Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ever since Sanemi and Obanai had gotten closer, Obanai had picked up on a certain habit.

He loved touching Sanemi’s scars.

The first time Obanai could remember doing it, when this whole thing between them was still so new, Sanemi hadn’t even been awake, resting in the Butterfly Mansions’ hospital ward with a broken leg and wounds all over, knocked out from whatever medicine Kochou had given him.

Obanai had been so angry with Shinazugawa. The idiot had been reckless and sustained these injuries he could’ve avoided, and now everyone was worried about him and for the next few weeks, they’d be down a Hashira.

They couldn’t afford these losses, and Sanemi should’ve known that before he got so careless.

Despite how upset he was with him, Obanai stuck to his bedside, never once letting him out of arm’s reach. He was worried too, damnit, and he clearly wasn’t the only one.

Everyone agreed not to tell Sanemi, but while he was asleep, Obanai and Shinobu had even let Genya visit.

It was all the fault of Kamado and his friends, which unfortunately included both Genya and Kanao, and their shared ability to be so obnoxious even two Hashira could hardly keep up.

Either way, once Genya had sufficiently stared at his not-brother and held his hand in possibly the first time since they were children (which Obanai chose not to think about, actually; their relationship wasn’t any of his business outside of the times Sanemi ranted to him about it), he gave the Serpent Hashira a nod of gratitude, and left to return to his friends.

Only to then, of course, vehemently and loudly deny the tears the boar kid accused him of having in his eyes, punching him in the face, and getting dragged off by Kamado.

Obanai could only roll his eyes. Sanemi and Genya weren’t nearly as different as the older one claimed they were.

With that, Obanai was left alone with his idiot of a colleague and Kaburamaru, who’d curled up on Sanemi’s chest the second he got settled into the hospital bed and had since fallen into a comfortable sleep.

Despite how upset Obanai was with the sleeping man, he couldn’t deny how peaceful he looked.

Maybe it wasn’t a good sign, that he could apparently only be so calm when he was knocked out, but Obanai never particularly minded his brashness.

Besides, would definitely yell at Sanemi later, when the Wind Hashira was feeling good enough to argue with the Butterfly Girls about how badly he had to get back to his duties, and Kaburamaru would eventually have to bite him to make him shut up, but that could wait.

Obanai could pick up some of his patrols for a while, and he could probably push some of them off to their fellow Hashira as well. Uzui owed him, anyway.

Obanai just wanted Sanemi to get better soon. He looked peaceful, but that was from the medication Kochou had pumped into his veins. Above all else, Shinazugawa was hurt and probably in pain, and Obanai hated it.

Sanemi would tell him that he worried too much; maybe he was right.

With a sigh, Obanai stood up, away from the stool Tsuyuri had carried inside with one of her empty smiles, morphed into just the slightest pinch of worry when she looked at the unconscious Hashira.

She was a strange girl, never truly able to express how she felt. Obanai couldn’t really blame her.

After thinking about it for a moment, standing next to the bed and staring at the snake curled up on Sanemi’s covered chest, Obanai sat down at the edge of the bed, on Sanemi’s left side.

Not enough to touch, he didn’t want to risk waking either of them up, but just enough to feel the warmth Shinazugawa seemed to radiate.

It was proof that Sanemi was alive.

Well, of course he was. He was far too stubborn to die from a few cuts and fractures, but the closeness made Obanai’s brain shut up a bit.

Shinazugawa was, unfortunately, the only one who could really achieve that.

Obanai’s eyes drifted to Sanemi’s sleeping face. The scars, ragged and deep and, if they were anything like Obanai’s, painful, stood out against the calm features, soft despite the anger they so often portrayed.

He didn’t know why he did it; maybe because those scars were so clearly and unbelievably Sanemi, while the quiet of the room was the complete opposite, but Obanai found himself reaching his hand out over Sanemi’s sleeping body, wanting to trace them.

His left hand shook just a little, just enough to make Obanai silently curse himself. He leaned down a bit, closer to the sleeping body, before his fingers made contact with Sanemi’s temple.

He was careful at first, all featherlight touches and uneven breaths, getting a feel of skin beneath his fingertips.

It all felt so intimate, to touch someone so gently, to seek out contact anywhere other than a battlefield. Obanai didn’t tend to allow himself those simple pleasures.

The texture itself felt odd, but not at all bad— Obanai’s own scars were deep and gnarled, cutting into his face and leaving the area around them warped and angry.

(He could feel the seam of the cuts on the inside of his mouth. He tasted his own blood far too many times.)

Sanemi’s scars were also deep, but not like Obanai's, not piercing so far through his flesh. His were ragged and uneven, like claw marks etched into his face.

Obanai hated his own scars; he still found himself loving Sanemi’s.

Tentatively, as he trailed down towards Sanemi’s cheek, Obanai’s touch grew a little firmer, though not enough to cause discomfort. He found himself drifting closer to Sanemi, close enough to rouse Kaburamaru, who only hissed quietly and slithered out of the way.

Obanai put more of his fingers on Sanemi’s skin, testing the limits as his thumb came down to trace the large scar across his cheek and the bridge of his nose.

He’d hardly ever touched anyone like this; willing his own rotten, useless hands to be so sickeningly gentle. He avoided touch as much as he could, usually.

It wasn’t that Obanai hated touching or being touched, it just felt wrong and awful and filthy sometimes. He could handle it, liked it at times, but only sometimes; he couldn’t always tell when those times were.

He liked Kyojuro’s warm, secure hugs, reminding him that he was still here and alive, just as they did when he was first rescued. His heart always felt as if it was melting whenever Tokito leaned against him, seeking contact through the haze of his mind. The master’s comforting touches made him feel safe, Uzui’s hair ruffles were annoying (but secretly welcomed), and he’d even started accepting Kanroji’s endless affections, and Kochou’s purple-tipped poking at his skin.

