Author's Note: This is a dark one, dear readers. There might be doves here, of the dead variety, so consider yourself warned. This story takes place in an Art World AU with some supernatural elements. Expect blood, violence, drug use, bad sex, basically all the things. But if you like it angsty and dark with an unsettling atmosphere and creepy vibes, then turn up the volume, because this is a funeral for the living...

The Nightmare and The Honored One

The Killing Moon

This is the dream, always:

There is a man. He's standing on top of a bridge. A blood red moon hangs behind him, wreathing his head, like the haloed portrait of a Byzantine emperor.

The extinguished fire of a fading dusk burns in an orange glow near the ground. The light fades down, downward, until it flatlines. Flaring out like a matchstick at the water's edge.

The arch of the bridge is high above. The man waits there at the apex, looking down. He wears a white kimono with a diamond pattern belt. Its silken folds whisper, flapping languidly in the breeze.

His eyes burn like the blood moon, cast downward, filled with contempt. Towards the water, where the icy surface undulates in frigid waves beneath the bridge…

The sun was already gone when he awoke with a start.

Gojo groaned at having fallen asleep on the futon in his studio. He hadn't meant to. He had only meant to rest his eyes, maybe mindlessly scroll through his phone for a minute. Just a minute, not hours. But the combination of Percocet and Xanax he'd taken earlier probably hadn't helped with that. And the dreams they gave him were entirely too vivid. They were always so weird. So dark. So odd. So—

A flash of light, a scene—

Of a man in a kimono standing on an arch—

Looking down—

Down in the darkness—

Gone. The image was there one minute, gone the next. Flitting away like a lunar moth, not meant to last. With protesting limbs, Gojo pushed himself into a sitting position. He rubbed his face and stared at the wall where a giant blue eyeball stared right back.

Infinite Void.

That was the name of the piece. A large canvas that took up most of the exposed brick. His own eyeball, painted with no less than thirty different shades of blue, the colors entirely made by hand. A tribute to Man Ray's Glass Tears, this painting was his one great claim to fame. But that was from two years ago. He'd done nothing of note since.

He tried not to think of it.

He spied his phone laying on the floor. He leaned over and swiped it from the ground, ignoring the wave of dizziness that washed over him. He tried to remember exactly how much Percocet he'd taken…

…tried and failed. With a groan of regret, he got off the futon and walked unsteadily to the sliding glass doors that led to his balcony. The gaze of the giant eyeball on the wall followed him. That balcony and its view were the raison d'etre for him choosing this place for his studio. As he stepped outside he was greeted with a welcoming breeze that blew iciness through his hair.

Outside were all the wonders of the night.

A couple of doors down was a theater, its arrowed marquee ablaze with scrolling lights, blinking like fireflies and writhing like snakes above the sidewalk…

A gold dome fitted with a massive clock glared at him from across the street…

A live band played somewhere in a courtyard a street or two over, its bass drum pounding like a living heart…

The din of traffic from the road below him droned under all of it like a distant refrain…

The night was alive. Alive and writhing and pulsing with activity. With flashing lights and city sounds and the human chatter that signaled a shimmering, thriving nightlife.

Sometimes he loved these sights and sounds more than anything.

And sometimes the sensory overload was just a bit too much.

Far too much.

This was why he had a drawer filled with Percocet, Lortab, Klonopin, Xanax. That's why he was constantly dampening himself, tamping down life. There was simply too much over stimulation. He couldn't handle it all. But at the same time—

He glanced back at the eyeball on the wall.

Two years.

The time had gone by unnoticed. He had the unsettling notion that maybe, just maybe, the constant use of painkillers was inhibiting him too much. That it was killing his creativity. But not taking anything incurred a different kind of cost.

He wasn't yet ready to pay that cost. Not now. So he kept on painting these canvases filled with Rothko-esque colored blocks of blue, red and purple. Canvases that were meaningless.

Pointless.

Empty.

Why wasn't his mind cooperating with him?

All of his friends were artists. They had all gone to the same art school. Suguru, Shoko, Mei Mei. Yet he was the only one who was granted the favored touch of fame. The only one to get noticed. It had been a real ego boost at the time. But now that two years had passed, with his graduation a dot in the rear view mirror, and nothing new to show—

—he immediately cratered these thoughts, and thumbed open his phone's screen. He had four missed messages, two from Shoko, two from Suguru.

Come out tonight, we have news!

We're celebrating, come to the pub

Mei Mei has hit the big time

Mei Mei got a job at the Malevolent Shrine!

Gojo scoffed out loud at the last message. Malevolent Shrine. That was the stupid, overblown bombastic name of Ryomen Sukuna's gallery downtown—

Scratch that—

Exclusive gallery downtown.

Because if you were able to land a showing at Ryomen Sukuna's gallery, you were almost guaranteed success. This was a known fact.

Gojo scoffed aloud a second time, staring at the messages. It said a job, not a showing. After all, there was no way in hell Sukuna would deign to show Mei Mei's trite gothy bird paintings. He would no doubt view that sort of shit as something beneath him.

