7. Call It Art

Was there anything more welcoming than a high afternoon sun, spilling liquid gold across the floorboards?

Or as soothing as a cool breeze sifting through the room? Playing with the curtains, fabric undulating softly like gentle ocean waves?

Was there anything more comforting than the color blue, linked forever with a time of creativity and optimism and hope? In thirty different shades, covering the wall?

Gojo had never been so glad to wake up to such mundanities. Simple and secure, in his own bed. In the unmatched solitude of his own place. He had fallen asleep with the balcony doors open and his bare feet hung off the futon, pointed towards the breeze. His sleep had been mercifully nightmare free. His slumber unencumbered, weightless.

Because he'd left a waking nightmare back at Sukuna's loft. The memory of which hit him full force as he looked down at the long dark cut adorning his leg, directly above his left knee.

When you collapsed you took the clothes rack down with you and got sliced by a wire hanger.

Liar.

It was you.

You did this.

Gojo inspected the cut, now a single scabbed over line. Surprisingly straight and uniform for an accident.

Liar.

The voice in the back of his head whispered a warning. Over and over again. Firm and sure, despite no evidence.

Do not believe…

But unfortunately for him, self preservation had never been Gojo's strong suit. Safety was not his imperative.

He was far too enamored with chasing a high. With following his own feelings. He wanted euphoria, creative verve. Some artistic expression of enlightenment. He wanted to feel alive. Or at the least, to feel.

Which is why he curtly dismissed the alarm raised by the more rational voices in his head. Why he shrugged off his injury. Why he blamed himself for overdoing it with pain pills.

Self delusion was so easy.

So was self destruction.

His other leg remained (for the moment) unmaimed and uninjured. He had talked Sukuna out of deliberately cutting him. And not because it was sane or rational…

…because it was painfully obvious by now that Sukuna was neither sane nor rational…

…but because Gojo had argued against the use of symmetry. It interfered with the wild chaotic nature of what they were trying to portray.

They.

As if the two of them were collaborating now, working together. Like Gojo wasn't just another piece of the composition.

It should have concerned him how invested (obsessed) he had become with this painting of Sukuna's. In fact, it was currently the only thing occupying his mind. Not painkillers. Not injured legs. Not lunatic artists who might—or might not—mean to do him actual physical harm.

No, he was thinking about composition. Iconography. Metaphor. Specifically, the problem of the horse in the background.

And as he looked at the abandoned bird cage by his work table, he thought he might have the perfect solution for it.

As he considered the empty cage, the concepts of Eros and Thanatos ran through his mind. The two main drives that were supposed to represent opposing poles, opposing forces. Life and death. Creativity and dissolution. Love and hate. Ideas for him that somehow—

—somehow—

—had gotten ruthlessly co-mingled as of late. All mixed up. The meanings had become blurred or swapped.

Creativity versus dissolution…

Life versus death…

Love versus hate…

He looked at the birdcage and pictured a crow inside.

A harbinger of death.

Within a prison, a trap.

A man standing high up on a bridge—

Beneath a sanguine moon—

With eyes like blood—

A harbinger of death.

He thought about how well it would go with the rest of the painting's elements. How perfectly suited it was to the themes at play.

So he picked up his phone. And he sent Mei Mei a text.

The sittings were always scheduled at night, always at 8:00 pm.

It shouldn't have mattered though. Because the studio room had no windows, no natural light. Just the candles that Uraume would light nightly, clustered along the floor. Like they were attending the chancel of an ancient abbey. Cast in gold. Cast in shadows.

On this particular night the P.A. gave him a quizzical, suspicious look when he showed up. Because this time, Gojo didn't come empty handed.

This time, he came carrying an antique bird cage with a live crow inside.

Not only that, he was completely sober.

Because if this was to continue, he was going to need his wits about him.

Uraume led him upstairs and down the blacklit hallway, through the red door and back into the hidden entrance between the book cases. Once in the studio, the P.A. went off to tend the candles while Gojo went behind the tri fold screen to change. He stopped in front of the clothes rack, looking at the single item of clothing hanging there: a robe.

No longer pure white, but torn and stained with blood.

His blood.

Gojo started removing his clothes, throwing them piece by piece over the top of the screen, until he was stripped bare.

Then he put on the stained robe. He watched the voluminous cloth cascade down his body, his eyes drawn to the contrasting specks of vermillion flecking the left side. He began to idly wonder how much more blood he would be required to give—

Or rather—

—how much more blood the painting itself required and needed.

He knew Sukuna was just itching to cut him again. The fevered, manic look in his eyes when he'd forced Gojo not to touch his bleeding leg made that obvious. The man was fixated. The only real question was:

Would Gojo willingly let him do it?

Did he actually want him to do it?

And the fact that he was even entertaining these questions—did that mean he was just as insane and irrational as Sukuna now? Was this some kind of folie a deux? A manifestation of Stockholm syndrome? He didn't know.