He just couldn’t deal with them all the time.

Sanemi was almost an exception, of sorts.

Obanai had no qualms about pushing him away, or having Kaburamaru bare his fangs should the other man push their boundaries, but that almost never happened.

Shinazugawa seemed to somehow know when to push, and when to leave him be. Everyone else tried, and mostly succeeded, but Sanemi always understood him best.

Maybe that’s why Obanai felt safe to do this; maybe Sanemi was safe.

Obanai was snapped out of his thoughts, embarrassed that he zoned out in the first place, especially in such a position, by Sanemi stirring beneath his hand. He froze, unsure of what to do exactly.

This was— he was hoping Sanemi wouldn’t wake up during this.

“Hm”, Sanemi groaned, his voice rough as he squinted against the lights, “Iguro?”

Obanai felt his face heat up, reeling back and ignoring Kaburamaru’s startled hiss at the movement. He looked around the room briefly, suddenly grateful that Kochou or her sisters hadn’t entered; with the exception of Kanao, they’d never let him live this down.

“Shinazugawa”, he spoke, trying to retain some semblance of composure as he let some warmth slip into his voice, “you’re awake. I’m glad.”

Sanemi groaned, one of his hands coming up to rub at his dry eyes. “Why—“, he coughed, prompting Obanai to grab a glass of water from the bedside table, “why were you touching my face? New scar or something?”

“Not on your face“, Obanai replied, as he was fairly sure Kochou mentioned some of his other wounds were likely to leave marks, “I was just… trying to see something.”

The other man blinked one eye open to look at him blankly, clearly unimpressed by the lackluster excuse, the other eye still covered by his hand.

His unoccupied hand came up to take the half-empty glass from Obanai’s grasp, putting it up to his mouth and downing it in one go.

“Slow down, idiot.” Obanai scolded, “Unless you want to drown yourself, that is. I doubt Kochou would appreciate you killing yourself under her care, though.”

Sanemi groaned in response, handing the now-empty glass back to Obanai, “Guess so.”

They were quiet for a moment. Shinazugawa was busy waking up, trying to adjust to the world while pushing Kaburamaru‘s curious snout away from his face.

Obanai sighed at the useless effort and picked Kaburamaru up, letting the snake move up to his shoulders and settle on his usual spot around his neck.

The snake‘s weight felt comforting, although Obanai supposed he didn’t really need that comfort. Shinazugawa was the injured one, after all.

“What happened, anyway?” Sanemi tried to ask before his words dissolved into a yawn. Either Kochou’s medicine was still working, or he was just exhausted.

Obanai rolled his eyes at the display, but answered anyway, “You were stupid and broke your leg.”

Shinazugawa made an indignant noise in the back of his throat, “I wasn’t stupid.”

“Reckless, then.”

“Hey-“, Sanemi started, ready to argue despite having just woken up, before he deflated, “‘you gonna tell me why you were grabbing my face earlier, or do I have to guess?”

Obanai’s face heated up again, and he averted his eyes to focus on Kaburamaru instead of the Hashira in front of him.

Shinazugawa clicked his tongue at the non-response. “Alright”, he conceded, “I’ll guess.”

He thought for a moment, poorly hiding his amusement at the situation and happy to annoy the other Hashira.

Obanai groaned, already annoyed rather than grateful at having to deal with an awake Sanemi, and decided to answer before he had to deal with Shinazugawa’s stupid guesses.

Embarrassment be dammed, he wasn’t willing to waste any amount of his time on this.

“I just—“, he grit out, trying to focus on anything other than the feeling of violet eyes piercing his soul, “this is so stupid.”

Obanai took a breath, rolling his eyes and trying to appear calm despite how he stumbled over his words, “I suppose I was— I wanted to touch your—“

“My scars?”

Obanai dared to look back at Sanemi, who was looking up at him, apparently confused.

“It was out of line”, Obanai admitted, nodding at Sanemi‘s guess, “I’m not sure what I was thinking. Sorry.”

“Why?” Sanemi asked instead, seemingly not offended by Iguro’s actions, much to the man’s surprise, “I’m not upset— seriously, I know what you’re thinking. You’re bad at hiding things from people who can read you.”

Obanai took offense to that, but chose to ignore those last words. Still, he figured he owed some kind of explanation.

“This is stupid.” He repeated, sighing before answering, “Your scars are… They’re yours, right? No one else has them like you.“

Sanemi nodded, and they both pretended Genya didn’t have a scar eerily similar to one of Sanemi’s slashed across his face; it wasn’t the point of what Obanai was struggling to say. Neither of them cared much for distractions.

“And I…”, Obanai hesitated, but Sanemi remained uncharacteristically patient, which Obanai tried not to get annoyed over, “You were being too quiet, passed out and injured like that. It’s not like you, and—“

And I was worried.

He cut himself off, suddenly aware of how he was making himself freak out, how he sounded far too vulnerable for his liking.

Somehow, the idea of sounding so obviously concerned, of admitting his feelings in such a way, felt even worse than that moment of panic he felt when Sanemi woke up with a trembling hand touching his scars.

Shinazugawa wasn’t upset with him, and he was awake and talking and didn’t seem to be in too much pain, but Obanai’s rotten mind always found a way to make him lose it.

Sanemi sighed, snapping Obanai out of his thoughts once more. “Alright.”

Iguro hesitated, “Alright?”

“Yeah”, Sanemi said, some of that gruff calm Obanai had grown used to evident in his tone, reaching out his left arm to make room at his side as his right hand came to pat at the spot, “alright.”

Obanai’s face felt as if it would burn off any second. Morbidly, it reminded him of the day Shinjuro saved him with his flaming sword, clawed hands like phantoms in his hair.

Still, he was selfish, utterly ruined already, and pathetically unable to deny the invitation, so he moved to lay down at Sanemi’s side.

