smoke whisking its way to the starless void above.
Silently, Reigen grinded his teeth.
Fucking shit… !
Reigen couldn't recall the last time he'd gone through three packets of cigarettes in one day, let alone in his own office where customers came and went as they pleased, where Mob-
- where Mob would have been, had he not left Reigen to pick up the pieces of their previous fight. No, had Reigen not overstepped his boundaries and let his mouth run as it pleased, knowing good and well what was to come, but not being prepared in the slightest for the defiant outcome that came to be.
I screwed up big time. I screwed up, and now I'm suffering the consequences.
And yet, he couldn't help but sneer at the implication that this was in any way HIS doing and his alone to bear the burden of in Mob's absence. Mob had certainly played a role in it, Reigen was sure of it. Whether Mob shouldered the blame himself or not, Reigen knew that he was not a lone criminal without an accomplice. He wasn't the only one involved in this, and he refused to take all the credit for it.
Besides, Reigen had been getting along just fine without Mob, hadn't he? It wasn't like three years ago when he'd met the kid and was on the verge of closing shop before Mob gave him the push to continue on with his business; it was different.
Different, though, rarely ever did mean better.
Reigen knew that things had only gotten worse and would continue to get worse from here. There was no sugarcoating it, no covering it with pretty words and pretending as if nothing was happening when in all actuality he knew all too well the rising tensions crashing and splitting the world around him straight down the middle, of the tightrope swinging precariously beneath his own two feet, threatening to unwind at any given moment.
It was nothing like three years ago, because three years ago didn't land him on national television and put him directly in line of the public's scornful scrutiny. Three years ago didn't expose him to the world as a fraud, a fake, a cheat, a liar.
Three years ago had become all but a memory Reigen so desperately wished to crawl back to, because quite frankly, he didn't know how much more of this he could take.
Another deep inhalation, and a darker puff of smoke came to meet its unseen companions in the dead of night.
Reigen ran his fingers through his hair. "I can't do this," he hissed to himself through clenched teeth. "I can't live like this."
It felt wrong- Hell, everything felt wrong, who was he even kidding? There was no sense of solace he could take from this. There was no comfort or assurance he could gain from the ever-reviving habit of smoking, from the silence pervading his every living space that he once knew as home.
He was alone in this unbearable suffering, and god forbid if he ever escaped it with his pride unscathed.