Not that Gojo thought much of Sukuna's work either. In his mind, the man was nothing more than a provocateur, a dilettante. Running around with face tattoos and ever changing hair colors and tribal bands up and down his arms. Doing derivative pieces that looked like ripoffs of Francis Bacon. Canvases with painted sides of bloody beef. Installations of dead pigs hanging from meat hooks that he dared to declare art.

It was all rubbish.

So naturally the public ate it up with a spoon.

The art world was in love with the man. They waited with baited breath to see what odd, garish—or more accurately—psychotic stunt Sukuna would pull next. Because this was a known fact as well…

…Ryomen Sukuna was a raving psychopath.

How much of it was real and how much of it was for show was still up for debate. But it was undeniable: the man understood the power of spectacle. Whether it meant bleeding onto his own canvases and mixing it in with the paint, or lopping off the ends of his own fingers (allegedly) for performance, he certainly knew how to draw an audience. Some would call this fearlessness. Some would call this dedication. But Gojo called it what it looked like:

Ridiculous.

Still, if it made Mei Mei happy to have a job where she was within smelling distance of Sukuna's rotting pig carcasses, then more power to her. And if his friends wanted to celebrate this job acquisition, then he would join them down at the pub. He just needed to grab his keys and jacket.

And maybe a Lortab before going out.

It was far too noisy inside the pub. Too packed, too raucous.

It was lovely to look at to be sure. All wood paneling and faux British decor. Quirky ceramic figurines of the late queen lined the shelves behind the bar, guarding the liquor bottles. Their labels winking under Edison bulbs, the gold foil catching the light just so. A canopy of flags hung from the ceiling, hovering protectively, encapsulating it all like a big amber beehive. Buzzing with activity. Everything was molten gold and glaring and loud.

Too loud.

He hated it.

It didn't stop him from joining his friends at a corner table at the end of the bar. The table's location was prime real estate. They must have wanted a proper celebration. Shoko caught sight of him and started waving enthusiastically. He dodged other patrons, other tables, frowning beneath black shades as he went.

Gojo weaved a serpentine path to their table. There was a questioning quirk to Suguru's eyebrow. Judgemental. Concerned.

Maybe he had been weaving a little too much?

He shooed Shoko into the corner seat, preferring the outside chair. He didn't like being caged in. Not in such a boisterous, crowded place. Another patron knocked into him trying to get to the bar. He tried not to become annoyed. Or at least, he tried not to let his annoyance show.

"Where have you been?" Shoko practically yelled at him over the din. "We texted you hours ago."

"I was busy," he lied.

"Working on something new?" Suguru asked. He sounded hopeful. His faith in him was unwavering, even after all these years. If nothing else, he could always count on Suguru. Could rely on him to be an ever-fixed mark.

"Maybe," he muttered, probably too low to be heard. He thought of a book on Manet he'd been looking at. There might be something there.

Something, perhaps the beginnings of an idea.

Possibly.

Mei Mei flicked her braid aside, grinning and glowing with self satisfaction. Lately she'd taken to wearing her hair in an edgy fashion, silver hair woven and curtaining her eyes. The puffed sleeves she wore made her look like an undead bride. Gojo had to admit that she would make a great looking gallery girl.

Apparently Sukuna thought so too.

Mei Mei was going on about her new job, half of which Gojo missed.

"…all the girls who work there have silvery white hair." she was saying. "Like Uraume, his P. A. Sukuna has a very specific type."

"Never mind his type," said Shoko. "When do we get to see it?"

Gojo knew the 'it' she was talking about had to be the Malevolent Shrine. None of his friends had ever been inside of it.

Because none of them had ever done anything to garner an invite.

Not even him.

"Tch!"

Shoko glared at him. "Don't make that face Gojo! You know you want to see it, too, no matter what you say!"

"If I wanted to see slabs of rotting meat, I'd go hang out in an abattoir," he countered.

"It's not just slabs of meat. There's other creepy things in there, too," said Mei Mei, practically sighing in admiration.

Like some kind of goddam Sukuna groupie…

"Oh well, that should definitely interest Gojo then! Because he paints creepy things too!"

"I do not!"

"You sleep under a giant fucking eyeball! That shit is unnerving!" insisted Shoko. "Just ask poor Geto here."

Suguru, at least, had the presence of mind to at least look a little sheepish about it. "Sorry, Satoru, but I have to agree with Shoko. Having a giant eye staring at you while you're trying to…sleep, is, uh, weird."

Gojo frowned and grabbed Suguru's glass and took a quick drink. He had foregone getting his own. He was a complete lightweight anyway and didn't want to mix alcohol with all the other things that were currently floating around in his system. He avoided Suguru's look of disapproval.

Or maybe it was a look of disappointment.

The man was always trying to be Gojo's moral compass. And for the most part, Gojo tried. He tried to lay off all that shit when they were together. Hence getting a bump in before even coming here. Because he knew there was a good chance Suguru would want to go home with him after this.