He laid there unsure for a moment, his head partially pillowed on Sanemi’s covered chest and his body curled up on his side.

Kaburamaru seemed to accept the new position with only slight annoyance at having to move again, slithering down to curl up on Sanemi’s covered stomach instead of risking his scales between the men’s bodies.

After a moment, Shinazugawa’s arm wrapped itself around Obanai’s shoulders. If the huff Sanemi let out was any indication, the way Obanai melted into the touch seemed to amuse him.

Maybe Obanai should be offended at that, but that awfully safe feeling of being held only made him feel content.

He really had to ask how Sanemi always knew when he needed that comfort, even if it never failed to make him feel awful afterwards, knowing his impure blood rushed so close to someone else’s. It typically felt good in the moment, at least.

Hesitantly, as if he still expected Shinazugawa to be upset with him, Obanai reached his hand out again, cupping Sanemi’s face and tracing the scar on his cheek again. Sanemi leaned into the touch for a moment, indulging Obanai’s urges.

The motion was soft, kind, all the things he liked to say he wasn’t— Shinazugawa was such a liar sometimes. He turned his head to give Obanai better access, planting a kiss on his hair to return the affection.

Obanai managed to suppress a shameful squeak at the affection, though he couldn’t quite hide how much warmer his face felt, or how his eyes widened. Sanemi chuckled at the reaction before he yawned once more. Those medicines had to be what was making him so compliant.

“I’m going back to sleep”, he said, “do whatever you want, yeah?”

Obanai could only nod, entranced at the situation. Sanemi, fortunately, accepted the silent response, allowing his eyes to slip close.

The feeling of Iguro’s hand tracing the scars felt soothing, safe. It made Sanemi feel warm with something nice, something he hadn’t felt so strongly in years.

Whatever that something was, it lulled Sanemi back to sleep, and even caused Obanai’s eyes to feel heavy.

They both fell asleep like that, eventually, blanketed by something lovely.

Shinobu didn’t have the heart to be too mad when she found her friends like that, Shinazugawa dutifully sleeping on his hospital bed with an arm around Iguro, who was curled up on the blankets, halfway on top of the injured man, hand laying still on his scarred cheek.

It became a habit after that.

It wasn’t even a bad habit, really.

Things like Shinjuro‘s drinking, or Genya‘s hunger for demon flesh, those were bad habits. Hell, Iguro and Shinazugawa themselves had some rather unfortunate habits they didn’t plan on shaking anytime soon.

Obanai had issues with food, and an incessant itching of rot beneath his skin, begging him to cut and slash and claw until some of his awful blood left his defect veins.

Sanemi slashed up his own body too, only his excuse of fighting demons was slightly more understandable than Obanai‘s, and he‘d yell and fight almost anyone who ticked him off with little regard for anyone‘s safety.

So, really, Obanai‘s thing of touching Sanemi‘s scars, Sanemi‘s thing of encouraging him to do so as if it was something completely normal, were among their only objectively positive habits.

It made Obanai feel heavy with guilt, sometimes. Most of the time.

At least it blocked that painful emptiness of his stomach, the familiar feeling of bile in his throat, and even that floating feeling he’d get when he spilled his own blood, blissful but exhausting, pale with death.

He felt like he was using Sanemi, taking advantage of the his pride and kindness, all the good parts of him reduced to filth when met with Obanai’s sickening touch.

But Obanai had always been so selfish.

He wasn’t sure if it was a trait he’d inherited from his family, or something he’d learned from that woman, or if it was something that was truly just him; the filth he’d manifested all on his own, without the influence of the people he came from.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, either. Ignorance felt safe, he supposed.

Despite how awful he tended to feel afterwards, Obanai couldn’t deny how safe the action felt, how safe Sanemi made him feel. It was a total conundrum, and hated how his heart ached with it.

Maybe he should stop, before tracing those scars became such an important part of his routine that he couldn’t shake it anymore. He would stop if he could, if he managed to convince himself to do so at least, if it weren’t for Sanemi.

Neither of them ever cared much for voicing their thoughts and feelings. They talked about it, sometimes, but subtlety felt far less daunting, not as horribly vulnerable.

Still, sometimes, Obanai almost wished they spoke more openly. Maybe then, Shinazugawa’s actions would make a little more sense.

Because the Wind Hashira, for some reason, seemed to like it. He was content with it, nearly as dependent on the touch as Obanai was starting to become.

It didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Sanemi was never insecure about his scars, so it likely wasn’t some way for him to grow comfortable with his appearance. Even if it was, Obanai wasn’t sure why it was his filthy touch he seemed to crave, instead of someone else’s.

Kanroji often held herself back from getting too far into her colleague’s spaces, so he knew she’d be happy to indulge. Even Tomioka, that bastard, would be a better option than Obanai.

But Sanemi never seemed to want their touch. He openly rejected Kanroji’s many attempts to hug him, scowled at Uzui’s playful touches, and yelled at Tomioka more than enough to keep his distance.

Maybe it was just because the Wind and Serpent Hashira were close.

Too close, closer than most, according to whatever gossip Obanai occasionally picked up, whispered between lower ranking slayers who didn’t care to check their surroundings and failed to notice the Hashira lurking in the trees above them.

Whatever it was, whatever he and Sanemi were, it seemed like they both found some kind of comfort in it.

Obanai couldn’t bring himself to fight it, not when being with Sanemi was one of the few things capable of shutting his thoughts up, sometimes.

Sanemi, clearly, had no big problems with their relationship either. He was far too indulgent of both his own urges and Obanai’s, with the way he seemed to give in to the affection so easily.

He acted like Obanai’s hands belonged there; hovering over his skin, light touches coming down to trace his messy scars, softening his sharp edges.

It almost felt like he was asking for the attention, in a way.

