9. Wrapped Up in Your Spell
It was the golden hour.
A brief rain storm had ended mere moments earlier. And now everything was suffused with undertones of burnished red and molten amber.
The wet sidewalks gleamed like bars of gold. Mundane objects like fire hydrants and hybrid cars and waste bins shone like the walls of the Taj Mahal.
All of the city was bright and flashing. Shafts of sunlight sifted down through the clouds, trailing ribbons of incandescence all across the sky.
The annoying brightness made Gojo shove his round opaque shades even further up his nose. The fresh just-after-the-rain scent that hung in the air wasn't enough to keep him out of doors. He turned off the sidewalk and went into a shop with the words Latte Cat emblazoned in painfully pink letters above the door. It was almost five and his friends wanted to meet here before heading out to dinner at the pub.
Gojo was idly wondering if he'd be able to persuade Suguru to skip the pub altogether.
Because he didn't want to drink. And he didn't want to eat.
What he wanted was to go back to his place and fuck. He wanted to coax Suguru into bending him over on his balcony and railing him right there out in the open. And now that the rain was over Suguru wouldn't even be able to complain about getting his hair wet.
Apparently Gojo had missed his chance the night before. After falling asleep on too much Xanax over at Sukuna's place, he'd gotten back into his regular clothes and noticed he'd missed at least five texts from Suguru, all of them some form of him asking to come over.
Because Suguru thought they were very much on again. At least that was his interpretation of things after Monday night's extended fuckery. But that was more than okay with Gojo, because he was looking to get laid. So Suguru's wanting to come over perfectly aligned with both of their priorities.
Gojo went up to the coffee shop register and ordered a latte with white chocolate and raspberry in it. He glanced over and saw Shoko and Suguru sitting by the wall on high bar stools. They both were drinking small generic iced coffees.
Gojo knew they did this because they were both essentially broke.
That's why Shoko and Suguru were still flatmates. That's why they both still had day jobs. They were the literal definition of starving artists.
Whereas Gojo didn't need flatmates or a day job. He didn't even need to sell Infinite Void. He was rich enough to not need to.
Sometimes he wondered about this gulf between him and his friends. Fame. Money. Independence.
Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to actually date someone on his level.
Someone like Ryomen Sukuna, for instance.
Sadly, though, the rumors about him turned out to be true: Ryomen Sukuna was absolutely, one hundred percent, bugfuck crazy. Crazier than even the press or his publicist knew. Crazy beyond fileting pig carcasses and licking other people's blood and cutting them while unconscious.
Sukuna actually thought Gojo's dreams were real. That they were pieces of history that really happened.
And Sukuna insisted he was there for all of it.
Like they were connected somehow. Soulmates or some really dumb shit like that. He even claimed to know who had killed him in the dream about the bridge.
But Gojo had cut him off and told him he was calling an Uber to come take him home before he could go into yet another crazy story.
Because the actual truth of Sukuna's weird ramblings was a bit more mundane: Sukuna was creepily obsessed with Gojo. He got a good dose of that reality when he saw what Sukuna had been sketching while he was out cold on Xanax.
He'd been sketching Gojo.
And not for their painting.
No, the drawing was of him asleep there in his loft, lying on his stomach with his head and arm hanging off the bed.
What kind of head case actually did that? Add that in with all the other weird shit that Sukuna had pulled on him over the last few days and it got a bit more concerning.
A lot more concerning actually.
It made Gojo wonder if he was going to end up on a meat hook in Sukuna's studio. Dismantled by a chainsaw.
Still…it wasn't like he was Scheherazade in A Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Unlike her, he only had three more nights he had to get through. Enough to get this painting close to completion.
And surely he could hold Sukuna off for three more days…
…couldn't he?
He collected his drink at the end of the bar and went to join Shoko and Suguru at their high top table. He didn't even get to sit down before Shoko immediately started in with her rapid fire questions:
"Gojoooooo! I am so ready for you to spill all the details about Ryomen Sukuna! So tell me, how crazy is he really? Did you see any livestock? Or deadstock? I want to hear it all; give me everything!"
The caffeine was clearly making Shoko hyper, to the point she was rambling at him.
"Sukuna is indeed an actual nut case," Gojo confirmed as he took his seat. "He keeps chainsaws and meat hooks in his studio—"
"—oh hell yeah!" Shoko enthused. "I knew he was legit! So what else? What other insane shit did you see?"
