A/N: I honestly don't know why I update on this site. All my traction/interaction is on AO3 these days. Guess I just have fond memories of this place...hmm, now I'm thinking of Dali's The Persistence of Memory. Wish I had named the chapters after works of art now, because that's a good one. Missed opportunity there...

10. Red Right Hand

This is the dream, always:

In this dream, he can see…

He can see the rising arch of the bridge in the distance. It straddles the stream filled with cherry blossoms, dappled in shivering pink.

The velvety petals hug the ground like a blanket of stars. He follows them like a trail, their pearlescent glow showing him the way in the deepening twilight.

The night falls fast. The sun is fading, sinking towards the ground. Lower and lower…lower still.

Until it's a secondary arch beneath the bridge. An arch within an arch.

The light, it lingers. It is not yet gone.

Not yet—

And he is not dead.

Not yet—

No—

At this moment, he is still full of life, full of light. When the performance ends, he leaves to go to the bridge.

To go to him.

So eager is he that he still wears the blue morning glory kimono from the stage. He is still adorned with traces of makeup, still holds the gilt fan lightly between his fingers. Like a silver seraph passing over snow. This is how he appears. Unaware that he is being watched—

That he is being followed—

That the closer he gets to the bridge, the closer he gets to his end.

But right now he is unaware. Right now his thoughts are filled with love and anticipation and joy. His smile, unrestrained and untrained, lights up the dark. It attracts others to him, both wanted and unwanted. Innocent and indiscriminately.

He is a beckoning flame that attracts the one who waits in the dark—

Waiting to snuff out his fire, before it has the chance to burn—

And it is there, on the banks, that he is set upon—

By an imposter, by another—

Someone who would take from him—

Take everything, with metal and malice—

Below the bridge, he is dragged into the water, through vines of dying morning glories, sad symbol of impermanence, dead by dusk—

Until all that remains is—

Fear and—

Anguish and—

Fury.

The makeshift altar where the bed sat was steeped in gold, glowing like an amber honeycomb in the dark. Made bolder, brighter by the mirror's reflection doubling the light of the burning candle flames.

Gojo just stared at the huge gilt mirror. And silently weighed the information he had just been given.

Of course, he had known on some intrinsic level that Sukuna would be the one playing the part of the incubus. Had to. Because Gojo was much too attuned to the vision they were creating here to not be aware of this and yet…

…he was still thrown when confronted with the realization that Sukuna was going to be posing with him. Sukuna had never done any self portraits before so the reality of this possibility had never fully been allowed to sink in. That part of the composition had been easy to ignore.

Well, he wouldn't be able to ignore it any longer.

Because the man was pretty much going to be on top of him.

It occurred to Gojo that he could just walk out. He was swaying drunk and his emotions were all over the place and Suguru's criticisms kept playing over and over in his head like a guilty refrain. If he left now, he could possibly, probably, salvage their relationship.

But a part of him also knew that this was just him wanting to cling to the past, to what was.

He was conflicted. He knew that clinging to familiarity for the sake of familiarity wasn't serving who he was. That it was just a balm, a bromide, a tranquilizer for the soul. But that didn't change how much he'd come to rely on Suguru's constancy, his support. On having that soft place to fall, so to speak. But then again—

—this constancy was also the source of their conflict. It was true that Suguru had always been an ever-fixed mark, but the fact that he was fixed—unmoving, unbending—kept Gojo from discovering what could be, what he could become. It kept him from evolving, exploring. It was all too familiar, too comfortable. Too steeped in routine.

Familiarity…it was no longer enough.

Comfort and routine…they were no longer enough.

He needed more.

"What's gotten into you this evening?" Sukuna's questioning voice cut through the mental argument Gojo was having with himself. "You're looking entirely too morose tonight. And after all the trouble I went through—"

"—my mood doesn't have anything to do with you or this…" Gojo wandered back to the table of materials. His hand briefly touched the decanter of linseed oil. He remembered how the noxious smell had permeated his studio back when he had been working on Infinite Void. How much Suguru had complained.

Complained and hated it, while Gojo had secretly loved it. Because he was inspired and on fire and in the midst of creating something worthwhile.

"Has something unfortunate happened?" Sukuna asked him, in a strangely sympathetic sounding tone for once.

