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2005
Fifteen days, thirteen hours, twenty-four minutes, and three seconds.
That was the exact amount of time that had passed since the god-awful incident at the abandoned school. Dreadful days spent by Gojo throwing himself into training, Shoko filling her lungs with smoke at the rooftop, and Geto sitting silently by your side as you lay unconscious on your bed.
Bandages and gauzes crowded your body as you lay there still, your chest slowly heaving up and down with every weak breath you took. It was that small rise and fall of your chest that kept Geto Suguru sane.
And the counting, of course. The tracking of the exact amount of time you had spent under your deep sleep held whatever piece of Geto has left together.
You'll wake up. They were sure of it. Shoko was sure of it so it had to be the truth. She had healed you the best she could and at this point, your body was only recovering from the fatality it had endured.
You were healing...right?
Geto Suguru winced at the thought of what you had suffered through–of how you smiled at him while throwing yourself to shield him from an attack of a Grade One curse.
He could have taken it. He was strong enough to counter the attack yet you had to be there and protect him when all he wanted to do was protect you. How could he be so weak? How did he allow himself to be so useless?
"It was a terrible mistake on our part. We are sorry." was all that the elders could offer on their small briefing the day after. In the morning of the night they spent restless, worrying about their classmate on death's door.
It was a horrifying miscalculation and misinformation. They were told it would only be a couple of Grade Three curses–a couple–the elders had assured them of it. So, where the hell did the swarm of all those curses appear from? He wanted to strangle the life out of all the elders right there and then but Geto did not let it get the best of him. Of whatever it was that was left of him.
His eyebrows furrowed, biting his lower lip as his gaze remained onto the white blanket covering your body. His fingers were interlocked, resting it beside you as that terrifying scenery played in his mind again and again and again. Of how helpless he was when your body fell limp as you crashed against a wall several feet away. Of how he could do nothing to check on you until he finally dealt with all the curses.
The young sorcerer had never felt that afraid his whole life. It was as if his soul was being taken piece by piece in every step he took towards your battered, bleeding body that day. The way your arms sprawled across the floor, your hair covering your bruised face, and the weak heaving of your chest–it was a sight he would never forget.
