Geto knows he’ll never surpass Gojo.

After the “incident,” his stability dwindled leaf by leaf, like an untouched grapevine. The higher-ups pushed him day after day; freedom was scarce. Why’d he have to protect the weak? Shouldn’t they do it themselves? He shouldn’t have to be bothered.

Every day, he’d get worse.

But every day, you’d visit.

He’s not first place in the world, but he is when he’s with you.

What made matters worse was that you weren’t a sorcerer—but you could see curses. Your sense in locating them was much stronger than his, actually; dare I say better than Satoru’s, he believes.

Still, you weren’t a sorcerer. You couldn’t defend yourself, which meant you were one of the weak he should supposedly protect. But you were so kind to him, so compassionate, how could he ever push you away? Besides, you’ve been friends since middle school. He couldn’t just turn his back on you.

Just like clockwork, you arrived with a bag full of his favorite tea and snacks and a bunch of vegetables and meat. You practically lived here, making him meals three times a day and helping him keep the place tidy.

“Hey,” he said with a weak smile, the heavy bags under his eyes and the way he slumped his shoulders as he sat on his couch. “You’re a little late.”