2. Phosphene Dream
"Get a load of that crazy looking entrance!" Shoko practically shrieked.
The sound caused Gojo to wince. He was about three Klonopin and half a Xanax gone by this point, but the sound still grated on his nerves. His overly sensitive ears were not appreciative. It was dark out but he was still wearing his shades. He glared up at the gauche, ostentatious doorway of the Malevolent Shrine.
Was this an art gallery or a fucking fun house?
The entrance had teeth, for god's sake. Teeth. It had been made to look like a giant mouth. A creepy, monstrous mouth with very big teeth that seemed to be waiting to swallow up visitors whole—
All the better to eat you with, my dear…
Gojo laughed at this despite himself. Suguru turned and stared at him. "What? Do you think it's funny?"
Gojo looked startled. He hadn't realized that he'd even laughed out loud. "Maybe Sukuna's gonna gobble us up like the big bad wolf," he grinned.
"You say that but I heard a rumor that he's legit into cannibalism," Shoko said with absolute seriousness.
"That's bullshit!" scoffed Suguru. "That's just a rumor the press started to make him sound even edgier than he already is—"
"—oh-ho!" crooned Shoko. "Is our whittle Geto jealous of the great Ryomen Sukuna?"
"I am not jealous of Sukuna," protested Suguru. "I'm just saying that all the crazy stories about him are probably not true. Real people don't run around being cannibals." He paused. "Now Satoru, on the other hand, is definitely a little jealous—"
"—I am not!"
"Oh?" Shoko's eyes were bright with interest. She spun around, her black cocktail dress with bubble skirt twirling around her like a pinwheel. "Do tell?"
"He says Sukuna's paintings are all derivative Francis Bacon imitations," Suguru told her. "But I think he protests too much."
"But his paintings are stupid Francis Bacon knockoffs!" Gojo said loudly. Both Shoko and Suguru shushed him as his comment drew censuring stares from other patrons.
They came out of a long hallway decorated with floating red paper lanterns. Mei Mei spotted them from her greeter's lectern and waved them over. "Welcome guys! I'm so excited you could make it! So which thing did you want to do first? Go to the bar? Or head straight to the gallery floor?"
"Bar!" both Shoko and Suguru answered simultaneously.
Gojo sighed and shoved his shades up his nose. Despite his friends' enthusiasm, he did not want to go to yet another bar. So he snatched a program from Mei Mei's hands and said to them over his shoulder:
"I'll be in the gallery."
He stalked off, entering a blacklit hallway that had a canopy of skulls on the ceiling. No wonder Mei Mei likes working here, he thought, The whole aesthetic was like a goth girl's idea of heaven—or hell. He came out into a small antechamber that contained a weird installation that looked like a throne fashioned entirely out of buffalo skulls (and since it was Sukuna, all the skulls were probably real). An ominous red light filled the room, giving everything a bloody cast.
Gojo was not impressed.
As he circled the so-called 'throne' he found himself mentally criticizing every little detail, from the positioning of the skulls, to the garish looking lighting. Then he had an odd impulse.
He wanted to sit on the throne.
And not only sit on it, but he wanted to take a selfie on it.
This was not done in high end galleries. Still, it was a tiny room. And there was no one else around. Gojo scanned the chamber just to make sure.
Then he climbed over the skulls, like he was scaling a hill.
He reached the seat and settled back into it, casually crossing one leg over the other. He leaned against a skull encrusted arm, insouciantly propping his chin on his hand. He took out his phone and raised it—
—and saw a man standing just behind him in the frame, watching him intently.
Shit!
Gojo fumbled his phone and it fell—down, down, knocking against various skulls as it went until it hit the floor with a decisive Crack! He clambered down after it, wobbling gracelessly with the effort, until he reached the bottom. He bent down to retrieve it, scooping it off the floor. A deep timbered voice directly behind him asked:
"So how did you like my throne?"
"Fuck!" he exclaimed, the question practically causing him to jump out of his own skin. He spun around to find a man standing entirely too close. He got an up close view at some dark tattoos and spiky pink hair—
Oh shit, it was him!
Before he even thought about it he answered, "Honestly? It's really fucking uncomfortable and the aesthetics leave much to be desired—"
"—is that so?"
"—it is." As Gojo instinctively stepped back, trying to put some space between them—
—Sukuna stepped forward in tandem, crowding him, a slight smirk forming at the obvious discomfort this was causing. Gojo took another step back, only to have Sukuna follow him—
Like they were in some kind of dance—
Or—
Like a hungry lion stalking a gazelle—
Gojo stopped moving, refusing to cede more ground. He looked at Sukuna over the tops of his glasses, eyes icy and glaring. Sukuna just stood there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, his head tilted at him appraisingly. There was a slight softening of the eyes, and a question in them—
Eyes like the blood moon—
Full of contempt—
Shifting, changing, like the moving clouds overhead—
Into mourning and—
Gojo tore off his shades, rubbing at his eyes, because damn, if the Klonopin didn't have him seeing some shit. He turned away from Sukuna, intent on leaving the chamber, not wanting to fight, verbally or otherwise, when—
"Hey, wait, come back!"
