8. A Blade Over my Head

Gojo started regretting their bargain the moment Sukuna pulled out a very shiny and very sharp looking razor blade from his pocket.

It was such a small infinitesimal object, yet capable of doing so much damage. Even if it was smaller and less frightening looking than all the other objects currently occupying Sukuna's work table. So at least…

…it wasn't the Bowie Knife and…

…it wasn't the chainsaw…

But—

The tiny blade winked and smiled with its wicked silver teeth at Gojo through the dimness. His hands automatically clutched the side of the bed and he felt himself instinctively shrinking away, leaning backwards. He had to force himself to not get up and leave.

Even though he wanted to…

Even though he really wanted some more Xanax…

Even though doing this without painkillers was a mistake…

It became apparent that his discomfort was showing on his face when Sukuna stopped about two meters in front of him and said, "No need to look so distressed. I promise my technique is very quick and clean. It's not like I'm going to cleave or dismantle you like a pig carcass. In fact, it'll probably barely sting at all."

This speech did nothing to reassure Gojo. Bringing up a pig carcass did not reassure him. Glancing at the hook hanging from the ceiling off to his right did not reassure him.

And bringing up words like cleave and dismantle definitely did not reassure him.

"Would closing your eyes help?" Sukuna asked. "You want a blindfold maybe?"

Yey, right, let's just go ahead and introduce even more kinky shit into this already fucked up scenario, Gojo thought. "No. Absolutely fucking not. I'll keep my eyes open, thanks."

Sukuna edged forward some more, but slowly, like he was purposefully trying not to scare off a wild animal.

A wild animal he was attempting to trap.

Like he was some kind of predator, strategically stalking his prey through the dark.

"I'm going to have to sit behind you if you want this cut hidden behind the ear. So it's not like you'll be able to see what I'm doing anyway," Sukuna pointed out. "But I can just keep on talking through the whole thing if that'll help?"

But did Gojo really want Sukuna to keep talking? With that low, sonorous voice of his digging into his psyche, hooking its sharp seductive claws into him?

No, but…

Gojo lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug, feigning ambivalence. "Talk if you want. Just…make it quick, will you?"

The wide, evil looking grin was back on Sukuna's face. Gojo turned his head, purposefully looking away from it.

Away from the violent flash of the razor blade. The violent flash of that smile.

Gojo tried his best to focus on other things as he felt the mattress dip under Sukuna's weight as he sat behind him. Like the lingering smell of burning candle wax. The intermittent cawing of the crow in the corner. The future relief offered by the pain pills he had tucked away in his jacket pocket.

Anything other than this messed up shit he was doing.

"How is your reworking of that Manet coming along?" Sukuna asked him, obviously trying to distract him with some mild conversation. Without seeing him it was easier to focus on the lulling timbre of his voice, easier to forget about the man attached to it.

Easier to fall under its spell…

"I've abandoned that idea," Gojo answered through gritted teeth. Mention of the Manet brought up the memory of the fan again. Which just made Gojo angry.

Fear then—

Anguish and—

Fury—

Gojo tried to ignore the hand that Sukuna placed on his right shoulder. "So what are you working on then?" Sukuna asked, continuing their conversation as promised.

"I've started on a new piece. It's based on this recurring dream that I have."

"Oh? And is this the dream with the blue vase?"

Gojo felt hot breath teasing over the slope of his neck as he felt Sukuna lean forward. His eyes slid closed as his heart started slamming against his chest in anticipation of what was coming. Unfortunately for him, closing his eyes only served to heighten all his other senses, and he found himself focusing way too much on the hand on his shoulder, the feel of warm breath on his neck, and the all too alluring sound of that voice.

"No, it's a different dream," Gojo told him in a dull monotone. "A nightmare, actually. There is this man standing on top of an arched bridge in front of a blood red moon—"

Gojo felt the hand holding his right shoulder tighten. He opened his eyes and glanced briefly to the side, catching a glimpse of their two shadows sitting next to each other against the blood red curtains, the image shifting and shivering in the wavering candle light. His heart banged louder as he saw Sukuna's shadow raise its arm holding the razor blade.

