“hey, he—satoru. stop moving, please?” geto murmured anxiously, attempting pathetically hard to pacify the squirmy boy in their arms.

the two stood before the bathroom mirror, geto’s warmth snug against gojo's back. not once had geto bothered to look up, let alone glance gojo's expression in the mirror.

the way he looked at his own reflection—it made geto nauseous in their own skin.

they'd spent the last twenty hellish minutes pinning and wrestling the binder off the poor boy.

their warm palms swept across their best friend’s bruised ribs, with a tenderness trembling in sorrow, as they assessed the damage for the millionth time.

the lines of geto’s face were drawn taut only in times like these: when gojo’s exceptional knack for self-neglect happened to be cutting it awfully close.

geto never yelled at him—was only there to get him back up on his feet.