Gojo turned away, rubbing his eyes, ignoring the blurring, dancing dots of the candles in his periphery. "Just…some personal shit."

"Oh? Did that boy with the gauges finally break up with you? Or did you break up with him?"

Gojo's eyebrow shot up. "That's…none of your business."

Sukuna shrugged one shoulder and Gojo found himself focusing on the subtle ripple of his arm muscles. "It was inevitable. I knew from the moment he spoke for you, during that transparently jealous tantrum back in my gallery. That his grip on you was too tight, and bound to slip." An insinuating smirk crept over Sukuna's face.

"You were too much for him. He wanted to keep you small and caged and close, to bring you down to his level. Well, that was an experiment that was doomed to fail." Russet eyes flashed knowingly in Gojo's direction. "Those type of people will kill your creativity and drive and hunger if you let them—"

"—and what would you know about relationships—"

"—you're right, of course." Sukuna's eyes turned serious, almost like…

Eyes changing, like the moon sinking behind the clouds—

Full of mourning and—

Loss—

"I get left every time. Whether I will it or no. Fate, I fear, is against me in that regard."

"Tch. Sounds like you just keep making one shitty match after another—"

"—perhaps. I admit I have a weakness for beautiful but ephemeral things. Whereas I am doomed to always walk a long, slow path. But in the few fleeting moments when I do manage to find my desired match…" An almost wistful smile tugged at Sukuna's lips.

"…its perfection is incomparable and leaves all others wanting. Maybe even more so because of its inherent brevity." A mirthless chuckle escaped Sukuna's throat. "Ah, now look! You've gone and turned me all sentimental and melancholy. And I had meant for this evening to be celebratory. After all, I have a fine blank canvas, some wonderful new materials to work with and—" He turned and looked pointedly at Gojo.

"—the most alluring subject in the world."

Gojo scoffed at this pronouncement and turned away, heading (albeit unsteadily) towards the changing screen and the clothes rack. "Let's be real about who the actual subject is here," he said without looking back. "If you're playing the part of the incubus, then you're going to be dead center in this painting. And every other element in the piece, including myself, will lead the viewer's eye directly to you. You're an egotist and a psycho and a parasite and this is your own personal piece of self flattery." There was a slight pause as Gojo took in the distinct sound of low chuckling coming from Sukuna's end. Then he offered this final observation from behind the screen:

"I'm not an idiot, you know. I know exactly who the actual Honored One in this painting is!"

Behind the privacy of the changing screen, Gojo compulsively pulled out his phone. The screen proved obnoxiously bright in the darkened studio. His eyes casually flicked over some demons that were tormenting and herding some humans with sharpened sticks, eerily illuminated in its ambient glow.

No messages from Suguru appeared on his screen. Just two from Shoko, the first asking if he made it to the gallery okay, the second asking him what he did to make Suguru break up with him.

Of course Shoko would take Suguru's side in this, thought Gojo. They were roommates after all.

It took three drunken tries before Gojo managed to type a legible answer. Which was:

I'm fine.

(A lie).

And I didn't do anything.

(Debatable).

Gojo was far from fine though, and whether or not he had done anything that could be perceived as wrong as far as Suguru was concerned was simply a matter of opinion. In his mind he was in the clear. He may have done a lot of fucked up things in his time, but he had never repaid Suguru's steadfastness with unfaithfulness, ever. That was one line in their relationship he had never dared to cross.

Even though this sense of fealty was currently being mocked by an empty message screen…

Even though he was being rewarded with petulant silence…

Gojo's thumbs hovered over his messaging app. He bit his lip and weighed what to say. Or whether to say anything. He felt his mood slip from dark to dour as his fingers trembled with uncertainty above the keyboard.

"Hey, what's taking you so long?" Sukuna's voice boomed from the other side of the screen. No longer sounding sympathetic or concerned, just impatient and annoyed.

Gojo squeezed his eyes shut and shoved the phone back in his jacket pocket. "Give me a minute," he muttered loudly. He started undressing with drunken, graceless movements, kicking off his shoes and pulling his jacket off and tossing it haphazardly over the top of the screen. He struggled with the long tight sleeves of his black tee, forgetting about the shades propped on his head and knocking them to the floor when he finally managed to get his shirt up and over.

