Work Text:
I notice Itadori sitting in one of the chairs adjacent to me. My eyes focus on his face, the large scars from the gashes left near his eye and mouth during Shibuya.
My gaze falls to the various scars on his neck. From small scratches to deep gashes, all healed differently. Some were clean and treated, others still rigid from the lack of aid in their recovery.
Then my eyes focus on his arms, his forearms bare, sleeves rolled up to his elbows—which was unusual since he tended to keep them down to cover the bandages and plasters that often times covered his arms. I took note of the bruises and large scars left from previous battles. But I also noticed other scars, thinner scars, ones that couldn’t possibly be from a battle. They were too uniform, too clean, like they’d never seen the grueling scene of a battle before. Like they’d never felt the damp and heavy blood-scented air of a battlefield. Like all they knew was porcelain sinks and dull blades.
I tore my gaze away from Itadori’s scars and sighed, noticing my own pale, lifeless hands. They were always cold, my veins showed through my skin. I pull back my sleeve, revealing my pale, unblemished forearm. Despite all we’ve went through, I was the only one left unscarred. A thought flashed in my head:
Maybe, If I, too, had scars like those—It would bring us closer. Maybe it would quench this heavy guilt in my heart. Even if only just a little.
I briefly thought to the retractable blade I typically use to open envelopes and boxes, then quickly discarded the thought.