He forced himself to ignore all the possible implications. Because that way led to self reflection. And self reflection, he knew, led down a dark and dangerous path that was best left untraveled.

Gojo swept across the room like a pale, blood stained ghost, picking up the birdcage with the squawking crow inside. He then drifted over to the bed and he placed the cage behind it, slightly to the left. Directly in the place where the horse should be.

It occurred to Gojo that Sukuna might think he was doing this out of spite because of the fan that Sukuna had sent him. That this was in retaliation for Sukuna having dared to try to interfere with Gojo's piece.

And now Gojo was basically doing the same thing to him.

But that wasn't his intention at all. And Gojo didn't care what that stupid prick thought.

Just as long as he put the damn birdcage in the picture.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, silently contemplating the cage (both real and metaphorical). He was facing away from the easel. There was a slight rush of warm air, and the barest hint of the mattress sinking. Then a dark, sensual voice from directly behind him said:

"I've ordered an F-100 canvas. It'll be delivered tomorrow afternoon."

Gojo twisted around to find Sukuna lounging on the bed behind him, sprawled on his side and casually propped up on one elbow. His hair was still black and untamed, his dark arm tattoos banding him like a wild tiger. He stared up at Gojo, his posture perfectly at ease.

It no longer disconcerted him, Sukuna appearing out of the dark like this. Unheard and undetected.

"So a really big canvas then," Gojo remarked, looking back over his shoulder at him. "Should I feel honored?"

"Well, it is to be called The Honored One, after all," Sukuna said, his timbre seductively rich and deep. It was impossible to control the tingling sensation that raced over Gojo's body.

And all because of that damn sound.

This time, however, Gojo thought he detected a hint of hidden amusement in Sukuna's voice. Like the title was some kind of private joke.

And perhaps it was.

Perhaps this whole enterprise was just Sukuna's elaborate, torturous way of getting back at him for having made fun of his stupid ugly skull throne back in his gallery. He seemed insane enough and petty enough to do it. To take offense at something so small and then respond in a manner completely disproportionate to the initial insult.

So prideful, so egotistical.

Much like Gojo himself.

He quietly waited for Sukuna to say something about the birdcage he'd placed in the corner.

But no remark was ever offered. Not even a single glance given in that direction.

Because his eyes were singularly fixed on Gojo.

The only thing Sukuna said was, "Let's get started then, shall we?" And he rose from the bed, unfolding himself and stretching elegantly like a big cat. All flexing muscles, the movements visibly accented by his dark tattoos. He walked to his place behind the easel.

Gojo swiveled around, bringing his feet up and arranging himself on the bed, mentally mapping the original pose. It proved a lot more difficult this time. The lack of painkillers made every part of his body scream in protest. His shoulders and lower back were particularly displeased by the pose he was required to maintain. Everything ached.

Five minutes in and he was desperate for some Percocet.

Ten minutes in and he was squirming and inadvertently slipping out of position.

He found himself wrenching his eyes shut. Which just caused Sukuna to yell at him about opening them again.

Sukuna started jabbing the air with his charcoal in annoyance. "What is with you today? Your form is even worse than it was last night." Once again Sukuna threw down his charcoal and dipped around the easel, approaching the bed.

The anxiety this caused was instantaneous. "Don't pull me around like a piece of furniture again!" Gojo warned him through gritted teeth.

"Then know your place fool!" Sukuna came around and dropped to his knees by the bed. The move sent Gojo into an immediate tailspin and he tried to scramble back, only to have Sukuna grab his elbow and chastise him for moving again.

Gojo's whole body was trembling.

And only partially with fear.

But if Sukuna noticed this, he didn't say so. He was more intent on getting the right pose out of him, saying, "Look you're supposed to be portraying an—"

"—arc of light," Gojo finished numbly. A slight smile of approval appeared on Sukuna's lips.

"Good. You know what it should look like then, so just lean into it. Like so." Sukuna leaned across him and slipped one hand under Gojo's lower back and—

—Gojo instantly arched away from his invasive touch, to which Sukuna said, "Stop and hold! Just like that!" There was an impish, knowing glint in Sukuna's eye as with his other hand he gently tilted Gojo's head back, simply by pressing two black tipped fingers under his chin.

And all the while Gojo's heart was triphammering in his chest, body fixed in place like a puppet on a string, pulled and manipulated by Sukuna's touch.

"Perfect," Sukuna purred.

And looking at Sukuna's face, Gojo felt sure he was referring to more than just the pose.

Sukuna got back on his feet. But instead of returning directly to his place behind the easel, he lingered. He hovered over Gojo like a malignant shadow. The low light of the shifting candle flames changed Sukuna's eyes to a molten burnt sienna, eyes that started to move very noticeably and hungrily down Gojo's barely covered body.