He staggered a bit as he bent down to retrieve his frames, almost losing his balance in the process. He straightened back up, glasses in one hand, shirt in the other. That's when he noticed the eye trained on him like a spyglass through the fold in the screen. He froze, staring—

Staring at a single eye, the color of rust—

A blood moon, the color of rust—

And eyes staring down at him—

Full of mourning and—

He stared back into that russet gaze that was watching him from the side bearing The Garden of Earthly Delights. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly backed up two paces, towards the clothes rack. He then turned his back to the screen and tossed both his shirt and frames blithely aside. His hands shook not the slightest as reached for the buttons and zipper on his pants, continuing to undress as if no one was there. He managed to shuck off his pants and briefs without unbalancing, slowly straightening and glancing back over his shoulder. He glared into the fold once again.

But the eye in the screen was gone.

"What the hell," he mumbled to himself, staring at empty space. He angrily yanked the cotton robe, no longer pure and fine and white, from its hanger. He wondered at his reaction just now. Was this the limit of his faithfulness then? Two hours post breakup and he immediately turns into a shameless exhibitionist, purposefully undressing while Sukuna watches him through the screen like a voyeur?

Was it because of the alcohol? Thoughtlessly mixed with the Klonopin?

Or was it because of the silence from Suguru? Because of the unacknowledged hurt of his rejection?

A quiet vindictive voice whispered from an unexamined mental corner: Ah, but perhaps you simply wanted to hurt him back a little, yes?

Along with a second, even uglier rejoinder:

Because you can't stand not being someone's object of desire, can you, Satoru? Your ego is so vast, such an infinite void, that it needs a constant source of attention and adoration.

Gojo shook his head as if to clear it of all these negative thoughts, these pointless self accusations. He slid the bloodied robe over his head and wandered back into the semicircle of candles. He reached the antique bed and threw himself lifelessly on top of it, initially turning and curling up on his side.

Looking both strangely youthful and vulnerable in this pose, he stared at his own shimmering blue eyes in the large standing mirror. Still watching his own reflection, he slowly, almost sensually, slid his hand up behind his neck, his fingers searching out and prodding at the fresh cut behind his ear. He purposefully pushed at the newly formed scab, digging in with his nails, until he felt a sharp staccato of pain singing out from the reopened wound.

He dropped his hand, the pads of his fingers coming away bloody. He stared at the reddened fingertips, the stains glittering a shiny carmine underneath the candlelight.

A flicker of movement in the mirror caught his attention and he looked up to see Sukuna's reflection standing just behind him, a veritable demon in his view. He had a large sketch pad tucked beneath his arm and he was staring at Gojo's bloody hand.

Gojo raised his other hand slightly in a question—

To which Sukuna nodded in answer—

Following this short (and completely silent) conversation, Gojo then smeared the blood onto the open palm and fingers of his clean hand as well. And with both hands bloodied, he rolled over onto his back and stretched his arms high above his head, taking up the necessary pose.

A pose that would show off his newly bloodied palms and fingertips.

"Hmm…guess there'll be some use of symmetry after all," Gojo remarked blandly, staring blankly at the room upside down.

"Well, have you ever seen half a stigmata?" was Sukuna's only reply.

Gojo resisted looking up into the mirror. So he responded with a jolt when he felt the sketchbook land directly on top of him.

His head immediately popped up. "What are you doing—"

"—working," Sukuna responded brusquely. "So don't move." Gojo felt pressure on his stomach as Sukuna proceeded to lean over and use him as a living drafting table.

"Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?" Gojo muttered indignantly, shifting uncontrollably in discomfort.

"Stop talking," Sukuna ordered. "And definitely stop moving." Gojo felt a sharp sting on his leg as Sukuna jabbed his cut through the hole in the robe with his charcoal in warning.

Gojo winced. "Don't you fucking jab me either—"

"—I'll do worse than that if you Don't. Stop. Moving." The threat came out as a deep rumble. Sukuna was concentrating, scowling, into the mirror. There was more pressure as Sukuna leaned onto the sketch pad, which caused Gojo to feel—

Weight, unbearable—

Suffocating him—

It was too slow—

Too—

"You know what, this isn't right," Sukuna muttered in a darkened tone to himself. He stopped pressing on Gojo long enough to sit back and undo the knot in his corded belt. Then in a single fluid movement he pulled off the gi he was wearing and tossed it aside.