Gojo was surprised at how much of a Sukuna groupie Shoko was turning out to be. He thought Mei Mei (who was currently on shift at the gallery) must be rubbing off on her.
Of course, there was one person at the table who was definitely not a Sukuna groupie.
Gojo looked over at Suguru and saw he had a look on his face like was being forced to dry swallow shards of broken glass. Gojo decided right then that it would be in his best interests to steer the conversation away from Sukuna for the time being.
But he didn't get a chance to reverse course because Shoko bounced up from her chair and declared, "Alright, I'm going out for a quick smoke! Back in a flash!" She flounced off without waiting for a response.
Shoko, Gojo knew, was a slave bound by cigarettes and alcohol. Completely addicted.
Gojo could relate. He was currently viewing the world from a Klonopin induced haze of muted sounds and colors. Like he'd taken life's universal remote and turned down the volume on reality.
It made navigating his day to day life a little more bearable.
The moment Shoko was out of earshot Suguru started interrogating him. "Where were you last night?"
"Yey, sorry about that," said Gojo. "I fell asleep and didn't see any of your texts until after one."
"You fell asleep? You fell asleep where Satoru? Because I came by your place at ten and you definitely weren't there."
Gojo froze with his latte half way to his mouth. He mentally scrambled for purchase as he weighed his options of what to say next. But Suguru didn't give him a chance to answer before saying:
"I used the spare key you gave me and let myself in because…well, I misguidedly thought you'd be happy to see me. And also, I was a little concerned about you considering how many pills you like to…uh…use."
Gojo could see the pyroclastic flow of anger and suspicion swirling around in Suguru's dark eyes. And like Krakatoa he looked ready to blow. Big time.
Gojo considered just coming clean and telling him the truth. But that would require him to admit to at least two things that he knew Suguru would give him hell for: taking too much Xanax and staying half the night in Sukuna's loft.
So he said nothing.
"Well? Are you going to tell me or not—"
"—I don't think I like your interrogation tactics," Gojo answered coldly. "I also don't need any more stalkers either—"
"—more, huh?" Suguru interrupted with an arched brow. "The other stalker wouldn't happen to be named Sukuna—"
"—oh, stop it, Suguru! Just be direct for once and ask me if I'm fucking Ryomen Sukuna." A shadow fell across the table and everything went briefly silent as Gojo turned to see Shoko standing there. Her mouth was hanging open. Then she asked, in a strangely excited tone:
"Are you fucking Ryomen Sukuna?"
Suguru slammed his ice coffee down and stormed off. Gojo gave Shoko a wilting look over his shades. "Just whose side are you on Shoko?"
"What the fuck did I do?" Shoko whined defensively.
"And the answer is no, by the way! I am not fucking Ryomen Sukuna!" This was proclaimed at a loud enough volume that customers from as far off as the drink bar turned to stare. By this point Suguru was out the door. Gojo got up and hurriedly trailed after him.
"Hey, where is everyone going?" he heard Shoko wail behind him.
Gojo hit the cafe door with enough force to make a loud bang! as it swung back and hit the wall. He hesitated briefly out on the all too bright sidewalk. He looked around him as pedestrians flowed by in an endless stream, breaking around his inert form like waves on rocks. He finally spotted Suguru's slouching frame, hands shoved deep in his pockets, headed in the opposite direction of the pub. Gojo set off.
"Hey! Wait up!"
"Fuck off, Satoru," Suguru grumbled without even turning around.
Gojo managed to overtake him after a hurried sprint. "Can we talk for a minute? Because whatever you think it is I'm doing with Sukuna, it's not what you think…"
…because what he was actually doing with Sukuna was probably weirder and more disturbing and definitely something Suguru would one hundred percent not approve of…
"Oh, cut the bullshit!" Suguru said without stopping. "You were being evasive back there for a reason, which tells me you've done something you don't want me to know about."
He's not wrong about that, Gojo thought as he kept pace with Suguru. "Look, I'm just saying you don't need to be jealous of Sukuna." Gojo reached out and grabbed Suguru's hand in an attempt to get him to stop. Gojo tugged him away from the sidewalk and underneath a restaurant awning.
"Why can't you just trust me on this? I can handle Ryomen Sukuna—"
"—handle? Why do you need to handle him?" Suguru shook his head. "You just told Shoko that he's a nutcase who keeps a chainsaw in his studio! Forgive me for being a little concerned but I don't like the idea of you being alone with that psychopath. In fact, I think you should stop going up there!"
