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Sanemi has many, many scars. The most prominent ones were on his face, they were the top features that made everyone's opinion on him. But those ones were mere nicks compared to the rest of his body. He wasn't careful doing anything at all, whether it be pouring a cup of tea or slaying a low ranked demon. More often than not, he'd return home with a new scar or two added to the fray.
But some of them didn't come from demons at all. Like the one on his forearm, where boiling hot oil popped out of the pot and landed on his skin. Like the bite mark on his index finger he got from trying to pet a stray cat. Like the faded scrape on his knee he got when he was a child.
Like the jagged one above his collarbone that marked the first time his father ever made a physical mark on him.
It was small, measly compared to the rest. And it was old, already fading into his skin. But it held the harsh memories of his childhood before it was up to him to deal with everything.
He was young. Genya couldn't even walk yet. But it was already drilled into his head that his father was a dangerous, angry man. Even though his mother tried to hide it, he saw the bruises, and the scars, and the tears in her eyes when she entered their room late at night. He heard the shouts from behind closed doors, and was the one who held his hands over his siblings' ears and told them stories and sang to them despite his horrible singing voice. Anything to make his baby siblings laugh, to distract them from the crying outside their room.
It was the first time Sanemi ever saw it happening in front of him.
He left the room, looking for his mother, when the words died on his tongue. His father was standing over her collapsed body, foot on her frail back, hatchet in hands. He looked like he had just come home from his job, but he didn't even hear the door open, nor any sounds of struggle or hurt. His mother had a hand over her own mouth, trembling with sobs yet determined not to let any of her children hear what was going on.
That was the first time he ever felt pure, unbridled anger. He couldn't hold himself back even if he wanted to. The only reason he hadn't been coming out to help her was because he had six little siblings to take care of.
But they were asleep. And Sanemi was filled with hatred.
He ran forward, pushing the man away with all his might. Clearly not expecting it, he tumbled backwards, arms swinging that hatchet dangerously close to his head. He stood between his parents, protecting his weak mom at the young age of six.
His father was enraged.
Before he knew it, he was hit. Again and again, hearing the shouts of his mother behind him.
He left shortly after. Sanemi still remembered the pain he was in, the blood dripping from the wound above his collarbone, and he still remembered checking on his mom.
And after that moment, he never stopped protecting his siblings from that wretched man, never stopped putting himself between his mother and his father.
Sanemi didn't like his scars. Sure, they made him look fucking awesome, and marked him permanently as someone who survived harsh battles by the sheer force of will. But he didn't like the one above his collarbone, nor the one across his abdomen that was near-fatal, all because he wasn't paying attention. He didn't like the ones on his face, horrible memories of the worse point in his life left as a firm reminder of what he did.
If he could choose to get rid of every single one of them, he would.
But that's not what Giyuu thinks.
"Pretty, cool, striking," is what he described them as when they kissed for the first time.
"Why would you think like that?"
"Oh. Sorry."
"No, I mean like-" He sighs heavily, "They're ugly. They remind me just how much of a shit person I am. How could you like them?"
Giyuu is quiet for a second, trying to think of the right words to say. Then, "I think they give you… personality..? Not… bad personality. It shows you're strong and that you're still fighting, despite what may have happened in your life."
Sanemi had stared at him for a long while. Thinking that, this guy, Tomioka Giyuu, the guy he swore to hate because of his annoyingly aloof demeanor and annoyingly beautiful face, was actually, genuinely, saying that his scars made him him. That they made him stronger, they made him a fighter, they made him the determined slayer that he was today. That they weren't ugly, that they weren't just haunted memories of the past.
He wrapped his arms around his waist tighter, pressing his mangled, disfigured face into Giyuu's shoulder. There was a heavy 'thank you' on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't speak. Nonetheless, Giyuu heard it, he knew what he was trying to say. He reciprocated the tight embrace, bringing a hand up to card through his messy hair.
"I love you," He mumbles, "Have I ever told you that?"
Giyuu smiles, a small, delicate thing. "Only five times today."
"Shut up, you sassy fucker."
He chuckles, "Alright, Sanemi," He says. As an afterthought, he adds, "Love you too, by the way."
The scars still hurt. Phantom pains seizing his body at the worst possible times, waking him up from haunted nightmares that he could never remember. Reminding him of things he wanted to forget years ago in such a brutal way.
But things can heal.
And Tomioka Giyuu is one hell of a medic.