5. The Perfect Drug
It was nearly 2:00 a.m. and Gojo was sitting outside on his balcony.
The whole of the city lay sprawled out in front of him, its landmarks rendered in darkened tones of softly tinted midnight. Distant lights sparkled and pulsed like swarms of fireflies, hazy and dreamlike in the lingering fog, their brightness the envy of the stars.
The band from two streets over had just finished playing for the night, so the only sound to be heard was the soothing leitmotif of the constant flow of traffic below.
But Gojo wasn't paying attention to the cityscape tonight.
Tonight he was consumed with what he was drawing on his sketch pad.
The only light he had was provided by the string of blinking fairy lights that encircled his neighbor's balcony one floor above him. The white paper on his lap kept shifting in tone from melted amber to dusky blue and back again. He ignored the changing colors, concentrating instead on the darkened lines created by the soft graphite pencil he wielded.
He was currently drawing an ancient wooden bridge. Its arch made a perfect semicircle over a meandering stream. The water's surface below it was strewn with fallen petals.
As he drew, he found his eye inadvertently wandering down to his own wrist. Darkened with bruises, the vivid hues stood out in a mottled pattern of blue and green.
It reminded him of the fan of a peacock's tail.
But he wasn't upset by this.
On the contrary, he felt satisfied. Exceedingly pleased even. As his loose, relaxed posture and lazy catlike smile could happily attest.
Because this circle of bruises was better than the finest jewelry, the delicious soreness aching his body more beautiful than any bouquet…
He glanced over at Suguru's supine form through the open balcony doors, long enough to note he was still fast asleep on the futon.
Then he continued sketching.
What had started out as a wretched evening had eventually turned around in his favor. After the tense, almost hostile encounter in the phone booth, where Suguru had given in to his demands that he service him there in public, they'd taken an Uber back to Gojo's place.
Because Gojo refused to get Suguru off otherwise.
Which only made Suguru resentful and infuriated all over again.
Exactly how Gojo wanted him.
Gojo wanted him simmering and stewing in his own juices, pissed off and ready to fuck him into oblivion the moment they hit the door. To fuck him hard, without care, with no consideration, the way Gojo wanted.
The way Gojo needed.
The tense lead up had been well worth it. Once they'd gotten inside the studio, Suguru had ignored the bed, roughly dragging him past the hated futon. Instead he chose to forcefully bend Gojo over his own drafting table, still laden with all his materials from Saturday. The table's height lined up conveniently with his ass, and Suguru used this advantage to fuck him mercilessly, pulling his hair and smashing his face into a discarded putty knife.
Gojo still had the dent from the knife on the side of his face.
And the night had only continued to get even rougher and kinkier and more debauched from there…
But despite this brief, hard won victory, Gojo knew that the loosening of inhibitions would come with a cost in the morning. Not one that was counted in bruises and dent marks or sore limbs and screaming muscles.
It would come with Suguru denying him again. Playing martyr and backpedaling on his own base impulses.
Infuriatingly, he knew just how it would be, how it would end.
The path of his desire was like an ouroboros. A well trod, never ending circle that forced Gojo to use the most twisted and underhanded methods in order to break him out of it.
Like tonight.
He felt both terrible and good about it, accepting this ridiculous paradox as the price he had to pay for indulging his own indecent and inescapable cravings. But better that than defaulting to pills in order to dull and diminish everything around him.
Or rather, dull and diminish everything about him.
He'd only taken the single Lortab this evening, which in itself was a small triumph.
Gojo's pencil paused on the page as he stopped to consider how much cadmium red he had left in the tube at his work table. Because if he was going to turn this sketch into a painting, he was going to need a lot of red. For the bridge. For the gibbous moon that hung overhead.
For the blood fanning out in the water, cloudy beneath the fallen flowers, the red blooming like a spring rose—
Two vermillion rings, each one a natural frame. One behind the man standing on the bridge and—
One for himself, floating dead in the water—
Clack!
Gojo's pencil dropped from his hand, clattering on the ground and rolling across the balcony. It stopped just short of falling through the railing. Hard earned aches and pains besieged his body, muscles crying in protest as he got up to retrieve it. As he snagged his pencil a burst of light caught his eye from inside his studio.