Gojo immediately shook his head no. "I've already done two nights and a huge fucking canvas is being delivered today! And that thing is going to be fucking epic looking when it's done—"
"—oh, is it now—"
"—it is!"
And then there was also the part Gojo didn't say out loud:
And I've already given my literal blood to this thing…
"You are weirdly obsessed with this painting—"
"—yey, so what if I am?"
"You sure it's the painting you're obsessed with? And not, say, the artist?"
Gojo narrowed his eyes at Suguru over his sunglasses. "I'm not just modeling you know. I actually added some new iconography to the piece that's going to look—"
"—you did what now? So you're actually working with Sukuna to create this piece? When the hell did that start?" From the look on Suguru's face one would have thought that Gojo had just told him that he'd sucked Sukuna's dick.
And Gojo thought he may have looked even less affronted by that if he had.
"Look," said Suguru. "Tell Shoko I'm not feeling up to going to the pub tonight—"
"—oh, so now you're gonna bail on us?" Gojo took Suguru's hand again, edging in close. "Okay, I fucked up last night, but I really, really wanted to spend time with you today." Gojo caressed his hand with his fingers, trying not to be too physically bold on a crowded street as he whispered in his ear:
"Let me make it up to you. Come back to my place right now and I'll ride your cock until your knees buckle and you'll be fucking begging me for a reprieve—"
"—are you still going to Sukuna's studio later?" This was said with a clenched jaw.
Gojo froze. When he didn't answer right away, Suguru pulled away from him. Finally Gojo said, almost pleadingly, "I can't not go, not this far in—"
Suguru was vigorously shaking his head. He started backing away, out onto the busy sidewalk. "Then that's a no for me Satoru. Maybe we can get together after this whole thing with Sukuna is all over, but not right now—"
He broke off and started walking away with his head bowed and his hands stuffed in his pockets. He said over his shoulder:
"I really hope you come back from this, Satoru. I really do…"
Gojo stood there with his mouth hanging open. He glared up at the red and white striped awning he was standing under.
He couldn't believe Suguru had just broken up with him in front of a fucking KFC.
The slowly descending sun had turned the sky into a saffron and pink infused twilight by the time Gojo and Shoko finally parted ways at the pub. The evening was cut short because Gojo was due at Sukuna's loft at eight.
He had a car pick him up and drop him off at the Malevolent Shrine. When he got out at the curb, he was visibly wobbling.
The time at the pub had been awkward. Suguru's absence proved a real mood killer and soon the atmosphere turned maudlin. Gojo had ended up ordering a drink from the bar, which earned him some rather concerned looks from Shoko. And all because Gojo almost never drank.
This one drink eventually turned into two. Which didn't seem like a lot, but combined with the Klonopin, the combination soon had Gojo drunk in earnest.
Shoko got really concerned after that. So much so that she even offered to accompany him to the Gallery. Gojo had just laughed her off, saying he didn't need a chaperone like he was in some Jane Austen novel.
What a ridiculous notion.
Besides, it's not like he had never been in Sukuna's loft while under the influence before.
This time Uraume gave him a suspicious and narrowed eyed look when he showed up. And all because Gojo was a little too smiley and a little too cheery this time when Uraume took him upstairs.
He was drunk off his ass and feeling happily, comfortably numb.
Which was far better than thinking about Suguru's rejection from earlier. Better than thinking about what he could possibly be throwing away.
It was just too bad Suguru couldn't see past his own jealousy. That Gojo couldn't make him understand how important creating this painting was to him. Even more so than his own work.
Suguru just couldn't, wouldn't understand it.
Because if he had any kind of instincts or sensibilities at all, then he'd realize this painting was going to fucking slay when it finally debuted.
And why wouldn't Gojo not want a part in that?
This time when Uruame led him into the studio Gojo bypassed the changing screen and clothing rack altogether.
Because like a fly attracted by the iridescent, light refractive strands on a web, he was drawn in by one specific object in the room: a large canvas on a double easel.
It was currently blank.
But not for long.
And along with the arrival of this canvas came several new objects that were occupying the scarred wooden work table. Gone was the chainsaw and several other sharpened implements. In their place was a stone platter, a muller, a decanter of oil and several jars of various colored minerals.
Gojo couldn't withhold his smile of delight at his instant recognition of these objects. He dared to reach out and pick up each container for closer examination, ignoring the icy scowl of disapproval Uraume threw his way for daring to touch Sukuna's things again.