Gojo couldn't help but watch the reflection in the mirror as Sukuna stretched languidly in the candlelight, rolling his head from side to side. The faint ripple of muscles, accented by the dark bands of his tattoos, made him look even more like a wild animal. Sleek and feral and undoubtedly dangerous.

As well as unremittingly seductive.

Just like his voice.

Just like everything else about him.

Gojo forced his eyes away from the mirror, away from the temptations outlined in that gilded frame. There was pressure on his stomach as he felt Sukuna leaning over him again. He could hear him scratching furiously with his charcoal. He struggled to remain still but—

The heaviness, the weight—

It was suffocating—

Pain was singing out from his body—

Pain like a never ending song because—

Gojo gulped in air, closing his eyes. Which of course earned him another jab from Sukuna. "Eyes open!" he barked.

Gojo reluctantly opened his eyes and stared into darkness. He squirmed uncontrollably, earning a third jab and—

It was too slow—

The weight, crushing him—

Not over fast enough—

Not enough weight—

Not enough—

Gojo snapped out of the dream?memory?hallucination? he was having long enough to take note of Sukuna's hand resting on his upper thigh in a way that was a little too intimate, a little too casual for his liking. His head popped up again. "Can you please move that hand?"

"Can you stay still?" Sukuna countered in response. The hand stayed firmly planted, holding Gojo mostly in place. Gojo felt his anxiety begin to ratchet up. The more Sukuna leaned on him, carelessly and crudely treating him like a piece of human furniture, the stranger he began to feel. An odd suffocating sensation took root in his chest, stealing his breath away like the metaphorical demon sitting on top of the dreamer in the original Nightmare. It felt almost like a panic attack, except he could feel his consciousness ebbing, being slowly submerged into—

A shallow pit—

Buried alive under stone—

One by one, stones are placed on top of him—

But it's too slow—

The agony, it is too protracted—

So he begs them—

Begs them for—

More weight—

His mind, gone blank, gone dark, sunk like a metaphorical stone. Down, down, into the riverbed of unconsciousness, allowing another to arise—

"GET OFF ME!"

Gojo was suddenly up and crouching on the bed, grabbing the sketch book and flinging it violently aside. Eyes wide and feral and haunted in the flickering candlelight.

Eyes that were not his—

A voice that was not his—

Yet were—

He crawled towards Sukuna who had gone completely wide eyed with surprise. Gojo shoved his face in close, sliding onto the other artist's lap, curling around him like an agreeable snake. His legs, bared to the thigh, wrapped around Sukuna, caging him like a cobra. There was steely purpose and fire and violence in his lapis blue eyes—

—eyes that were not his, yet were—

He trailed his bloodied hands seductively down Sukuna's bare chest, watching those russet eyes turn dark with lustful anticipation, with greedy, undisguised want. Gojo leaned in close, breathing into his ear, as his hands continued moving in a downward trajectory. He slid his hands over strong thighs, deftly maneuvering his fingers into Sukuna's pocket and—

His voice—both his, yet not—spoke in a low, accusatory whisper directly into Sukuna's ear:

"Why didn't you come back for me when I called out for you?" A slight pause, then a flash of metal rising in the mirror, like the flash of a smile—

—his own smile, both sinister and infected with vengeful malice—

—a smile that was his, yet not—

"You left me with a madman. You left me to die." A final hissed accusation. Then:

"Remember me, lover and never forget—" The hand wielding the stolen razor blade paused but briefly, hovering intentionally in the air.

"—that I see you. And I know what you are."

The hand came down and carved two decisive slashes, one right over Sukuna's jugular, one diagonally across his heart.

Blood arced in a fount of dark vermillion over Gojo's white clothes, over the sheets, thick scarlet droplets falling like rain. Sukuna flung Gojo off him, his hand instantly flying up to his neck in an instinctive attempt to stem blood flow. The color red, unstoppable and impossibly shiny, coursed over his fingers, over his hand…

It dripped onto the candles below, hissing like snakes as they made contact with open flame…

To be continued…