4. In the Gathering Gloom

The same dream, always...

But longer this time…

This time it begins with a wooden stage, alight with the glimmering fire of a hundred paper lanterns—

The sound of a stringed instrument playing in the background—

The smell of powder and face paint in the night air, the chatter and murmur of a large crowd—

And in the distance, the sound of chimes. The buzzing of insects in the dark—

He wants to stay in this part. The part with the stage, the music, the performance—

He wants to stay here, because after—

Because after, there is the bridge and the water—

Because after, there is the man in the white kimono—

Because after, there is death—

The sound of chimes, ringing. So hollow and mournful. An eerie buzzing sound, constant, incessant, pleading. Buzzing, always buzzing…

Gojo woke to his phone buzzing and chiming incessantly next to his head. The climb back to consciousness was slow and arduous. His body didn't want to move. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton.

He felt like shit.

He thought he might have overdone it a bit with the pills the night before.

And upon waking, he remembered why he'd overdone it.

He had agreed to sit for Ryomen Sukuna's painting.

Fuck!

The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli.

Ever since he'd seen a picture of it in a book when he was a child he'd been obsessed with it. That specific image. So strange and seductive and haunting. An incubus perched on top of an innocent dreamer who lay splayed in the midst of an evil infested darkness as the picture's sole arc of light.

Gojo knew exactly who would be playing that arc of light.

Shit!

His regret was almost instantaneous. His phone lay face down on the futon, buzzing, shimmying over the surface like a live insect. He finally pushed down his anxiety long enough to flip it over.

He was instantly relieved when he saw it was just Shoko. She had left him several texts:

Stop sulking and stop avoiding everyone!

You're being a complete ass you know!

Geto is really fucking sorry, so you two should just make up already!

Come down to the pub tonight and have drinks with us!

He tapped and swiped the screen.

There were no other texts.

The snare of tension gripping his body that he hadn't even realized was there immediately loosened.

Maybe him saying yes to Sukuna's proposal had been just another fucked up dream?

He could always hope.

Gojo picked up his phone and typed out a response to Shoko's last text:

I'll be there, just tell me when.

Then he tossed the phone on the futon and got up. Slowly. He shambled off to take a shower, hoping against hope that the pounding water might make him feel like a passing facsimile of a human being again.

Gojo showed up outside the pub with his hair still wet but wearing a fresh change of clothes. Light tracers kept snaking along the periphery of his vision, heralding an approaching migraine. He had taken a single Lortab as a precaution but he wasn't sure it was enough to halt the headache's crippling momentum.

A low lying mist covered the ground outside, heavy and wanton and thick. Its icy tongue licked along the sides of buildings, up and over rooftops, covering them in damp. The silhouettes of nearby high rises lay shrouded like wraiths.

Figures, dreamlike, appeared from the fog only to recede again like figments. They melted into the haze, their echoing footsteps steps swallowed by the dark. The pub's lighted sign glowed fuzzily in the gathering gloom, the yellow neon pulsing, a short circuit in the wiring causing the last two letters to blink randomly.

It was like a big winking electric eye and it was fucking with Gojo's already pounding head.

He was scowling when he entered the pub. The slap of raucous chatter and loud music and rows upon rows of glaring lights made his synapses scream.

He almost turned around and left.

He wanted to go home and crawl into a bottle of painkillers.

But he hadn't seen or talked to any of friends since Friday. And he hadn't heard from Suguru since Sunday.

Sunday…that was yesterday wasn't it?

Maybe he thought Gojo had been purposefully giving him the silent treatment all weekend. It wasn't like he could have known that Gojo had spent the last two days being constantly distracted. By his own work. By random packages at his door.

By Ryomen Sukuna of all people.

Gojo decided right then and there that it was probably best if he didn't mention the whole thing with Sukuna to Suguru. Not after what had happened in the gallery.

Because it would definitely piss him off.

Gojo caught sight of Shoko, Mei Mei, and Suguru sitting together at a round table in the center. Once again Gojo found himself dodging other patrons to get to them. They were castaways on a tiny island, surrounded by a sea of noise and booze.

