13. In the Darkness Can You Hear Me Call
Gojo threw open the studio door and stormed past the murky gray skyline framed by the loft's windows. His fingers played absentmindedly over his bottom lip, still swollen, savaged by all the rough, demanding kisses that Sukuna had pressed on him.
Why are you running away…
You should return to him…
He could feel the presence of that other one, pushing at him from the darkened recesses of his psyche. There was the sense of a steely will, of someone both cunning and creative. And not only that but—
—he spoke with the certainty, the surety, of one who was desperately in love.
I fear for Ryomen. He endures such loneliness…
"Shut up! I don't care!" Gojo yelled out loud to no one at all. He was trying to ignore the subtle intoxicating pull, the overriding urge to turn around and go back—
Trying to ignore the impulse to just go and push himself up against Ryomen Sukuna's naked torso—
To just give in and give himself over to pure physical need—
There was a whisper in the back of his head, of something untamed and primordial, calling to him from the dark.
But was it—
He couldn't tell if—
He couldn't tell if this was his own desire, his own will, or the shadow of lust held by another, one who was long gone but still here—
He couldn't tell—
He got as far as the reproduction of Judith Slaying Holofernes and halted. He suddenly realized that his jacket, presumably with his phone still inside its pocket, was back in Sukuna's bedroom.
"Fuck!" Gojo rolled his eyes and he turned around and went back.
The Xanax was starting to wear off and he was becoming hyper aware of absolutely everything around him. The shiny, reflective arc of blood in Artemisia's painting. The slow illumination of the surrendering dark outside. The lingering touch of Sukuna's fingers on his skin. And the voices—
—a voice that was his yet not—
Beseeching him from the void. Exerting its influence.
I am you and you are me…
Gojo clenched his jaw against a persistent headache and growing fever, trying his best to remember the way back to Sukuna's room. He followed the bank of windows until he found the short corridor opposite the door to the studio. He went down it, ignoring the nausea-inducing red cast of the lights until he found the correct door.
He went inside, homing in on the single lamp, ignoring the objects and furniture outlined in shadows. He glanced up at the Vermeer above the headboard and paused. Feeling vindictive, he reached up and pulled it down from the shelf.
He considered just taking it.
He stared down at the small masterpiece, at the three figures occupying the canvas. Innocently holding an afternoon concert. Or so it would seem.
The painting of The Procuress on the wall directly behind them would seem to suggest otherwise.
Always such ambiguity, sitting there in plain sight, yet so easy to ignore…
"You can have that if you want it."
Gojo turned his head to find Sukuna casually leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and watching him, rust colored eyes glinting in the dimness. Gojo frowned and put the painting back on the shelf. "I really don't think it's yours to give," he pointed out.
He kept his eyes fixed on the Vermeer and not on Sukuna's still naked chest.
A deep throated laugh sounded from the doorway. "What's the point? The old bat's long dead and gone—"
"—you stole it—"
"So what if I did? Maybe don't hire a drunken metal head as your lone security guard. It only took a few drinks and he pretty much gave me the grand tour—-"
"—I can't believe you—"
"—it wasn't planned. Truly. But it was just so damn easy that I couldn't help myself. And let's face it, I've done far worse." Gojo thought he saw a lengthening Cheshire Cat's smile on Sukuna's face, but he couldn't be sure.
And he didn't want to ask about what he'd done that had been far worse. "You can't just give me a three million dollar painting," said Gojo.
"I can and I will," Sukuna shrugged. "I'd give you anything. Anything you want. You should know that by now—"
"—no, I don't know that—"
"—what do you know then—"
"—I know that you're not mortal and you never go out in the daytime—"
"—well, we all have our flaws," Sukuna said casually, bluntly. No denial. No disputing what Gojo had just said.
Gojo sat on the bed and allowed those words to sink in. Then he asked:
"Who is Kenjaku?"
"Ah, yes…the thing I was trying to tell you about the other night when you so rudely interrupted me—and speaking of interruptions, Uraume is sending me a text." Gojo watched Sukuna pull his phone from the back pocket. "By the way, what tipped you off about the daylight?"
"My dreams," Gojo said quietly. "Except for that very first dream with the bridge and the sunset, all of them are dark. Pitch black. All of them."
"Hmm, a thousand years of pitch black can honestly make one go a little nutty." Sukuna was glaring at his phone screen and Gojo wasn't sure how to interpret his response. Then Sukuna said in his low, sonorous tone, "For some unknown reason I've been graced with a visit from your…boyfriend? Ex? The 'it's complicated' status?…and that girl who visited my gallery."
Gojo's eyes widened as he remembered the phone call he'd made to Suguru. Just tell me where you are and Shoko and I will come get you. He reached over and snagged his jacket and started rooting around for his cell. He searched all the pockets, but came up empty handed. Then he remembered—-
—he remembered dropping it on the street.
"Guess I better go make an appearance then," Sukuna said cheerfully with a sinister grin—
"—wait I'm coming too—"
—and then Sukuna slid from the doorway and slammed the door shut before Gojo could even make it across the room.
