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Toji Fushiguro might've left him alive-albeit barely-but something inside Suguru Geto died anyway when the bullet split Riko Amani's skull.
It's been almost a year now, Geto thinks to himself, as he sits on the roof of the highest temple in Jujutsu High's compound with a half-empty bottle of vodka he swiped from the kitchens. He'll never forget the gunshot, the horrible sound of blood and brain matter splattering over stone, the dull thud of Riko's limp body hitting the ground. The sight of her dead eyes, wide and empty and still wet with happy tears, is burned into Geto's memory.
He doesn't understand why. He's choked down spirit after cursed spirit and seen so many more people die brutally since, and yet he can't stop seeing her in his nightmares.
They've been hard for capable sorcerers lately. Geto's been working twice as hard as usual, and he's gone numb to it all at this point. His body constantly aches, his mouth tastes like it's permanently caked with shit from the amount of cursed spirits he's been swallowing, and he's exhausted and beaten down by the bitching and yelling and complaining from ungrateful assholes who don't understand what he's protected them from-or even that he's protecting them in the first place. He's seen so many innocent people die needlessly, people that he could've saved, but between regulations and spread-thin resources, he hasn't been able to do jack shit.
Identify the threat. Exorcise. Swallow. Being a guardian of the supposed bastion against evil is an endless, inefficacious cycle.
Geto's so fucking tired.
Not for the first time, he looks down. This building is the tallest in the compound. The ground beneath is all paving stones, no grass or bushes to cushion the impact. Should he fall, he'd at the very least come out with severe injuries, which would keep him bedridden for a while. That is, if he survived it at all.
Geto chuckles bitterly, as he takes another pull from his bottle. A few weeks off work sounds really fucking good right now.
"Thinkin' about it again?"
Geto practically shits himself in alarm as Gojo pops into existence behind him. "Fucking christ, Satoru!"
Gojo doesn't respond. He just glances at the vodka, and behind his sunglasses, his eyes narrow with concern. Then he sits down on the roof next to Geto, plucks it from his hands, and takes a large swig.
He promptly bursts into a sputtering, gagging fit, spitting out what little of the liquor he hasn't swallowed. "AACK! How the hell do you and Shoko drink this shit?"
"You say as you're taking another sip," Geto grumbles.
Gojo grins at him, but there's no humor in it. "Drinking alone's fuckin' sad, man. Also, my Six Eyes are constantly aware of everything everywhere all the time, and I don't like it when you get all moody and sit up here. Much less while you're drunk."