His mind and vision were both slightly fuzzy but not so much that he wasn't aware that something seemed a little…off. Because all three of his friends turned to stare at him the moment he approached their table, and there was something about the way they all looked at him that set alarm bells off in his head.

Suguru looked pissed.

Shoko looked concerned.

And Mei Mei looked like the cat that ate the canary.

It made Gojo wonder if he was walking into some sort of intervention.

Had his drug use really gotten that out of hand?

He took the remaining empty chair at the table, removing his shades and rubbing his eyes. The brass domed light fixtures overhead were currently doing the hula at the top of his vision and he was trying his best to ignore all the squiggling lights.

"Well, here he is! Finally!" said Shoko, her arm draped over the back of her chair. "So, Gojo…got anything new you'd like to share with us?"

Suguru immediately piggybacked on this, "Yey, Satoru, you feel up to sharing today? Or should we all just expect more radio silence?"

Uh-oh. Suguru was definitely pissed.

Guess he really should have texted him back.

"I, uh, had a really busy weekend," Gojo muttered, avoiding all eye contact.

"So we've heard," said Shoko. There was something slightly accusatory in her tone that made Gojo look up at her.

"You know you can stop playing coy, Gojo!" Mei Mei finally interjected. She seemed to be practically vibrating with excitement. "I've already told them the exciting news!"

Oh, fuck…

Three sets of eyes were firmly fixed on him, waiting for him to relay this so-called news. When he didn't say anything, Mei Mei started speaking for him, seemingly unable to contain herself:

"It's soooooo amazing! I can't believe you're actually going to sit for someone as famous as Ryomen Sukuna—"

"—how do you even know that already?" Gojo hissed at her.

It had only been one day, for god's sake!

"Uraume told me! Everyone at the gallery already knows!" said Mei Mei with obvious delight. "Sukuna is working on a new piece and it's going to be entitled The Honored One! And the concept is to be based on that famous gothic painting The Nightmare!"

What the hell?

The Honored One. It was completely ridiculous that Mei Mei seemed to know more about this alleged painting than he did.

He was the one who was going to be in the goddam thing, after all.

Gojo snuck a look at Suguru's face. There was definitely some disappointment there this time around. And quite a bit of anger, too. Maybe a hint of betrayal.

Which begged the question: just what did he think Gojo had been up to all weekend?

Wasn't he the one who was supposed to be pissed? After all, Suguru had talked over him and answered for him like he was some kind of inanimate object. Or his possession. Jumping into a conversation that didn't fucking concern him.

Like he was his handler or something.

Gojo had started glaring without even realizing it. It took Shoko punching him in the arm to knock that look off his face.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us about this!" she pouted. "And you spent the entire weekend keeping this a secret from us?"

"It wasn't the whole weekend!" he answered defensively. "In fact, it actually just happened." Gojo could tell by the skeptical look on Suguru's face that he didn't believe this. He probably thought he went off looking for Sukuna that very night, swooning over the Great Honor of being asked to pose for him, like he just couldn't wait to go up and see his etchings.

What a joke!

"I only said yes because he offered me a showing in his gallery," Gojo added.

This was a lie of course.

But his friends didn't need to know that.

Now all their mouths were hanging open. "No way!" said Shoko in astonishment.

"That's fantastic!" Mei Mei enthused.

"No wonder you said yes," said Suguru with an arched brow. Now he was looking at Gojo with an entirely different kind of expression.

One of envy.

"This definitely calls for celebratory drinks!" said Shoko, waving her hand in the air in an attempt to flag down a passing waitress. It didn't matter that she still had a nearly full glass in front of her. "We have got to toast this, because Gojo is about to get famous again! And for two new reasons!

"For getting his own showing at the Malevolent Shrine!" said Mei Mei.

"For being the face of Ryomen Sukuna's new painting!" crowed Shoko.

Shoko, Mei Mei, and Suguru all raised their glasses in the air.