He’d notice Obanai’s hands shaking, see him fidget with his fingers and tug at his own sleeves, and guide them to his scars instead.

Sanemi allowed calloused fingers to dig into his scarred arms no matter where they were, let hands rest on his chest to feel his heart beat beneath thick skin and closed wounds, let Obanai trace the scars on his face on tired nights.

It didn’t matter how fresh his wounds were, how bloodstained the hands touching him were. Sanemi simply… allowed it. Encouraged it, even.

There was only one complaint he ever seemed to have.

—

Sanemi never minded Obanai’s apparent obsession with his scars.

He was confused at first, when he woke up injured and drugged in a hospital bed with careful hands tracing his face, but he hadn’t been upset.

Iguro was weird like that, Sanemi thought, and if that was what he felt a need to do, he’d let him.

Maybe, in some roundabout way, he’d hoped that Obanai’s love for the scars covering his body would lead to the Serpent Hashira hating his own scars a little less. Maybe he would finally stop hiding under layers of bandages and too-long sleeves.

It wasn’t that Sanemi disliked Iguro’s modesty, necessarily. He didn’t mind if that was what he felt most comfortable with. It would be fine, really, if Obanai’s self-hatred wasn’t so painfully obvious.

Despite his hopes, even months into this… arrangement of theirs, there was hardly any sign of him loosening up.

Sanemi remembered the first time he’d ever seen Obanai’s scars. It was during a mission, when a demon managed to slash the bandages off his face, but Iguro hadn’t had a chance to pay attention at that moment.

It caught Sanemi off guard, though.

Not in a bad way by any means.

It wasn’t hard to guess that there was something hidden beneath those bandages, and he’d always assumed it had to have been an injury or sorts, but something about seeing Obanai’s whole face surprised him.

It was only once the demon had been killed, the head dissolving somewhere off to the side as the beast whined about the pain of Iguro’s technique, that Obanai noticed his bandages had been severed.

He’d been overwhelmed in an instant, and covered his face with his large sleeves. He’d glared at Sanemi as if he was daring him to say something, to call out how horrifying his scars were, or to poke fun at the snakelike shape of them.

Sanemi didn’t do anything like that. Why would he, really? With his own scars, the Wind Hashira was hardly in a position to judge.

Besides, Iguro looked… nice. The word pretty came to mind, but Sanemi wasn’t looking to get stabbed with a curved sword or bitten by a snake, and kept his mouth shut about it.

He pulled out a roll of bandages instead, a necessity due to how often he injured himself, and offered it to Obanai.

The other had stared at him for a moment, but ultimately took the bandages and tied them around his face again with practiced ease as they walked back to town.

That had been it. They never spoke about it afterwards, never discussed Obanai’s scars or why he hid them.

The only exception had been the day Iguro chose to tell Sanemi about his past (or at least parts of it; Sanemi wondered if he’d ever get the full story), and even then, he hardly spoke of his scars.

Sanemi learned that Obanai was just like that. He hated his scars, but liked Sanemi’s. He wouldn’t share any details on how he got his scars, but held Sanemi’s scarred hands as if they were something precious, and that was fine.

He was glad whenever Obanai did open up, even if it was done without words. Notably, as time went on, it wasn’t rare for Obanai to take his bandages off around Sanemi.

When they were alone in a Wisteria House to heal after a mission, or spending time together outside of their duties, the knot holding his mask together came loose more often than not.

There was always some wariness from Iguro’s side, always careful to make sure it was only Shinazugawa who would see. He trusted Sanemi, intimately and wholly.

Still, he never let the Wind Hashira’s hands near his scars.

Sanemi had tried a few times, and he’d been denied each time. Even when it was Obanai lying drugged and injured in the Butterfly Mansion, Sanemi hadn’t been allowed to reach out and touch.

It frustrated Sanemi, admittedly.

He’d grown so used to Obanai’s hands on his skin, tracing his scars and lingering where they crossed.

Careful, shaking, calloused hands and their soft movements had become a staple in his life; something sweet and precious he could hold to his chest, no matter who saw. A little bit of softness he could grant himself.

Something about this closeness, about the affection and attention directed at the parts of himself many deemed monstrous, made Sanemi feel… something. Something nice, something he wanted to chase after.

He wanted to give that back to Obanai, somehow.

Sanemi just had to figure out how to do it, without scaring his closest companion off.

Chapter Text

Somewhere along the way, Obanai started showing up at the Wind Estate for seemingly no reason. His unannounced visits became as natural as the feeling of scars beneath his fingertips.

It was an evening just like that, when Sanemi decided to try again.

They were lying on Sanemi’s futon in the Wind Estate, the room only illuminated by some candles Shinazugawa had lit, unwilling to sit around in total darkness.

Sanemi was on his back, looking up at the ceiling while he felt Iguro’s fingers trace the scars on his chest.

Obanai was lying on his side, his face leaning comfortably against Sanemi’s chest as he soaked up the warmth the other man seemed to exude.

It felt similar to the first time this had happened, except Iguro’s bandages had long been discarded this time around, left somewhere on the floor beside them.

He didn’t feel the need to hide away in the near darkness of the room, or in the company of someone who never seemed to judge him.

For once, he felt… comfortable. Safe. Sanemi was the only one who could make him feel so utterly at peace nowadays.

Meanwhile, Sanemi was thinking.

Despite neither of them speaking, he could swear he heard Obanai’s voice snarking at him, hissing some remark about how rare that was. Even in his mind, it seemed Iguro had a penchant for teasing his closest colleague.

He supposed it made sense he heard Obanai’s voice; he was right beside him, and in his thoughts.

Sanemi and Obanai were different in a lot of ways. One of the most apparent differences was likely the way Iguro hated his own scars, while Shinazugawa had always been proud of his own.