That was their usual way of doing things.

Mei Mei waved hands with dark aubergine nails like a jazz singer and cooed. "Well, tonight is your lucky night, Shoko darling! Because Sukuna is having a showing this Friday evening, and guess what?"

Shoko clapped and screamed, "No way!"

"Yes! I've got all of you tickets to come as part of my sign on bonus!"

Shoko and Mei Mei were both bobbing up and down in their seats like overly excited dolphins. Even Suguru had a wide smile on his face. The smile faltered a little when he caught Gojo's unenthusiastic look.

"Oh, c'mon!" said Suguru. "It'll be fun! It'll at least be interesting! We can all make a night of it!"

Gojo gave Suguru a doubtful look over the top of his dark opaque shades but didn't disagree. Suguru took this as an assent. He turned to Mei Mei and asked her for the time and other details. Gojo tuned both of them out and snuck another drink from Suguru's glass.

So…he was finally going to see a showing at the Malevolent Shrine.

A tremor of excitement fluttered through him, unbidden.

It was a bit annoying to realize that maybe he was more interested In Ryomen Sukuna than he had thought.

Gossamer curtains swayed ghostlike in the breeze, blowing across balcony doors that were thrown open to the night air. Every now and then a strobing light would pierce the darkness, skittering across the studio floor. Like lighted ant trails, invading and marching along scuffed wood. Outside the traffic hummed constantly in the background, creating an ever present wall of white noise.

And over the railing hung a large red moon, steeped in rust.

This is the dream, always:

A man stands on an arched bridge. A bulbous moon circles his head, crowning him with blood. High above, looking at him from below. This is always the view…

Always…

His eyes lower towards the water. His jaw is set in stony arrogance. Hands crossed and hidden in billowing sleeves. The waves gently rolling below, licking the mossy stones.

A secret lost to time…

From a millennia ago…

Fear.

Anguish.

Then fury.

All fading with the dying light, burning low into the ground. Until it's a ribbon, then a line, then a crack. The crack of an eye, staring up at the arch.

At a man in a white kimono. A harbinger of death…

Gojo's head popped up, suddenly flung from the dream. Beneath him Suguru stirred, as he'd been using his chest for a pillow. Gojo waited until his breathing evened out, signaling his return to sleep. Then he got up.

He walked groggily to the balcony doors, lured by the seductive touch of the night air. He stood naked in the doorway, framed by a cold rusty moon.

A red moon framing a man on a bridge—

The night had almost ended in conflict. Almost. It never quite came to pass, though. Mostly because Suguru was too good natured to be goaded into a fight. He was too moral, too steady.

Too much of a comfort.

Sometimes Gojo wished they would have a real fight, an actual physical altercation. With screaming, yelling, the whole nine yards. Instead they existed in this suspended equilibrium. Never moving forward or back. Stuck in stasis. Neither here nor there.

Which was nowhere.

He knew Suguru disapproved of his drug use.

He knew he wanted Gojo to get a real bed and get rid of the uncomfortable futon.

He knew that Suguru would move in if he only fixed these two things.

So he didn't fix them.

And they continued on, like this, stuck at a relationship impasse.

A man framed by a red moon—

A killing moon—

Gojo stared at the red disc in the sky. Was this what they called a harvest moon? Something like that? He couldn't remember. He looked back over his shoulder at Suguru, asleep and under the watchful eye of Infinite Void.

He had tried to get Suguru to be rough with him earlier. Sometimes this strategy worked, if Suguru had enough alcohol in him. But this time he had refused. The few times he'd given in to Gojo's whims, his pleas for violence during sex, he always felt remorse afterwards. He would look at all the bite marks the next day, the bruises, and declare it off limits. He would chalk it all up to drunken folly.

He didn't realize Gojo was struggling to feel something—

Anything—

That he needed this from him—

Suguru didn't understand the solace the weight of his hands could bring him. That if he wanted to, he could breathe life into Gojo's unfeeling body if he would just break—

If he would just break him—

Just a little—

But he was too damn comfortable.

And that was the last thing he needed. For comfort was a creativity killer.

God, what he would give if he could only feel half of what he had felt while working on Infinite Void. Now that would be worth something. Maybe everything. That feeling of all consuming obsession. The passion. The driving urge.

The fire.

That was a distant and elusive memory. Because right now he felt absolutely nothing.

And he didn't know how to get it back.

He turned away from the balcony and went over to his drafting table, looking down in the dimness at the canvas he'd left there. Of a round painted ball, purple edging into indigo and violet, soft around the edges.

Worthless, useless.

But then:

A scene—

An arched bridge, high above—

A man standing there—

The urge to grab his sketch pad and start drawing this image was pushing him to sit at the table. But it was dark inside. And he didn't wish to disturb Suguru by turning on the light.

So he left it.

And he forgot about it.

He forgot about it until Friday evening, when he and his friends finally went into the Malevolent Shrine.

To be continued…