And it wasn't as if Sukuna was actually touching him, but—

Gojo could practically feel each and every glance. Pausing here, lingering there. Like phantom hands trailing down him in a sensual caress. Or ghostly fingers slipping beneath the sheer robe, sliding possessively across his bare skin. Searching and singling out the most responsive and private parts of him.

The scrutiny was unbearable.

He couldn't stand it.

He couldn't stay in place, not under such a deliberate microscopic examination. Not with Sukuna. Not flat on his back with his arms above his head, splayed out like some kind of offering.

And definitely not while completely sober.

Gojo's heart began racing. His entire face, his whole body, was steadily turning red with growing heat. And all because Sukuna was staring at him and—

Openly undressing him with his eyes…

Spearing him with a single look…

Making him feel things…

It was too goddam much.

He couldn't do it.

Those eyes, staring down at him from atop the bridge and—

Those same eyes staring down at him, on a small thatched mattress—

Those same eyes—

Each and every time—

Full of want and desire. And also—

Death—

Finally Gojo choked out, "You best get on with it. Because there's no way in hell I can stay like this—"

"—But I was just admiring your eyes," Sukuna interrupted him. His voice sounded strangely wistful and melancholic, a tone Gojo hadn't previously heard from him. "I'd forgotten how much I missed them."

He was now staring straight at Gojo's face. It made Gojo mentally squirm.

"You saw them just last night," Gojo pointed out.

"Was it just last night? Or a thousand years ago?" Sukuna mused. He reached down to push Gojo's hair off his forehead, only to have Gojo grab his hand and complain:

"You're being waaay too familiar. Yet again." They remained frozen like that, hand in hand. Gojo was glowering at Sukuna, and Sukuna was staring down at their two hands, locked together.

"What can I say? Old habits die hard." Sukuna shrugged. He casually pulled his hand back. "But…I was really wanting to do something special that would bring extra attention to those stunning eyes of yours."

Gojo immediately grew suspicious. "Like what?"

"I want a strip of red running down from here to here." Sukuna raked a black tipped finger through the air, indicating the area around Gojo's right eye."

"Fuck you, you're not cutting my face!"

"Oh, calm down! I wasn't suggesting we cut your face," Sukuna scoffed, his dismissive tone making it sound like he'd suggested more of a slight trim and not an actual wound.

"You come anywhere near my eyeball with something sharp and I'm walking out of here!" Gojo threatened.

"Tch. So testy! I already said I wouldn't cut your pretty face." Sukuna started back towards his easel. He paused halfway there.

"I'll make you a deal," he said in a low, tempting voice.

Gojo rolled his eyes at this. The last time Sukuna had offered him a deal he had specifically told him no nudes and no funny business…

…which had almost immediately turned into almost nude and absolutely, definitely some funny business. There was almost zero trust between them.

But that apparently didn't bother Sukuna at all because he continued on, "You let me give you a four centimeter cut, just behind your left ear and—"

"—oh, fuck you—"

"—I'll use that lovely birdcage that you've so thoughtfully subbed in for the horse. I'll put it in the painting." This comment was followed by a truly evil looking and calculating smirk.

Gojo sat up, his brow furrowing with anger. "Oh, like you weren't going to use it anyway! It's goddam perfect there and you know it!"

Sukuna just shrugged again. "Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't, but… I'll definitely use it if you just say yes."

"You're a serious fucking weirdo, you know that?"

"Guilty as charged," Sukuna said with a slight mocking bow. "However, if it helps, I shall also try to make an effort to appeal to your aesthetic sensibilities. Basically, the piece will benefit from having both the crow in the background and more blood in the foreground. And right now you're still looking entirely too…pure."

"And what's wrong with remaining pure?"

"It doesn't suit the current you," said Sukuna. "Maybe it did once, a long, long time ago, but I have to say that your aura has gotten noticeably darker as of late."

Gojo just frowned at this whole odd speech about his supposed 'aura.' Apparently Sukuna was into some kind of new age woo woo shit.

However…

He wasn't wrong about the aesthetics. It was absurd, but they were in total agreement on that point. And what the composition wanted was:

The crow in the cage in the background.

More flecks of blood in the foreground.

Gojo mentally recalibrated his image of the constantly evolving painting. He didn't want to agree with Sukuna's assessment. He really didn't. And he most definitely didn't want Sukuna to cut him (again), but…

…it was what the picture obviously required.

Gojo narrowed his eyes and decided to bargain. "Three centimeters, shallow, where you can't really see it. And you'll put the crow and the birdcage in the final painting."

Sukuna stalked back into the semicircle of candles, the flames flickering dark gold all over his face. With his black tattoos and evil grin, he looked for all the world like the devil…

…which made Gojo immediately think of Bosch's depiction of Hell that covered the changing screen. Of the hanging man being flayed alive by a demon.

And here Gojo was, making yet another deal with the devil. Like he was incapable of learning. And just like before, he had a terrible inkling that he was really going to regret it.

To be continued…