That low timbered voice, so full of command.
He stopped despite himself.
"I want you to sit for me."
Gojo frowned, unsure of what he meant. "What?"
"I said I want you to sit for me," Sukuna repeated. "As a model. For a painting."
"You don't do portraits," Gojo pointed out without turning around. He felt a chill run up his neck. He heard nothing, yet he was certain—
"Maybe I'm feeling inspired." The words were low and seductive, spoken right next to his ear. Gojo's eyes widened. There was the faint whisper of breath, an unmistakable brush of heat right at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He pulled absentmindedly at the collar of his black T-shirt on reflex.
"Say yes," the voice insisted.
"Say yes to what?" asked Suguru. Gojo turned around then, coming face to face instead with Sukuna, because the pushy fucker couldn't stay out of his space. That's when Gojo saw Suguru approaching them and got a good look at his distinctly unhappy face.
He may not have been jealous of Ryomen Sukuna before, but he definitely was now…
Suguru was glaring daggers. "So…just what are we saying yes to?" he asked again with an arched brow.
Sukuna didn't spare him a single glance. "I was asking him to model for me—"
"—no. The answer is no," Suguru said quickly. That made Gojo's head snap up. He arched his eyebrow at Suguru, raising his own question.
Why are you answering for me like I'm not even here?
"I wasn't addressing you," Sukuna said in a dark, dismissive voice. "I was asking him." Both of them turned to stare at Gojo, each awaiting an answer.
The whole room was suddenly tilting under Gojo's feet, the red lighting overloading his senses. His head was pounding, vying to outdo his trip hammering heart, as he was put into an impossible situation—
An arched bridge—
A man standing overhead—
Framed by a hazy russet moon—
Gojo felt distinctly nauseous. It was far too red in this room.
He had to get the fuck out of this antechamber right now. He felt himself being pulled back and forth between two antagonists like a bone between two competing dogs and it was pissing him off.
Really pissing him off.
The bad part was he was currently more pissed off at Suguru.
The water gentle rolling—
Waves lapping at—
"No…just no," he said, without clarifying exactly what it was he was saying no to.
Sukuna's eyebrow shot up. He hadn't bothered to tell him what kind of painting it was going to be, but still—
Gojo fled the 'throne' room, hurrying past both of them. He went back out into the entrance hall, where Mei Mei was busy talking to other patrons in fancy dress. Her eyes narrowed questioningly as he went past her station.
He left the Malevolent Fucking Shrine entirely, without telling anyone and without looking back.
A different dream this time…
A different place. There are cascading fields of wheat, waist high. A stand of trees in the distance, dark and foreboding.
He is running.
Through the field, fleeing. He is being pursued. His body punished and aching with effort. No red moon this time, only a pale sliver, a tiny crescent bearing witness.
There is blood on his shirt (but whose blood), glinting dark mahogany under the blue toned night.
His pursuer is growing closer, closer, always closer…
He runs for the copse of trees, looks over his shoulder in desperation. There is torchlight in the distance, steadily gaining. In despair he calls out a name, addressing the darkness…
The darkness returns with a knock—
Knock, knock—
Someone was pounding on the studio door.
Gojo's left eye slowly cracked open. He was slumped over his drafting table, his sketchbook open by his hand. There was a large trifold mirror standing directly across the way, and he raised his head, catching a glimpse of himself. Of a silk art deco patterned robe, with kimono sleeves, and his own eyes pale as ice, made even paler still with dark rings of black kohl liner.
Oh, yey. He was working on something new…
A louder and even more insistent pounding jolted him further awake.
The knocking wasn't just in his dream.
He pushed himself off from the table and strode to the door. He half expected to find Suguru there, groveling with apologies. After all, he'd been texting him every few hours ever since the whole incident at the gallery had happened the night before.
That was just last night wasn't it?
He wasn't sure.
A field of wheat, the stalks rustling.
Running, running….
He scraped a hand back over his scalp, ruffling his own hair. He really needed to wake up. He needed to lay off the painkillers. The glass balcony doors he passed showed him a deep bruised twilight.
He wasn't ready for a confrontation. He considered ignoring the knocking altogether. But truth be told, he felt a little lonely, so…
He opened the door.
It wasn't Suguru. It was Ryomen Sukuna.
He was standing there in a tight black button down that fit his shoulders and biceps perfectly. A little too perfectly. He had his hands shoved in his pockets like before. But his face…
Gojo was pleased to see Sukuna's mouth fall open at his appearance, obviously caught off guard. Sukuna's gaze traveled from his feet, all the way up, finally landing on his face. The oddest look had taken over his features.
Almost like he was looking at a ghost.
After a beat, he seemed to recover himself enough to say, "Can I come in, or—" his eyes flitted over Gojo's odd attire again.
"—are you busy with something?"