Well, not always— those first few months, when he was covered in poorly treated wounds, and the echoes of his mother’s snarls and Genya’s screams were fresh in his mind, he’d hated the reminders embedded in his skin.

It had taken a little while, but he’d grown to love them soon enough. His scars were like trophies, reminding him that he survived.

His mother, or rather the demon she was forced to turn into, didn’t kill him. Genya’s words, sobbed and screamed through grief and confusion, didn’t kill him.

The smell of blood and death that clung to their family home as he stumbled past, away from that awful morning and his only living sibling, didn’t kill him. Any other demon he’d come across, whether it was Ubume or some other beast, did not kill him.

Everyone else may have died; his baby siblings, his mother, Masachika and countless other friends and comrades, but Sanemi didn’t. He refused to let himself be killed like that.

Sanemi liked his scars. His trophies, the symbols of his loss and the pride he allowed himself to obtain.

All scars were like that to him, no matter who carried them.

Genya had that scar across his cheek, matching Sanemi’s own in a sickening portrayal of their shared past, and apparently many more across his body, if Kochou’s reports were anything to go by.

Masachika also had scars on his cheek, looking a bit too much like claw marks, from events he’d never even told Sanemi; Himejima had a scar across his forehead; Tokito had a few across his torso and arms; both Kochou sisters had their fair share of scars, and Sanemi swore there were some faint marks on Tomioka’s face, just above his eye.

Their scars were natural, inherent parts of who they all were. To Sanemi at least.

Himejima’s were a symbol of his unexpected strength, his drive to protect those unable to do it themselves; Tokito’s were the result of a past he couldn’t remember; Kanae’s were from the countless battles she’d fought before the one that killed her, and Shinobu’s were proof of just how far she was willing to push herself, her determination and rage disguised by a small body and vials of poison.

Those things were all so utterly natural in Sanemi’s eye. He never paid much attention to any of their scars, never looked at them too long or felt them beneath his own, damaged hands.

But Obanai, as always, was different.

Contrary to what Iguro seemed to believe, in Sanemi‘s opinion, his scars were absolutely breathtaking.

In the moments he‘d removed those bandages obscuring his face, and let his scars be seen in the light, Sanemi had to fight back an embarrassingly bright blush, though he couldn’t stifle that feeling in his chest.

The Wind Hashira really wasn‘t one to care much about people‘s looks, but Iguro’s appearance still made his heart stutter.

Sanemi knew he wasn’t exactly the picture of traditional beauty standards, or whatever he‘d heard Kanroji complain about once, interrupting a conversation between the female Hashira that he definitely should not have heard.

With his unruly, white hair, his dry eyes and pinprick irises, or even the scars he was so proud of, he wasn’t typically someone people looked at and swooned over, not that he ever particularly minded. He preferred it that way, if he were being honest.

He also knew that Obanai didn’t quite fit in either, if the disgust the other seemed to feel over his scars and eyes and body were of any indication.

Sanemi never understood that, really. How Iguro Obanai of all people seemed to think of himself as ugly. He‘d heard enough of his past to know the reasoning, but the thought that Obanai was anything but beautiful felt wrong.

Even their comrades seemed to agree with Sanemi‘s position. Only Iguro ever disapproved.

Uzui and Tokito, who couldn’t be more different usually, seemed to have a mutual appreciation for Obanai’s eyes, and were similarly unashamed in expressing that; Kanroji seemed enamored by anyone’s appearance, really, but she seemed to have a soft spot for those whose beauty wasn’t quite traditional; Rengoku, Obanai’s brother in anything but blood, expressed his pride and admiration for the man loudly, literally, and never shied away from praising his sibling.

Even Kochou, who rarely passed up on an opportunity to tease her friends, was utterly genuine in her compliments, and Tomioka’s incessant staring when Obanai had first become a Hashira made him look like a stupid teenager admiring his peer.

Well, they had been teenagers at that time still, so Sanemi supposed that made sense.

Still, he would always cherish the memory of Iguro snapping at the Water Hashira for the first time, or Kaburamaru’s venomous hiss when they’d caught the idiot staring.

It was almost unfortunate when Tomioka seemingly came to terms with whatever was bugging him and stopped his ogling.

Sanemi got a good few laughs (and several quips at Tomioka’s expense) out of it, and it was really what started his and Obanai’s… thing.

Shit. He didn’t want to be grateful for Tomioka of all people, but he wasn’t so dense as to deny how their shared annoyance at the man started their initial friendship.

Choosing not to think about that anymore, lest he actually considered being less of an asshole to the Water Hashira, Sanemi looked down at Obanai, squinting through the dimly lit room to see him.

Kaburamaru was off… somewhere. Sanemi hadn’t been paying much attention when Obanai had mumbled something about the snakes’ whereabouts when he arrived at the Wind Estate.

He generally never minded the reptile slithering around the estate, as long as he didn’t try to eat his beetles again, or messed with the Sanemi’s secret ohagi stash.

(Not-so-secret ohagi stash would be a more accurate name, he supposed. Someone was keeping it stocked with his favorites, and out of the few people who were allowed semi-free access to his estate, Iguro was the most likely option.

Although, he supposed the Kakushi, or the staff that showed up periodically to clean the place and fret over Sanemi’s most recent scars, could be making deliveries. Genya’s determination to get his attention came to mind. He’d have to make Sorai investigate that at some point.)

Either way, the lack of his guiding snake and closest friend tended to make Obanai uncomfortable.

It was understandable, really, with his horrendous eyesight and the trauma bond those two shared, and it never failed to make Sanemi a little sad to see.

It wasn’t that Iguro lost that sharp hiss in his voice, or that his eyes lost any venom. If anything, those rough and defensive aspects of him only got more intense without Kaburamaru’s presence if he wasn’t given some sort of distraction, or if he was around someone he wasn’t close to.