He quickly looked away.

But no cut came.

Sukuna continued talking instead. "Tell me more about this dream."

There was an odd catch in his voice that Gojo couldn't identify.

"The picture I'm doing is a little abstract. And it's because I can never fully see all the details in this dream. But there is a pretty little stream running beneath the bridge, covered with fallen petals and—"

Gojo suddenly stopped talking.

And he started remembering.

The blood fans out in the water, tainting the fallen flowers—

His throat is bleeding, the wound seeping red into the stream, and he's drowning—

Drowning because he is being forcibly held under by—

Sukuna shook his shoulder. "And then what happens? What else?"

Gojo shook his head as if to clear it. "There's…there's nothing else," he lied. Then:

"Just get on with it. I can't…I don't—"

"Then hold your head still and don't move a muscle," Sukuna directed, voice dark and commanding.

Gojo froze. He resisted the urge to look at the moving shadows again.

Don't look…

Don't move…

Don't…

There was a sharp sting, a burning nick, then the feel of sharp fingers digging into his skin, causing an involuntary shudder. "Hey, what are you—"

"—just encouraging more blood flow. This area doesn't bleed very much. A forehead cut would have bled more freely."

" I already said—"

"—I know, I know. No facial wounds." The mattress creaked slightly as Sukuna shifted closer, until Gojo could actually feel his body heat against his back. It was so eerily warm against the barely there cotton shift. Sukuna's fingers continued to massage the skin just below his hairline, and Gojo thought he could feel the telltale slide of running blood.

Maybe. Or maybe not.

Or maybe it was just the whisper of Sukuna's breath, the press of his fingers.

Gojo closed his eyes again, feeling falsely lulled by the melodic tone of Sukuna's voice, the warm light of the candles, the nearness of that body heat.

Though a nagging thought in the back of his head told him it was unwise to lower his guard…

"Why can't you remember anything else about this dream of yours?" Sukuna pressed him.

"I do remember other things. I just said I don't remember what comes after the part with the stream. There are other pieces, other elements. Like a stage, and some music, and a performance—"

The hand paused, laying flat against the back of his neck. "Ah, yes! That! That would be the very first time I saw you! You were young, maybe what, seventeen? Eighteen? And you were on the festival stage, playing the part of the ingenue in the performance. That's why your outfit from the other day reminded me—"

"—what the hell are you talking about. Are you seriously high or something?"

"No. I was just elaborating on your story? You were absolutely breathtaking on that stage, by the way. Bewitching—"

"—you don't elaborate on other people's dreams! You're talking like you were in it!"

A low, musical laugh sounded right by Gojo's ear. "But it wasn't actually a dream. It was something that happened in the Heian Era, centuries ago." Sukuna sounded strangely delighted by this whole weird ass conversation, to the point that Gojo thought he had to one hundred percent be high on something.

Which made Gojo wish that he was high on something.

"So you're telling me it's not a dream?" asked Gojo, his tone clearly skeptical. He was still facing away from Sukuna, so he couldn't see his expression. "That this was something that really happened? And you were there?"

Sukuna's hand was still resting on Gojo's neck. Odd how he was getting used to all the strange intricacies and intimacies of the situation. And instead of running away screaming, like a normal person, he was just sitting there, in a sheer, blood stained robe, while a crazy artist performed a little bloodletting on him while yammering on about being inside his dreams.

Dreams that Sukuna apparently thought were real.

"It's peculiar," remarked Sukuna. "You've never remembered any of the previous times like this before."

"That's because they're not memories! They're dreams!" Gojo insisted. He started to get up, intent on going for his stash of pills. Because fuck this weirdness. I can't deal with this anymore, he thought. Only to have Sukuna hold him in place, gripping his shoulder even tighter, chiding:

"No, don't move just yet! I've barely got a decent flow going here. You should really let me add another two centimeters—"

"—no!"