His phone's screen was lit up, marking its spot where it had fallen on the floor near the futon, next to his own hastily discarded pants.
He wandered back through the balcony doors, padding quietly. His own eye, large and looming on the wall, watched him silently scoop the phone off the floor. He returned to the balcony with it, not wanting to wake Suguru with flashing lights or the sound of buzzing. He stared down at the cracked screen.
A single text popped up: 8:00 tonight at the loft.
A bolt of excitement ran through him as Gojo read the message, leaning against the railing. It was just a simple text, five words, yet its effect was profound. He found himself starting to feel excited. Nervous—
—guilty.
Like he'd just received a secret letter from an illicit lover instead of instructions for a sitting.
All sense of tiredness instantly fled from his body. Instead he felt jittery, wired. On fire with a sense of renewed energy. He bounced his leg up and down, chewing his lip, considering his options.
Go back to sketching or—
Go back inside and wake Suguru up for another round—
He tapped on his phone and pulled up the picture of The Nightmare. He pinched in and out, annoyed by the cracks on his screen (that he really needed to get fixed). He began to smile as he looked at the picture. Anticipation, obsession, had him firmly in their grip.
It was a high that felt better and more intense than any drug.
Eventually Gojo tossed his phone aside, dropping it into the chair.
Then he prowled back through the studio, silently approaching the futon, eyes glittering and flashing predatorily in the dark.
He is running through the field again, underneath the broken piece of silver moon, crying out in the dark…
Calling out a name…
The night responds with only silence. His pleas go unheard, forgotten.
The shadowy woods ahead might offer shelter. If he can reach it, and the stream beyond, he might win his freedom. He might win…
But it never comes to pass.
This dream has no end.
For his own mind will not allow him to see beyond a certain point. He is not allowed to see—
What happens after the torches draw near, after the man with the book and his coterie of followers reach him. He is not allowed to see—
Because the ending is too much to bear—
The pain is too much to bear—
The slow shattering of body and soul—
All too much to bear—
Gojo was not looking his best when he turned up at Sukuna's loft that evening.
It was his very first sitting and he looked like complete shit. He had absolutely zero sleep the night before. He had spent the entirety of the evening alternating between working on his new piece and getting railed by Suguru. Which would have been fine (fantastic even) at any other time, but now he was expected to look alive and decorative, holding what he was sure was going to be an excruciating, back breaking pose.
And his whole body was sore as hell from his rigorous late-night-into-early-morning fuck fest.
So to counteract feeling stiff and being barely able to stand or walk, he did what he always did.
He took a handful of painkillers.
And while the drugs left him feeling floaty and comfortably detached from all his body's aches and pains, they did nothing to help him focus or mentally prepare for dealing with Sukuna.
Which was the really dangerous and unpredictable part of this whole process.
He knew he must have looked a little worse for wear by the judgemental and pursed lip look that Uraume gave him on the way up to Sukuna's loft. The icy disapproving slant of their immaculately groomed eyebrow spoke volumes.
He was surprised when the P.A. actually accompanied him inside of the place instead of just announcing his arrival like a DoorDash delivery again.
"I'll show you the area where Sukuna will be working. He will be arriving shortly."
So that pushy motherfucker wasn't even here yet…
Uruame led Gojo past Judith Slaying Holofernes, past the desk where Gojo had returned the fan, past the row of floor to ceiling windows to a discreet looking wooden door that was practically camouflaged between a pair of tall bookshelves. This doorway led into a secluded, windowless room that Sukuna apparently used for his 'studio.'
It was full of odd things.
Strange props, weird devices, and…
…skulls. Lots and lots of skulls.
A whole wall shelf of them in fact.
And some of them most definitely human.
But Gojo, who was very high by this point, barely took note of the skulls. Because there were far too many more unsettling things laying around.
The first thing he encountered was an old battered work table filled with various tools and implements. Whether or not these were for making art though was certainly up for debate.
