fuck buddies don't act like this (Gojo x Reader)

Chapter 81

~Yn~

Overhead, the flickering light buzzes like one of those mosquito catchers, zapping any critter that wanders too close to the light and igniting the spreading wave of pain across your temple. Faint chatter gleams off the walls and splashes into the waiting area as a flash flood of young teens complain about vaccines and cautiously rubbing their arms in fear of igniting the same pain that easily fogs your vision.

It's been getting harder to ignore and harder to pretend that everything is okay.

The stress.

The exhibition.

Moving in.

The... attack? Or so Gojo says, it was a freaking miracle that you expelled a cursed spirit and still have no knowledge or power to do so.

Everything you thought was the underlying cause of it can't be. Time has passed and still it remains like a tumour rooted into your spine and coiling around your brain. A continuous and rather annoying tapping ricochets off the ceiling and your ears pop, feeling full of water and heavy with lead. Toying with your pant leg, your hands shake against your bouncing thigh, and you realise the annoying tapping is coming from you.

Breathing in quickly as the gnawing ache to let go rises as the cloud dissipates and your teary eyes prick to be set free. You hold steadfast, and the quiver in your exhalation is the only release of satisfaction that you can offer them. Besides you, the tall white door remains closed and has been for the last twenty minutes, and your nerve is growing weaker by the second.

A lump settles into the back of your throat.

It has been fourteen days since the art show and against the better judgement of Ms. Kim and her assistant who you can't be fucked to name, you sold out and have more than enough money to fund your growing business. Some of the proceeds might need to be wired to Gojo after his delightful performance of entertaining a crowd that would have eaten you alive and picked their teeth with your bones. You weren't ready, but who is, no one, no one is ready, everyone learns to put on masks and act for the live stage audience. But unlike the rest, that night was too blurry, you had champagne, you don't typically drink it, it's too bubbly and upsets your stomach, but a brave face needs to look the part.

Then the pain came and everything else all but fizzled away into the jarring white noise that stirs the live wires of your nerves and sends them inwards, pricking under the skin and wishing that you could shed your skin suit like a snake. A tingle rises from your nape past your ear, and your shortly bitten fingernails feel like scratchy nubs against your scalp. Patches of hair have begun to thin, and you worry that that's another sign to be worried about.

A sign that something is terribly wrong.

Your chest quakes and your throat constricts against the pressure, your skin blotting. You're a liar, and not a great one. Gojo thinks you're meeting up with Morgan, she's currently in Okinawa with Hikaru as a spontaneous getaway. You know he knows and somehow that makes this any easier and worse all the same, it's good to be sure and better to hold out on a scare when it could really be nothing at all.

The lie shrivels into a grape under direct sunlight.

A young woman appears out of the dark hallway, the flickering light clings for control overhead. She's in a muted purple gown and wears a mask whiter than snow obstructing her jaw, she's holding a clipboard and clicks her pen. The thinly pressed material grates against your skin as your similar gown does little to hold against the cold and offer any strength against tearing from any light movements. It's the reason you tell yourself to be pinned straight against the wall, rigid and twitchy.