"Oh, come on! We need more red! This will barely be enough to make a stripe over your right eye. And this definitely needs more color." Sukuna slid his hands down Gojo's sides, his fingers idly pulling at the white cotton—

"—hey, just what do you think you're doing?" The growing annoyance in Gojo's voice ratcheted up as Sukuna's hands kept moving in a downward trajectory, stopping at his hips, holding him in a far too familiar and intimate fashion. The low sensual voice right by his ear whispered:

"Just trying to jar your memory a little bit." Gojo sat frozen as one of Sukuna's hands roamed back up, sliding up the front of his neck and clasping him lightly under his chin. Gojo's eyes fell closed and he remembered—

Lying on his side on a tiny mattress, a sloping roof above his head angling away from an arched window. Outside the window's frame is a night sky all hung with jewels. Owl song fills his ears from the radiant dark.

There is a warm body at his back, and arms holding him close, and the smell of wax is still in the air from a candle long since extinguished.

The hand clasping him from behind slides up his chest, up his neck, rests against the side of his face, cradling him. Soft words fill his ears, promises spoken in the dark. He closes his eyes and leans into the hand caressing his face, fingers gently moving, worshiping.

He leans in and—

Gojo leaned into the hand hovering almost threateningly at his throat. From behind him Sukuna said in a deep commanding voice:

"Stay perfectly still."

He felt a pair of fingers slide down his forehead, over his left eye, stopping at his jawline. Anointing him. Painting him in blood..

He couldn't see it.

But he could feel it.

He could also feel several other things happening, none of which he was prepared for…

The bed creaked out a warning as Sukuna leaned into him from behind, encircling him with his arms, close and tight, like a lover. And before Gojo could move or untangle himself, he felt a soft wet tongue slide up the back of his ear—

Licking blood—

Tasting his wound—

—and it was this move that finally broke whatever spell he'd been idling under and he gasped and struggled out of Sukuna's arms, jumping to his feet.

"What the ever loving fuck do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

A slow, satisfied grin emerged on Sukuna's face. Gojo watched the other artist slowly lean back on his elbows on the bed, jesting:

"I'm apparently eating my own materials, but that little sample was completely worth it."

Gojo's expression was dumbstruck. Without saying another word he pivoted on his heel and marched away.

"Hey, come back!" Sukuna called.

"Fuck you, that just crossed the line. And I. Am. Leaving." Gojo went over to the Bosch screen. He started digging around in his jacket for some Xanax, which he took out and popped into his mouth. He'd originally thought doing this while high was a mistake…

…when in actuality doing this while sober was a much bigger mistake.

He couldn't handle Sukuna sober.

Hell, he couldn't handle Sukuna at all.

"Why do you use those so much?"

Gojo jumped and spun around. Sukuna's face peered at him through a slit in the screen, his face almost blending in with all the other frolicking devils of hell. "That's the shit that made you pass out last night isn't it?" he asked him.

Gojo shook his head. "No, I passed out because I was having a mem…I mean, I was remembering a really bad nightmare I had and I just sort of…lost consciousness."

"What sort of nightmare?"

Gojo felt an errant chill slide across his hairline, right behind his left ear where Sukuna had cut him. "In this dream, I'm running through a field at night and I'm…covered in blood. And behind me there are these men—"

"—oh, I would stay as far away as possible from that particular time and scenario. The outcome of that one was especially…brutal."

Gojo just blinked at him. "The only scenario I need to stay away from is this one. Because you're completely fucked in the head. And apparently it's rubbed off on me, and now I'm equally fucked in the head, because look at this shit!" Gojo spread his arms wide, diaphanous sleeves extending like wings. He caught a glimpse of himself in the standing mirror in the corner: red on white over his left thigh. Red on the collar, too, as blood leaked down from the wound behind his ear. A carmine stripe adorned his right eye, slashing his face into uneven halves. He looked for all the world like a blood stained angel…

Who had fallen…

And was battling the devil in hell…

And losing…

"What do you mean look at this shit? I am looking and it's getting close to perfect," declared Sukuna. "What's the saying? In order to make an omelette you have to break a few eggs—"

"—yey, well, the egg didn't consent to being licked."