Because the first thing his eyes landed on was a chainsaw. Which was sitting next to a very large and wickedly curved Bowie knife. And beyond this there were scalpels, pen knives, and all manner of things both sharp and dangerous. Gojo stopped and picked up the Bowie knife, gazing at his own startlingly blue eyes, heavy-lidded from lack of sleep, in its highly reflective blade.
He put the knife back on the table and considered the chainsaw.
And immediately thought of slabs of beef hanging from metal hooks.
A metal hook that was currently hanging not three meters from the table, suspended from the ceiling.
But he instantly forgot about this when another interesting object in the room caught his eye.
Because across from this table was a wooden changing screen decorated with Hieromynous Bosch's triptych The Garden of Earthly Delights. "Oh, I love this one," Gojo said to no one in particular as he went over to admire the picture. He was even more delighted to discover that the opposite side had a reproduction of Bosch's Hell on it, a bit of irony that caused him to snicker. He stopped his exploratory inspection of the screen when he noticed a free standing clothing rack directly behind it. This rack held exactly one item of clothing:
A long diaphanous white robe.
Gojo left the screen and walked over to the clothes rack. He tilted his head, regarding the robe briefly before reaching out to touch it. It was incredibly soft, with a feel like fine Egyptian cotton. Wispy, like a cloud. He lifted one of the sleeves, inspecting it. Then he held it up to the light.
The material was almost completely see through.
He allowed the sleeve to drop, worrying at his bottom lip, eyes narrowing at the pure white cloth. He wouldn't be nude, as Sukuna promised, yet the suggestive sheerness of it was somehow worse. Especially when he thought about the pose the painting required: lying face up on a bed, back arched with arms dangling above his head…
Yes, this was definitely worse.
And he felt pretty sure it was entirely on purpose.
"Whatever. It'll be fine," he said to himself and shrugged. Without waiting for direction or asking permission he started tugging off his own clothes, tossing them haphazardly over the changing screen. Shoes, socks, everything except his underwear. He then took the robe off the hanger and put it on, sliding it over his head and letting it drop like a silken waterfall down his body towards the floor.
And that was when the whole studio went completely dark.
"What the fuck?" Gojo said to the now darkened room. He froze on the spot, unsure what to do. He slowly turned his head and saw a figure staring at him from the corner. It stood there silent and unmoving and glowing pale in the dark. Without thinking he moved back towards the screen…
…only to have the figure move with him.
That was when he realized the ghostly apparition was his own reflection, caught by a large standing mirror.
He stood there rooted on the spot as flashes of light started to flicker and flare along his periphery. He thought for a moment that the Percocet and Xanax were fucking with him again, until these flashes evened out into a steady, golden glow.
Like someone was building a fire. In the middle of a high rise loft. Gojo immediately thought of Bosch's vision of Hell.
Maybe he was in hell…
Shadows were now dancing along the wall, waving and undulating seductively, brought to life by this steadily intensifying light. Gojo followed its beckoning glow from behind the screen and—
—discovered Uruame kneeling on the floor lighting wax candles, dozens of them. They held a long stemmed brass lighter and were diligently working at their task, quiet and solemn like a monk attending a church altar.
Because that's what this particular scene looked like, despite the antique bed that was the centerpiece to it all.
It looked and felt like an altar.
A sacrificial altar.
The scene was stark and minimalist: a bed, a red curtain backdrop, an end table, and candles. That was all. No modern light. Everything was eerily dark and draped in shadow.
Just like the original painting.
Across from this was a stool, table and easel. Sukuna's work space.
Gojo drifted over to the easel, studying the view of the scene from there. Picturing how it would look.
Or rather, how he should look.
He absentmindedly reached out to touch the sharpened sticks of charcoal that lay next to a large sketchbook. He could already see the dark slash marks appearing on the page…
Because he knew Sukuna loved using dark, violent slashes in his work. He wasn't subtle. He adored the darker jewel toned colors of the palette. The darker the better. And all of his paint strokes were aggressive, sharp, and uninhibited.
Much like the man himself.
Gojo saw Uraume turn and narrow their eyes at him for daring to touch Sukuna's things. Their stare was icy and withering. Because Gojo wasn't the artist here.