It was an odd change, in a way, but Sanemi was never deterred by it. Obanai had become an expert in dealing with Sanemi’s moods after all, so he supposed it was only fair to try and match that understanding as much as he could.

He wasn’t really good at it, he thought. Sanemi didn’t think of himself as a particularly kind or comforting person, although those who knew him kept mistaking him as just that, for some reason.

Genya was near-delusional with his steadfast belief that Sanemi was someone inherently good and admirable, blinded by childhood laughs and nights spent watching the stars.

Masachika and Kanae had been strong believers in his kindness, insisting he was good no matter how much he denied it, as were the Master and some of their fellow Hashira.

Even Obanai, in that silent way of his, never daring to make his most personal thoughts known to anyone who couldn’t look past his façade, saw him that way.

He looked at Sanemi with stars in his eyes, and traced his scars with a featherlight touch and something that felt like love.

Sanemi never really knew what to do with that.

What he did know was that he wanted to give that love back, somehow. Iguro just made that obnoxiously difficult.

The Serpent Hashira’s endless self-hatred made loving him, or rather expressing the love he seemed to naturally make those who got to know him feel, with all the little ways in which he showed how much cared, almost impossible.

Shinazugawa Sanemi had always been stubborn, though. His mother used to smile at his determination.

“Hmm”, Obanai hummed, snapping Sanemi out of his thoughts. He tilted his head up to look at the Wind Hashira’s face through the dark, though he couldn’t make out much. “You’re staring, Shinazugawa.”

Sanemi felt his face heat up, suddenly glad for the darkness of the room. Obanai didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t feel the need to call it out. “I’m not—“

“You are”, Iguro interrupted the obvious lie; he was a Hashira, he could tell when someone was looking at him, idiot, “but I don’t mind.”

He sounded casual, almost uncharacteristically so, and a little tired, but Sanemi wasn’t concerned. Obanai was calm, comfortable, and the fact that he made him feel that way had something pleasant thrumming through his veins.

“You don’t?” Sanemj had to ask, because he usually did mind. Obanai hated being stared at, no matter the context.

Iguro shrugged in response, as much as he could given their position, before he looked away, as if he was embarrassed.

“It’s fine if it’s you.”

“Oh.”

Obanai couldn’t quite suppress a laugh at that, “‘Oh’? You’re so eloquent, Shinazugawa.”

Sanemi used one of his hands to slap Obanai lightly on the head, careful not to actually hurt him, “Shut up.”

Iguro only hummed in response, apparently willing to listen to him for once. Silently, he placed his chin on Sanemi’s chest, content to stare at whatever features he could make out in the dark.

“Now you’re staring”, Shinazugawa grumbled, though he didn’t move to push the other away. He’d long grown used to those eyes looking at him, intense even in their calmest moments.

He liked Obanai’s eyes. He’d never say it, worried it’d scare Obanai off, but he couldn’t help but feel mesmerized anytime their eyes locked.

The moment felt… almost perfect.

Iguro’s hand was still absentmindedly tracing the scars on his chest, and he could feel nails scrape against his skin sometimes.

If this was that feeling Kaburamaru seemed to love so much, always leaning into every pet and scratch across his scales as long as Obanai was the one touching him, Sanemi had to admit— the snake had good taste.

One thing was still missing, though.

“Hey”, Sanemi said, snapping Obanai out of whatever thoughts he seemed to get lost in, “I’m gonna do something, and you can stab me if I overstep. Deal?”

Obanai looked confused, but eventually nodded as much as his position let him. Sanemi sighed, and lifted his right hand to inch towards Obanai’s face.

Their position made it awkward, but Sanemi wasn’t deterred. A part of him, something awfully possessive he didn’t often feel (or maybe just repressed), wanted to see Obanai’s reaction. He wanted to see if he’d be surprised, if he’d blush, or if he’d be scared.

He hoped he wouldn’t be scared. Sanemi wasn’t sure if he’d be able to forgive himself for that.

Eventually, giving Obanai the time to back away before it happened, the back of Sanemi’s fingers brushed against Obanai’s face, right above his scar.

Iguro froze, looking at Sanemi with big, mismatched eyes. His breathing felt a bit weird, like he had to remind himself to breathe at all. It was unfitting of a Hashira, but Sanemi couldn’t really blame him.

Obanai hummed, like he couldn’t really bring himself to speak. He sounded confused, a little overwhelmed, and… a little scared.

Not- not a lot, not severe enough to scare Shinazugawa off. He’d always found it hard to hide his feelings once those bandages weren’t obscuring most of his features. Maybe he was just caught off-guard.

Sanemi waited, not pulling his hand away just yet. He was content to be careful with this; Iguro deserved as much.

—

Obanai’s mind was racing.

Maybe that was stupid. He knew what Shinazugawa had been doing, had seen his hand approach out of the corner of his eye, yet he hadn’t done anything to stop him.

He wasn’t scared, not really. He was just—

“Shinazugawa?”

—confused.

And a little overwhelmed, maybe.

Sanemi’s hand was so close to his scar. Obanai never let anyone so close, usually. No one ever had much of a reason, or even the opportunity, to touch what he hid beneath his bandages.

He hadn’t even let a doctor lay a hand on them in years, no matter how often Kochou asked to examine them. He couldn’t.

Hardly anyone had ever touched his scars out of kindness. The thought that it was even possible for someone to trace his face without ill intentions felt more and more sickening as the years passed.

If it was possible, if his scars didn’t turn him into something ugly and unlovable, then why? Why did he have them? Why did every touch feel like a blade digging into his flesh?

Why did he hide them, if there was nothing to fear?

He couldn’t help but think to the first times his scars had been touched. His heart felt heavy, dragged down by the rotten blood it pumped through his body, and that only seemed to exacerbate his thoughts.

When Obanai was much younger, back when his face was covered in fresh blood and too-deep wounds, when the world beyond his cage felt like nothing more than a dream, his mother would enter his cage.