Gojo just pushed the door all the way open and said, "I'm not busy."
Sukuna walked by him, hands still in his pockets. His head swung to glance at him. "What's with the get up?" There was a strange, hesitant tone to his usual commanding voice.
Didn't he see shit weirder than this in his own gallery? Gojo just shrugged and said, "I was just riffing on some Manet." He walked past Sukuna, the long robe he was wearing rasping silkily, the dark sleek material catching the light. He picked up a coffee table book from his drafting table and held it open so Sukuna could see.
"Well, not really Manet, per se, but rather Victorine, his muse." He showed him a picture of a woman wearing a man's matador outfit brandishing a sword, and another of the same woman wearing a long white robe and holding a monocle by a bird's cage. Gojo watched as Sukuna's eyes instinctively flicked to the empty birdcage by his table.
"I was going to commandeer one of Mei Mei's crows," he explained without being asked.
Sukuna's gaze then turned to the monocle hanging by a gold chain from his neck. He reached out to grab it and—
—Gojo instantly flinched back. But not before Sukuna had snagged the copper piece. "This part's not—" he began in a deep baritone.
"—I know it's not right," Gojo said defensively. "I haven't thought of a proper analogue for the monocle yet."
It was a little disturbing how they seemed to be communicating in a kind of shorthand with each other. Considering they had only met last night, and hadn't even been properly introduced.
Speaking of which…
"Did Mei Mei tell you where I lived?"
Sukuna didn't answer. He still had the monocle in his palm, inadvertently (or perhaps intentionally) keeping Gojo leashed and close. Sukuna's intense gaze slowly moved from Gojo's black rimmed eyes to stare at the brick wall over his shoulder. Gojo knew exactly what he was looking at.
"It's you. You're the Infinite Void."
Not that he was the painter of Infinite Void, No, Sukuna said he was—
Like he embodied the concept or something.
"And how do you like it?" Gojo asked him, purposefully mimicking Sukuna's own question to him from last night.
Sukuna's eyes moved from the painting back to Gojo's face.
"It doesn't do the real thing justice," he said in a low voice.
The response sent a shiver down Gojo's body.
No, not the response itself, but—
That voice. Low and insinuating, like a deep growl. Or a bass string being plucked. Like dark rumbling thunder.
Unsettling and distinctly sexual.
Sukuna finally dropped the monocle and walked towards the giant eyeball. He put out a hand and touched it. And just when Gojo thought he was interacting with a sane person—
—he leaned over and actually licked the canvas.
Gojo's mouth fell open.
Sukuna didn't seem to notice or care. He rubbed his chin, contemplating the piece. "Did you use linseed oil to make this paint?" he asked, frowning,
"What's in there is between me and my canvas," Gojo said haughtily.
Fucking paint licking weirdo.
But there was linseed oil in there. Along with a whole host of other secrets.
Sukuna waved a finger at the painting. "Did you grind up some Delft blue pottery in here?"
Now it was getting really weird. Sukuna took the stony look on Gojo's face as confirmation.
He threw his head back then and laughed. "You're crazy," Sukuna said with what almost sounded like admiration. He turned and speared Gojo with a look.
"Come model for me."
Gojo narrowed his eyes. This again. "I already told you no," said Gojo. He went to his drafting table and sat down, effectively ignoring him.
Sukuna walked over to the table, standing behind him. Their eyes met in the oversized mirror. Gojo was staring at Sukuna's tattooed face. And Sukuna was staring at the thigh high slit where the robe had parted over Gojo's crossed legs. Feeling self conscious—
—no, not self conscious, he wasn't that. Never that—
—he reached down and slid the folded material back in place, ever so slowly, never taking his eyes off Sukuna's reflection in the mirror.
Or the split second of unmistakable hunger he saw in those russet eyes.
"You sure you won't change your mind?" Sukuna asked. Voice low and beguiling.
Teasing him…
Tempting him…
Seducing him…
Sukuna's hand reached out, tilting Gojo's head gently back, with the barest touch at his jawline, but enough to cause—
A flash, of a scene—
Of a man standing on a bridge—
Looking down in the water—
Anguish and fury—
Gojo shied away, pushing Sukuna's hand from him. "I already said no."
"I'll make you a deal. Five one hour sessions. No funny business. No nudes—"
Gojo scoffed at this. "Look, I'm not interested in getting nailed to your wall. Literally, metaphorically, or otherwise. In fact, I think you should go."
Sukuna just laughed him off and shrugged. "Suit yourself." Gojo refused to follow him as he ambled towards the door. He listened to Sukuna's retreating footsteps, heard him pause at the doorway.
"By the way, you look really fucking hot like that—"
"—I know." Zero hesitation and zero sense of modesty.
"You know I'm not conceding defeat just yet."
Now it was Gojo's turn to shrug as he sat with his hand propped on his chin. As Sukuna left, Gojo said to him sarcastically:
"Me, a target of the great Sukuna? What an honor…"
To be continued…