And Gojo just sat there among them feeling sick, convinced that he'd made a really bad decision. That instead of winning the lottery of life, he'd gone and made a deal with the devil…

And that he'd bartered away something of significant importance...

Even if he didn't know what that thing was just yet…

It was around eleven when Gojo finally left the pub.

It was fully dark out and a light delicate rain had begun to fall, adding to the already damp, foggy atmosphere. Gojo paused briefly under the hazy glow of the neon sign, taking in the icy air. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, offering his face up to the rain, the soft fluttery feel of the falling mist gently caressing his eyelids.

And since his eyes were closed, he couldn't be bothered by the short circuiting sign overhead that was flashing angrily at him.

Gojo thought the dreary combination of rain and fog was both dreamlike and surreal. He decided on impulse to walk the whole six blocks back to his studio.

"Hey, do you want some company?"

He heard the pub door clatter shut behind him. He turned and saw Suguru standing under the awning, watching him.

An awkward silence ensued. Several beats passed before Suguru finally asked, "Does this mean you're still mad at me then?""

"I don't know, are you still mad at me?" Gojo countered, "Because I'm getting the distinct impression that I've pissed you off somehow."

Suguru started towards him but backed up because of the rain. Gojo knew he was vain about his hair and wouldn't want to get it wet.

"I'm not pissed off at you," Suguru clarified. "Now Ryomen Sukuna, on the other hand—"

"—so what? You're jealous of Sukuna now?"

"I didn't like walking into that gallery and finding him all over you like that—"

"—he was not all over me—"

"—and now he wants you to sit for one of his pieces." Suguru just shook his head in…What? Disbelief ? Disappointment? Disgust?

All three?

"It's sketchy as hell, is all I'm saying. And it's obvious that the only reason he asked you is because he wants to get in your pants—"

"—no. It's because it's what the picture obviously requires," Gojo corrected him, using the exact same phrase Sukuna had used when Gojo had asked him about the fan.

A single arc of light in the middle of the darkness…

Gojo closed his eyes again. He could see the composition of the piece so clearly. Could render with his mind's eye just how it would look.

Suguru's eyebrow shot up. "Oh, so now you're an expert on Sukuna's artistic methods all of a sudden?" He shook his head again. "What the picture obviously requires? What does that even mean anyway?"

Gojo rolled his eyes. He knew, even if he took the time to explain it, that it wouldn't matter to Suguru. Because for him, any matters of composition ran a distant second to his preconceived notion that Ryomen Sukuna had offered him his own showing just to try to fuck him.

And that Gojo's own say on the matter was entirely meaningless.

Gojo felt his hackles rising. He hated dancing around the issue like this, participating in this fight that wasn't really a fight. He knew that the two of them would just go around in circles, wallowing in subtext, until one of them capitulated out of sheer inertia. Because that was what always happened. All conflict died on their altar of shared apathy.

And he was so tired of feeling apathetic and completely cut off from raw emotion.

"I'm doing this sitting," Gojo told him, drawing a clear line in the sand. And what he wanted to happen, the thing he knew wouldn't happen, was for Suguru to yell and object and fight him over it.

He wanted to be pushed, to be persuaded out of it…

He wanted Suguru to demand he back out…

But he didn't. He just looked at Gojo with those wounded eyes. Finally Gojo prompted:

"So you're not going to say anything?"

Silence.

Of course not.

Because more arguing caused too much discomfort.

Gojo scoffed in blatant disappointment. "Whatever. I'm going home."

And he turned and walked off.

He felt a hand grab his wrist, felt himself being pulled. "Wait," Suguru said. He snagged Gojo's other hand and began to back step him into the alleyway by the pub. There was one of those red British phone boxes by the wall, placed there just for show, to go with the bar's decor.

This phone box was a popular make out spot for patrons.

Suguru dropped Gojo's hand to wrench open the door, but kept a tight grip on his wrist. Gojo tried to protest.

"Maybe I'm not in the mood for a trip down memory lane—"

Suguru cut off his words with a kiss, corralling him inside the phone box, urging him back against the little wooden bench. Gojo slapped a hand flat against the fog-dampened window, refusing to bend to his whims.