She would unwrap his bandages, and touch those awful injuries she’d allowed their family to inflict upon him, almost as if his face was finally something beautiful, something worth holding in her twisted mind, with her rotten hands.

She’d trace the wounds, slip her fingers into the carved flesh. Once, she’d brushed against his teeth, separated only by a thin line of flesh that hadn’t been severed.

She didn’t seem to care if he cried out in pain, or if he pushed her hand off and backed away from her sharp fingers, or if she stained her own hands with impure blood. She smiled over his screams, whispering saccharine words to him as if that made her actions acceptable, as if those useless words could absolve her of her sins.

Even his sisters joined in, once.

His mother still removed his bandages before she’d stepped back, allowing her daughters access to the sacrifice she’d created like it was something normal. Maybe it was, to her.

He wondered if she ever felt disgusted with herself.

His eldest sister, her name and face nothing but a bloody memory staining his mind, had traced his wounds carefully. There was something soft in there; something that might’ve been an apology, in another life.

Obanai leaned into the touch as if it was something safe. For a moment, he convinced himself that it was.

(She always had that same, sickeningly sweet smile on her face, the one their whole family seemed to share. Obanai never figured out if hers held any more sincerity than that of his mother.)

The other older one, the one with cruel eyes and crueler hands, dug her nails into his flesh and watched as he screamed and cried and bled.

She didn’t stop until their youngest sister clamped her hands over her ears and hid in their mother’s robes, overwhelmed by the agony in the screams of a sacrifice.

(She was more sensitive than the others, Obanai remembered. He didn’t think she’d survive long, once their mother grew tired of her cries and the demon realized she was a liability.

She was devoured only a few days later. Sacrificed, just as he was supposed to be. He hated being proven right.)

The younger three had been next. Obanai hardly realized when hands, younger than his own, already bathed in blood, poked at his bleeding wounds. He’d only looked at his mother with terrified, unmoving eyes.

Please make them stop, he wanted to say. I’m sorry, please. It hurts. Help me.

She never moved, though. She only stood there and watched as her daughters poked and prodded at her only son, the sacrifice she’d birthed.

Once they were done, she silently rewrapped his bandages with that horribly sweet smile of hers, and locked the cage on her way out.

She hadn’t noticed the hairpin left behind. Neither did his sisters.

He still wondered who left it there, sometimes.

Not that it mattered, really.

Either way, that experience made the feeling of hands against his scars, no matter how kind the gesture was meant to be, scathing.

Even once he escaped, he’d struggle against any doctors Shinjuro would drag him to. He hardly ever let the family that saved him caress his face.

Ruka never tried. He was grateful for it, for her— She was the first woman who’d cared for him as anything beyond a sacrifice, a thing to be owned and tossed out.

She was Obanai’s mother, in all the ways that mattered.

Despite that, she scared him sometimes; she looked a little too much like the women he’d watch through the bars of his cage. She was nothing like them, though, with her endless patience and empathy.

It used to confuse him a lot back then. He only learned to accept her, be grateful for all she did for him, when she’d already died. He still regretted it.

Shinjuro only touched his wounds when he absolutely had to, whether it was to clean the healing wounds, or because Obanai’d ripped his own face open.

He never did it otherwise, though. In the last few months of Obanai staying with them, Shinjuro never even looked at Obanai’s face.

He wondered if he disgusted the man who’d saved him; the only father he’d ever known.

Obanai had always been a coward above all else, though, so he never asked. He wouldn’t, even if his heart ached at the thought. What would he even say?

You saved me, maybe. You showed me what love was, what a family is meant to feel like.

Do you regret it?

Kyojuro and Senjuro were, as they always had been, a sort of salvation to Obanai. They never shied away from his scars, but never dared to overstep his boundaries.

Senjuro, too young to understand much of anything about Obanai, ohh’d and ahh’d at his scars, reaching out to poke at them with curious, clumsy hands, but never getting any permission to touch.

He was an obedient child, a part of him that never seemed to change, so he always stopped when asked.

He drew a lot, back then. Pictures of their family, of Shinjuro’s crow, of Ruka’s wind chime, of the various positions Kaburamaru contorted himself to.

He never left out Obanai’s scars. They were just another part of his new brother to him. As innocent as the gesture was, Obanai never knew how to feel about that.

Even though Senjuro sometimes tried to poke at the wounds, Kyojuro was the only one he’d ever allowed to touch his scars. It only happened once, back when they were kids and the moon didn’t feel like a warning; some foreboding presence letting them know just how fragile their lives were, sword or not.

They had been so young back then.

Obanai had been crying, as he tended to do when his hair was still long and he was too weak to hold a sword, about how awful he felt, how disgusting and filthy and demonic his scars made him look.

He’d only ever been scared back then.

Kyojuro had simply… been there. He’d taken one hand to trace Obanai’s scars, the other holding Kaburamaru’d head, and traced the lines on their faces as if they were something good.

“You guys match!” He’d said, never quite able to quiet down, even in the dead of night, “It’s kind of like Senjuro and me sharing the same hair and eyes. You’ll never be apart like this.”

And then he’d smiled, and brought sunshine even to the darkest of nights.

Obanai always clung to that statement.

Kaburamaru— his first friend, his closest companion, the one who’d saved his life in so many ways— looked just like him. They had those same deep, almost grotesque lines on their cheeks, stretching their mouths to their ears.

The Serpent Demon had tried to make Obanai look like her; her twisted mirror, her sacrifice, her trophy.

She’d succeeded, of course, but she’d also given Obanai something else. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t okay, it still hurt— but it was his.

It was the one comfort he had, really.

Even as they grew older, once Ruka died and Shinjuro lost himself, once Obanai ran off like a coward in the face of grief and never let another hand near his face, he remembered that night, those words.