Gojo heard the telltale sound of the lock being engaged from the other side. "What the fuck?" Gojo immediately started pulling at the doorknob, yelling. "You can't be seriously doing this? Open the goddam door, asshole!" But no response came from the other side. His heart started beating wildly, sent into overdrive as he realized that he'd been purposefully locked in.
Locked in by a psycho.
Locked in by an impervious, inhuman, immortal psycho.
Gojo continued to futilely beat and yell at the locked door. His thoughts flew like scattered, scared birds as realized what was going to happen…
Sukuna was going to go down there and talk to Suguru and Shoko…
With zero wounds on him, looking refreshed and distinctly uninjured…
Right after Gojo told Suguru he'd attacked Sukuna with a razor blade and cut him and that there was blood everywhere….
So who's going to look like a psycho now? a little voice in the back of his head taunted him.
Gojo gave the door one last vicious kick before giving up and stalking back to the bed. He had the urge to go full unhinged rock star on Sukuna's room and trash the place, but then he took a look around at the various art pieces:
The beautiful Vermeer—
The Rembrandt—
The Manet—
And even an ancient Chinese gu on the side table (also stolen, Gojo noted, which made him glare anew)—
And he couldn't do it. He reached over for his jacket and rifled through the pockets for his bottle of pills.
And found that those, too, were missing.
His shoulders sagged in defeat and he raked his hands through his hair in frustration. He was only slightly alarmed by how hot his skin felt. His throat also felt sore, like he'd been gargling with pieces of jagged tinfoil, made raw after all the useless yelling he'd done.
He felt like shit.
He had zero pills on him.
And he was locked in a lunatic's bedroom.
Gojo turned and curled up on his side, beads of sweat trailing along his hairline. He stared up at the softly illuminated Vermeer, at the beautiful color palette, and he silently stewed. He lay there, plotting, spinning various revenge scenarios against Sukuna in his head as time passed unmarked, and his eyelids grew heavy.
He drifted off, dreaming of a Delft blue vase sitting in the corner.
He's trying to protect you, you know. After his own fashion.
Shut up, says Gojo. Stop trying to defend that lunatic.
His madness comes from the years, the centuries spent in complete darkness. From enduring an unending, unendurable curse—
—we're the one who's cursed, insists Gojo. We keep dying, horribly, over and over, while we're still young—
—no, you have it wrong, says the one lounging on the straw bed beneath the dormer beams. It is not we who are cursed. Think about the painting you're both creating. Think about the focal point. You're just a detail there, a piece of the composition. His one arc of light in the dark. He looks up with pity at Gojo and he says:
Please try to see it from Ryomen's point of view. He must watch us die, again and again. Endlessly, relentlessly. Always losing the thing he loves most—
Tch. Ridiculous, says Gojo.
So cold, he says. So cruel. I pity you. You don't know what it is to feel complete unwavering devotion. You do not know love. You only have a memory, a pale reflection of it, from long ago…
That's not true, says Gojo defensively.
…you only have my memory of love, he says. The one lounging on the bed props his chin on his hand and smiles wistfully. Why did you feel such joy at seeing a Delft blue vase, so much so that you took it and put it in your art? It was because of the memory of a feeling. You wanted to recapture it, hang it on a wall—
—no, says Gojo, shaking his head.
It's true, says the other, but it's not too late. Stop taking those pills. Regain your sight. Allow yourself to see and to feel. You must. Otherwise…
No, Gojo still shakes his head.
…like that vase, you'll just keep breaking the things you claim to love. And you will lose to Kenjaku…
Gojo tossed and turned, racked with fever and chills, lost inside a dream that felt like a never ending nightmare/argument. At one point he woke up and grabbed the Chinese nu from the end table. He sniffed the opening, and proceeded to drink whatever was inside it. It tasted like unfiltered water.
He felt dehydrated.
He felt tired beyond reason.
The lamp above the headboard glared at him like a miniature, malevolent sun, making spots of light dance across his vision, until he became annoyed enough by it that he reached up and switched it off. In the darkness the checkerboard tiles of The Concert shimmied and swayed above him like an undulating chessboard. He squeezed his eyes shut against it and rolled himself up in the bed's duvet, fighting off another bout of chills.
Time passed and he drifted off again.
This time when he dreamed there was no Delft blue vase or dormer beams overhead. No clock attached to a looming spire. There was a beautiful stream, gurgling softly like a newborn, its surface set ablaze with a marmalade glow. Hundreds of petals, pristine and impossibly pink, floated along its rippling waves, spinning like blown dandelions.
In this dream Gojo walked to the water's edge, stepping carefully over moss covered stones. He stopped and stared down into the water's reflection, just like Narcissus from myth. Through the smattering of cherry blossoms he saw—
He saw himself—
Or rather, his first self: so heartbreakingly young and perfect, staring up at him from beneath the shallow waves. A drowned angel draped in silken morning glories, a felled unicorn. Eyes a vivid glowing ocean inside reefs of kohl. His mouth moved as he floated there below the surface, silent, unheard. He watched himself reach up, reach towards him—
—but his younger self was sinking, receding. Even as he seemed to be speaking, desperately trying to communicate with him from a watery grave.