Refusing to bend—

Refusing to do the same old shit—

Gojo was surprised at how aggressive Suguru seemed, how intent he was on holding him there. He could practically smell Suguru's frustration wafting off him like a scent, could feel the fault line of jealousy that threaded their interaction, propelling the push and pull of his fingers.

Could feel the desperate, seething anger lying just underneath it all.

It was something that could, if coaxed (exploited), come bubbling to the surface.

Gojo turned his face to the side, skirting his breath along Suguru's jawline, "Are you doing this because you missed me the last two days? Or because you're worried about where I've been all weekend? Because if it's the second one then I don't want to be here."

An ugly insinuation, but not untrue.

Gojo could feel Suguru tense up at that. "I don't want to fight with you—-"

"—so ask me."

Suguru drew back to look at his face, eyes glittering with cold emotion. They were practically on top of each other in the phone box, bodies pressed together, the air thick with electricity. A dark simmering tension dominated the space, fueled by possessiveness, jealousy, and lust.

It was a heady combination, almost as good as a drug.

"Ask me where I was this weekend."

"I don't—" Suguru started to speak but stopped. Instead he pushed Gojo back against the glass window and kissed him again, forcing him into silence with his tongue. In response Gojo shoved Suguru into the opposite window, his back thumping audibly against the sweating glass. The slide of their bodies against the panes left wet trails on the fog dampened surface.

"Ask me," Gojo breathed again into Suguru's lips.

Intentionally pushing him—

Intentionally provoking him—

"Stop it, Satoru! Just stop! I'm not playing this game with you!" Suguru grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him down on the bench, the move stopping just short of being violent—

—stopping just short of being what Gojo wanted, what he craved and needed—

Gojo's eyes were glittering with an entirely different kind of high. He looked up at Suguru, face naked and imploring. Frustration clouded Suguru's features as he shook his head at him. "I don't know what you want from me—"

"—I want you to get me off!" Gojo hissed, tilting his head back and letting his legs fall open, wanton. Stewing.

Both desperate and desperately hard.

Gojo reached out and grabbed Suguru's crotch, aggressively cupping and massaging his dick through his pants. After a moment, Suguru shoved his hand away and yanked him up off the bench. He twisted him around, reversing their positions, forcing Gojo to stand while he sat. He stared up at Gojo in angry silence as he worked to undo Gojo's pants, hands pulling and jerking at his clothes with obvious frustration and resentment.

Eyes pissed off and staring as he pulled out Gojo's cock and took him in his mouth.

Gojo threw his head back and let out a low tremulous moan, hands clawing at and slipping against the wet glass. His body was on edge and thrumming with a base need he'd been tacitly ignoring for days. He gritted his teeth as Suguru deep throated him with an aggressive tempo that he knew was built on twin stars of distrust and jealousy.

A dark nebulous cloud of repressed emotions swept through the cramped box, filling it with desires both poisonous and seething.

As Gojo continued to grit his teeth, trembling and quietly moaning under Suguru's resentful and pointedly borderline uncomfortable ministrations, he thought of the mirror in front of his work table—

Of the reflection inside of it—

Of Ryomen Sukuna's eyes staring hungrily at his body, gaze coveting and lusting over every inch of him and—

Of a view from a window, with a towering spire reaching heavenward, a clock face with an oxidized dial—

A room lined with dark timber beams, its bed small and a mattress thatched with straw—

An artist's easel, the smell of oil and paint thick on the air. A Delft blue vase standing on a washing table in the corner—

The sound of laughter, and a body sprawled on the bed. A sense of intense longing, of aching desire—

Gojo grabbed hold of Suguru's hair and came into his mouth with a tortured growl, legs buckling as he struggled to stand. A flutter of images flickered on the interior screen of his mind, none of which made any sense:

Of a towering spire…

Of the color Delft blue…

And eyes like the blood red moon, staring down at him from above…

To be continued…