"Duly noted. It won't happen again—"

—liar!—

"—so just come back over here and let me finish for the evening," Sukuna coaxed in a low, convincing voice. A slight pause. "I just love how the red makes the color of your eyes pop. You see, my instincts are never wrong."

Gojo put his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes. "Ask nicely."

"What?"

"Ask," Gojo repeated. "Don't just demand like you usually do."

"Tch. I gotta say, this ice prince routine of yours is new, too," Sukuna mused out loud. "You're usually so much easier—"

"—asking me is about to turn into begging me—"

"—but I'm not necessarily complaining," Sukuna continued. "In fact, I'm finding the challenge rather…stimulating."

Gojo rolled his eyes. "Whatever, I'm leaving then—"

Sukuna slid around the screen, swift as a striking viper, trapping one of Gojo's hands to prevent him from leaving. "Please come back," he intoned, squeezing the daisy chain of bruises around his wrist in a way that belied his honeyed tone.

Gojo stifled a gasp as pain ricocheted up his arm like a bolt of electricity.

He immediately yanked his hand out of Sukuna's grip. He smothered his instinctive need to rub his wrist.

Sukuna's eyebrow shot up, waiting for a response. "Is that good enough?" he asked. "Or do you want me to bow down and kiss your hand too?" The ghost of a smirk hovered at the corner of his mouth, as Sukuna tried and ultimately failed to look contrite.

Gojo narrowed his eyes at him. He reluctantly started drifting back towards the bed. "Fine then. We'll finish but I want you to stay the fuck behind your easel and away from me."

"As you wish," Sukuna replied in a rich melodic voice dripping with wry humor. When Gojo looked back at him over his shoulder he saw the smirk was back on his face in full force.

Backstage in the pagoda the air is alive with excitement, with music, with mystery—

The flutter of silks on hangers, the smell of powders and paints—

Chaotic notes from the tuning of the strings. Laughter from the players—

Tonight is his debut—

Tonight is his death—

He doesn't know this as he sits in front of a mirror applying white face paint to skin that doesn't need it. He takes a brush and sweeps over dark kohl to accentuate eyes that already shine brighter than any star. He looks up into the mirror and over his shoulder he sees a man standing there wearing a woman's kimono.

His eyes are like fire.

His desire like a flame.

A small smile appears on his face as he returns the man's look. He picks up an ornate fan and snaps it open, a signal like a moth to his flame.

A signal to burn, in the midst of chaos and noise.

For a meeting high up on the bridge. Later, under the moonrise…

Gojo's eyes slid open. His head felt groggy and the room was almost completely dark. There was a fuzzy familiarity to it all, but it was wrong, somehow lacking—

No traffic noise from outside—

No breeze filling the room—

No glittering lights, cast like diamonds. No smaller jewels for stars—

Just dead candles, spread across the floor like fallen soldiers, their few remaining comrades struggling to maintain light.

His head was hanging off the bed. A gentle hand combed soothing circles through his hair.

Gojo blinked tiredly and he croaked, "What time is it?"

The voice that answered him was not the one he was expecting. "Long past the time you should have left." It was low and seductive. Close by and irritatingly familiar.

"Shit," Gojo muttered as he struggled to sit up. He wasn't at home, in his studio. He wasn't with Suguru.

He was still at Sukuna's loft.

In the middle of the night.

He'd passed out on Xanax for real this time. His head was pounding with the after effects of having taken too many.

"What were you dreaming about just now?"

Gojo turned his head to see Sukuna sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up. He had a sketch pad open on his lap and he was flipping a pencil back and forth between his fingers.

Gojo thought about the hand he had felt on his head but said nothing about it. Instead he croaked out, "It was the part about the play again. Before the man on the bridge."

"Tell me about this man."

Gojo stared dully at the few remaining candles. Then he said quietly:

"He…he murders me and leaves me for dead in the water."

Sukuna stopped flipping the pencil. "Is that really what you think happened?"

"Well, yes," he answered. "Because of the contempt on his face as he stares down at me—"

"—no. That's all wrong," Sukuna insisted darkly. "No wonder you've been so standoffish, if that's what you truly believe." Then:

"Shall I tell you how you actually died?"

To be continued…