[ Pointedly, he keeps his eyes on Douman's face. Ah, no -- he's weirdly pretty. He lowers them. Ah, shit -- that's right, he's half naked and handsome there, too. Okay, he can do this, just... look through one of the curls of Douman's hair and fixate on a nebulous spot in the distance that isn't the guy himself. He can survive this, he can survive this.

It's not the threat of death that's making him shake, it's the fact that he's allergic to handsome-and-or-pretty people; normally, it's just the women, but there's something to Douman that shouldn't be. ]

We're in the same line of business, then. Spiritualists, who perform services.

[ He should shove the pot over Douman's head.

Instead, he relinquishes his grasp on one of the handles in order to fish around in the depths of his fat, faux-down coat and produce one of his endless business cards. Except that he thrusts it into Douman's line of sight, even as the wall behind him shudders at the impact of that very meaty hand. Big hands. Big guy.

For all his nervous energy, Reigen won't ever be the one who flinches first. ]

Look, it's cool. I forgive you, you're absolved. Just calm the whole --

[ He gestures, top to bottom, doing his best NOT to make eye contact. ]

Thing. The thing you're doing. I could really mess you up, if you come any closer, and I'd like to keep things cordial between us. We're not in direct competition yet, Mister Onmyouji.