Gojo fell to his knees at the lip of the stream and plunged his arm through the mirrored surface, desperately trying to catch hold of the falling morning glories. But the moment his hand touched the water, ripples overtook the stream, and his younger self disappeared from sight.
The burnished glow at the water's edge sunk down with him, turning day into dusk.
The light, along with all the unheard words of his younger self, were lost to a shadowy darkness…
…a shadowy darkness was all he saw when his eyes suddenly cracked open. He had been wakened by something—
A noise—
A sound—
From across the room—
He heard the hushed creek of the bedroom door as it slowly swung open. No sound of footfall, but he could sense a presence moving towards him, a strong, chaotic aura that was as dark as the inky blackness that stalked the corners of the room.
He lay on his side, facing away from the door, facing the end table. He felt the mattress dip behind him, felt a hand sweep through his hair, finally coming to rest against his forehead.
He was no longer feverish, but cool to the touch.
The meager light from the doorway fell over the pale of his hair and his right hand, both distinct points of light in the dark. This right hand slowly began to move, lazily traveling upward. It gently covered the one lying against his forehead. Then he turned and rasped softly a single word:
"Ryomen…"
He heard the sharp intake of breath from behind him as he rolled over onto his back, the saturated blue of his eyes shining like twin stars in the dark.
"Ryomen…"
He felt a set of hands cupping his face. In the dimness he saw ruby eyes flashing with savage longing, with desperate, naked desire. It was a combination that both thrilled and frightened him, that clawed at something deep down inside his very being. The haunted look in those russet eyes caused his breath to catch even as he whispered in the sensuous, simmering dark:
"You asked me to come back to you, so I did—"
Any words after that were swallowed up, lost, imbibed by the mouth that was suddenly covering his own. By the tongue cleaving its way inside. With his lips, Sukuna staked his claim on him, again and again. He felt the mattress give, sinking further down as Sukuna rolled over him, his knee wedging his legs apart, clutching first at his hair, then his shoulders—
Touching him as if he couldn't get enough of him, his hands everywhere all at once—
Roaming possessively, covetously, over his body—
It was a feeling as familiar as the memory that ignited it, from a desire threaded through silken tendrils of time—
From soul memory, wound around love and lust's persistent, desperate and enduring refrain—
He pushed at the strong shoulders above him, urging him lower. Sukuna's mouth finally released his, teasing and tasting his way all along the pristine column of his throat, biting and sucking his way down to his collarbone—
Moving languorously, indulgently, leaving no inch of skin untouched—
Leaving no piece of him unmarked—
Singeing him with a lingering, worshipful slowness, traveling lower and lower down—
His breaths were coming quicker, sharper, now; his heart was fluttering inside his chest like a bird trapped in a steel cage. He threw his arms up above his head, unconsciously mimicking the pose from The Honored One as Sukuna pushed up his shirt. He felt black painted nails dragging across his chest, down his sides, pulling from him a low and decidedly lewd sounding groan.
His hands slipped further and further up the bed, blindly clawing at the duvet as he felt Sukuna's tongue flicking over his chest. He felt a jolt of electricity shimmy down his spine as Sukuna latched onto his nipple; heard his own reflexive moan pierce the dark as he felt the sting of teeth on sensitive flesh. His body was like a live wire under Sukuna's hands, the interwoven signals of pleasure and pain racing straight from his nipple down to his cock. His back arched off the bed—
Even as his fingers moved desperately along the covers—
Until they brushed up against the table and the Chinese gu resting on it—
—and in one swift, calculated movement he swept it from the table and bashed Sukuna across the head with it.
Without waiting to see the fallout, he frantically shuffled off the side of the bed. He hit the ground running, determined to escape this dark and carnally charged prison cell.
Gojo barreled through the open bedroom door and raced down the blood red hallway, past the bank of (now curtained) windows. In the darkened office area he briefly lost his way, turning in circles as he questioned his sense of direction. He was only set right again when he spotted Judith's pale, blade wielding forearms shining on the wall. They glowed in the dimness, pointing the way out—
Pointing the way to freedom—
Gojo careened out the front door and into the hallway, feet skidding over the tile, running for the antique elevator. He boarded its brass cage and slammed the door closed with an angry, echoing clang! Then he glared back down the darkened hallway—
Watching—
Waiting—
Holding his breath—
Anticipating pursuit. But no pursuit came. The elevator started to lower itself as he anxiously eyed the loft's door. He stared at it until the elevator's progress caused it to slip from view.
Gojo exhaled and rested his forehead against the elevator's brass bars, heart banging madly inside his chest. His earlier gambit had paid off and he was convinced that he had enough of a head start. He was certain Sukuna couldn't possibly catch up to him now.
He had obtained his freedom, even if it was the wrong kind, and won from the wrong person.
To be continued…