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Within the comforts that was the one singular, confined, and cramped bed, Arataka had found himself staring at the ceiling.
His vision had been greeted with a dulled sight, with a brown that seemed washed with nothing but monochrome- an irony that seemed to haunt the miserable man everywhere he had gone.
Upon the topic of following everywhere, there was a man upon his waist, attached at the hip.
Similar within appearance, the other had been cuddling him with a seemingly wide smile as he nuzzled deep into the crevice of Arataka's body with that all too annoyingly always present artificial mirth that just oozed out of him disgustingly. That smile, soft yet subtly wide, overtook Arataka's mind for what felt as though forever ago.
As much as he hated to admit it, or even enjoyed showing anything but calloused behaviour, he did not mind Reigen.
Reigen was that of fake. If Arataka was of flesh, then Reigen were a doll of porcelain, displayed as always smiling, yet fragile to the touch.
With each close grasp that touched Arataka's skin, there was this lingering feeling to push away the overly affectionate man and turn his back away.
But he did not. He could not.
Both suffered. Both had struggled. The only thing which had originally strung them together was that first cigarette, that addiction which had its disgusting little string tied around their limbs and played with them as if pathetic, helpless little dolls. The thought of it made the nails upon Arataka's palm dig their graves deeper into the rough flesh.
To leave Reigen alone made him feel ashamed of himself. To see a man suffer, he would simply wave it off as something that was "not his own problem." But this felt like his own problem. This felt like his own problem because of the man he was.
The man he loved was basically him, just within a different shape, a different form, a different exterior.
Experiences so different yet problems the same, it could not help but have been attracted to him.
So here they both were, cuddling within bed as Arataka had begun to question the very fabrics of reality and time itself. Eyes still fixed at the ceiling, yet the new crushing feel of his heart attacking his chest. A gnawing similarly found itself there, eating away at who he was.
With that same grasp which held him dear now seemingly melting into him, all the emotions he held within his chest began to swirl with a deep edge that sliced the walls of his insides.
As with each passing second, all he could do is ponder.
Ponder as to how he had gotten here.
And ponder as to how he achieved this.