No, he was just a prop. The final piece in this little tableau they were helping to create.
Gojo dropped his hand from the charcoal and approached the bed. The top lay crowned in shadows, with the candles casting a dim shimmering light up from below. It was a deliberate choice.
Because he was playing the part of the light above.
As he drew nearer to the bed he felt his anxiety start to rise from underneath the weighted blanket of pain pills it was currently buried under. Up until now he had accepted everything he'd come across as either fine or inconsequential (well, maybe not the chainsaw), but there was something about having to get up on this bed for Sukuna that seemed a little too real. A little too in his face and a little too on the nose.
Something neither fine nor inconsequential.
His mind immediately started having a running argument with itself. What the fuck was he even doing there? He didn't even like Sukuna! He hated his art! So why was he participating in this? He felt like hell. He should just go home and crawl under the covers and sleep for ten hours…
He had subconsciously started backing away from the bed without even realizing it. That was when a voice, in a low familiar timbre and full of amusement, said from behind him:
"I see someone is eager to get started."
Gojo turned around. Sukuna was standing by his easel, watching him. His hair was pitch black and wildly spiky, and the dark bands of his arm tattoos were on full display in the sleeveless black tank he was wearing. His hands were shoved in his pockets and a wry half smile covered his face.
Gojo's anxiety shot out of its blanket as Sukuna casually stepped around the easel and approached him, removing his hands from his pockets. He reached out and—
The pregnant moon rising overhead, red like rust—
Makes a bloody crown around the head of the man there—
He stands atop the bridge, high above—
His eyes staring down with—
—Gojo reflexively stepped back, his body reacting on its own out of pure animal instinct. He only stopped moving backwards because his legs hit the bed frame.
Sukuna paused about a meter away, eyes openly appraising, silently studying him from head to foot. After a moment he pointed a black painted nail at Gojo and asked, "How old are you?"
It was an unexpected question. "Twenty-six," Gojo answered.
Sukuna's eyes narrowed. "You're near your expiration date already," he said with what sounded like regret.
"Well that's fucking rude," Gojo muttered.
Just how young did Sukuna prefer them?
Gojo was still pissed over that last remark and was completely caught off guard when Sukuna reached out and snagged his hand. He jumped at the contact but forced himself to stay still. Gojo looked up at Sukuna's face.
And Sukuna stared down at Gojo's wrist. Sukuna slowly turned his hand palm up, staring at the ring of bruises that adorned his arm like a daisy chain.
Gojo just stared at him, daring him to say something about it. But after a moment Sukuna just dropped his hand and stated, "Those are fine." But then he added:
"But the underwear needs to go."
Gojo couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "What? Excuse me?"
"Why are you wearing any kind of black?" Sukuna wondered aloud. "You know it's all wrong—"
"—are you actually serious? My underwear is none of your business." Gojo started to get more and more flustered as Sukuna just stood there staring straight at his crotch. The see through white robe he was wearing made his dark underwear stand out far too much. But still…
This entire argument was completely deranged. He couldn't believe any of this was actually happening.
He clearly wasn't high enough for this.
Sukuna just stood there, hands on hips, eyebrows raised. Waiting.
"You're actually serious," Gojo marveled. "So what are you gonna do, take them—"
"—yes," Sukuna cut him off before he could even finish the question. Gojo's mouth fell open.
"Unfuckingbelievable," Gojo muttered. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?" He turned away then, almost like he was going to walk off. But instead he flopped down on the bed, angrily taking up the position from The Nightmare. He twisted around until his head hung partway off the side and he was staring upside at Sukuna, eyes glaring and silently simmering. Then he lifted his hips and quickly slipped off his underwear.
Which he then threw right at Sukuna's smirking face.
Sukuna just caught them, cackling delightedly and looking exceedingly pleased. Gojo watched him stuff his briefs in his pocket like a trophy. He then sauntered away to his easel, shoulders shaking with residual laughter.
"Fucking pervert," Gojo mumbled as he lay with his head upside down.
He was seriously starting to regret this whole thing.
And it had barely even begun.
To be continued…