The jars gleamed like precious jewels under the candle light. Lead white, bone black, red ocher, verdigris. All the colors needed to make the paint from scratch. Just like the old masters. And from a recipe that was at least four hundred years old.
Gojo felt a sense of warmth, of happiness curl through his chest. He was very much like a kid in a candy shop as he went down the line of materials, lingering and marveling over each shiny new ingredient.
There was one slender, smaller vial sitting at the very end of the row of jars. A fourth of the size, yet infinitely more valuable. Gojo picked this one up, watching the intense color of the stones glinting within like diamonds under firelight.
Ultramarine.
Vermeer's richest blue. For the color of his eyes.
The same color blue used on the scarf in Girl with a Pearl Earring.
As he stared into the vial, a memory slowly awakened and came slinking into focus—
In a dormer room crosshatched with dark timber, a dozen candles burn.
The smell of linseed oil hangs heavy in the air, even with the window thrown open to catch the night's breeze.
Minerals of the finest, saturated color lay in a stone bowl, shimmering like the constellations in the sky. He's trying his best to mull them down to just the right consistency, to the desired form.
With his hands he creates and achieves alchemy.
Turning the stone to paint.
Turning the paint to art.
Turning art into immortality.
A hand slides over and covers his own over the muller. Guiding him, showing him.
Guild artist, master…
Teacher, lover…
Desire permeates the room, invasive as the dark.
The colors will have to wait, as he falls into darkness, into his master's forbidden arms…
He was still holding the glass vial aloft when a deep voice by his ear said, "Do my choices please you?"
Gojo swayed under the aural assault as a hand reached around to take the vial from his fingers. So close. Close enough to feel the physical warmth, the heat of expelled breath.
Were those dormer beams overhead? With a window open to the stars?
Or a shelf of skulls? And an image of hell? In both, the candles burn—
Gojo didn't move away. He watched Sukuna step beside him, carefully placing the ultramarine back with the other materials. Tonight he was wearing a sleeveless black gi with a corded belt, a sartorial choice that displayed his striking tattooed arms to maximum advantage. Gojo felt his smile suddenly falter and he quickly turned away from the work table.
"What is it?" Sukuna asked with a slightly confused lilt. "I thought you would enjoy the challenge of us hand creating the color palette ourselves—"
"—us?" Gojo's interrupted, his head turning to show his profile without actually facing Sukuna. "What do you mean by us? I'm not the one creating—"
"—but I thought you'd want to?" That seductive silken voice was right at his back. "I thought it would make you…" The sentiment trailed off and Gojo stepped away from the hand Sukuna had raised towards him just in time, right before it could catch hold.
Staying cautiously out of reach. Wary, as of a predator.
Guild artist, master—
Teacher, lover—
And—
Eyes like the blood moon—
A harbinger of death—
Gojo looked longingly at the table of supplies. He really did want to indulge himself and try his hand at creating a custom palette for The Honored One. It was true, but…
…memory, or perhaps a dream of a memory—
—or a memory of a dream—
…held him back.
Sukuna's eyes looked almost hurt for a single fleeting moment before they swiftly changed again, flashing with self satisfaction and sphinx like mystery as they always did. "Hmm, and here I thought choosing the old way of doing things would please you. After all, I did this in tribute to you, my own Haley's Comet—"
"—I'm not your anything, let alone Haley's Comet—"
"—ah, but you are! You come around once a lifetime, burning bright and then flaring out. Lingering briefly, only to disappear and return again in the next lifetime. Infinite and infinitely unattainable."
Gojo rubbed his temples. The false cheer created by the alcohol was starting to dissipate and he could feel his mood shifting into something dark, something sour. "What is this nonsense you're babbling on about? Are you an aspiring poet now?"
Sukuna shrugged indulgently. "Perhaps in another life." Gojo turned to look at him, and that irritating smirk was back on his face. "But I really must insist you get over this ice prince routine for the time being," Sukuna continued. "Because tonight we'll both be taking the stage together, so to speak."
"What?"
Sukuna nodded his head in the direction of the freshly lit candles, and that's when Gojo noticed the new addition to the tableau:
The large gilt mirror from the corner had been moved and positioned directly in front of the bed. He'd been so engrossed with the new canvas and the items on the table that he had failed to make note of it. Gojo narrowed his eyes, a growing suspicion beginning to take shape in his alcohol and drug addled mind. A suspicion that Sukuna immediately confirmed:
"Well, who else did you think was going to play the part of the incubus?"
To be continued…