The feeling of phantom hands on his skin terrified Obanai; it was fine if those hands were warm and kind, though.

Once Obanai’d left the Rengoku’s and gone off to train more intensely, hoping to survive the upcoming Final Selection and live, he stopped letting anyone close enough to touch him.

It didn’t matter if he was around other humans, facing a demon in battle, or if he came across any animal other than Kaburamaru; he never let them get too close.

In battle, he did his absolute best to stay out of the demons’ range. He couldn’t always ensure they wouldn’t hit him, as the numerous scars wracking his body and hidden beneath his uniform proved, but he’d avoided them actually brushing against his scars so far. The most any of them managed to do was slash his bandages.

Humans were a lot harder to avoid, he’d realized.

Between the countless doctors and nurses he’d encountered inthe aftermath of missions, and whatever friends he’d made that slipped past his defenses, Obanai knew to be more guarded around them.

Most of his comrades had gotten the message by now, it seemed.

Kochou only asked to see his face when it was absolutely necessary, and accepted his unwillingness to let her touch his scars. The other Butterfly Girls had been outright banned from even looking at his scars for too long, according to Kiyo when she’d brought him medicine as he recovered from an injury once.

Most of the other Hashira had never even seen his face, and didn’t seem offended, or too keen on ackowledging it, much to Obanai’s relief.

Himejima literally couldn’t see Obanai’s face (or anything else, for that matter). He knew about his scars, though, and had expressed understanding in the pain they caused. The Stone Hashira didn’t push it, though; he never crossed his comrades’ bounaries, it seemed.

In that awfully kind, daresay, innocent way of hers, Kanroji had asked about his face once. She’d apologized when she noticed his discomfort, and never asked again. Tokito, similarly, was someone Obanai cared for a great amount; he didn’t want to expose the child to any more horrors.

And if Tomioka ever dared to ask anything regarding Obanai’s face, he should read up on the effects of snake venom first.

Aside from the Flame and Insect Hashira, only Uzui and Shinazugawa had ever even seen his face uncovered, and Uzui only acknowledged his scars once to say they looked flashy.

He hadn’t even flinched at the feeling of Kaburamaru’s fangs in his arm as a response, and only patted Iguro’s head in a gesture that felt far more condescending than he meant for it to be.

(He’d also admired the Serpent Hashira’s strength, and tried to somehow, subtly, convince him his life held any value other than that of a failed sacrifice. Obanai refused to listen, and slipped away soon after.

Seeing Uzui Tengen with a somber look in his eyes and a downturn of his lips made Obanai feel sick. He hated himself for causing him to look like that, even if it was only for a second before he’d smiled again.)

As he tended to be, Shinazugawa was a little more difficult.

It was Obanai’s fault, really.

Obanai, and his obnoxious thing with Sanemi’s scars.

He couldn’t blame his idiot of a…friend? colleague? partner? lov— whatever they were— for trying, as much as he wanted to. He‘d been far too touchy lately, his hands on Sanemi’s scars as if it was an addiction, so it was only fair Sanemi would want to match that.

For a while, Obanai‘d been able to push him off whenever he tried. He knew Shinazugawa wouldn’t hurt him, of course, otherwise he wouldn’t trust him to be so close, but his memories had a way of scaring him that he couldn‘t explain even if he tried.

If Obanai were being totally honest, a part of him wanted to let him. He wanted those hands, scarred and calloused and still so, so gentle to trace his scars, erasing those awful memories.

He was just so scared.

Fear was an emotion Obanai, alongside many of his comrades, had learned to use for their benefit. Fear fueled them when their rage was too much to bear, when their grief warped itself into a scared little thing in their chests.

This wasn’t a battle, though.

They were in the Wind Estate, in Sanemi‘s blissfully dim bedroom, lying down and touching as if their bodies belonged together. Sanemi‘s hands were so close to Obanai‘s scars, warm fingers against his cheekbone.

He should feel safe. He did feel safe, but there was also that fear.

Obanai took a breath, trying to steady himself, before he spoke.

“It’s okay”, he whispered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Even through the dark, Obanai could make out the way Sanemi’s eyes seemed to widen, just a bit. After a moment, he nodded, and Obanai braced himself.

Fingers on his face, sharp nails digging into his flesh, the taste of filthy blood in his mouth—

Sanemi’s fingers came down to run across his scar, the contact as light as it could possibly be, and Obanai felt tears in his eyes.

Shinazugawa seemed to notice, too, as he tried to take his hand away. Obanai grabbed his wrist, moving faster than his mind could even process at the moment, and held it there.

“Don’t—“, he choked out, “it’s fine. Don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving”, Sanemi promised immediately, as if the mere thought of leaving Obanai was unnatural.

The hand against his face relaxed, although Obanai kept his tight hold on the wrist. Shinazugawa didn’t complain about the loss of blood circulation as his fingers traced the edges of his scar. “I’m not hurting you, right?”

Obanai shook his head as much as he could without disrupting Sanemi’s ministrations, “You’re not.”

Sighing, Sanemi accepted the answer. He wasn’t sure if he believed those words, but there was hardly ever a point arguing with Iguro, he’d noticed.

They were both far too stubborn for any real arguments between each other, which he supposed was a good thing.

Except for the few times they did argue. Those were always a mess.

After a moment, Obanai relaxed his grip on Sanemi’s wrist, before he fully let go. He hoped Shinazugawa wouldn’t take it as a sign to move away.

Fortunately, he kept his hand right there, fingers against Obanai’s cheek.

Iguro sighed as he leaned into the touch, allowing the tension to drain out of his body. His fears felt like a distant echo in his mind, drowned out by the feeling of hands tracing his scars, treating him like he was something pure.

Sanemi couldn’t quite suppress a chuckle as he watched Obanai. Tokito had been right when he compared the Serpent Hashira to a cat, if the way he leaned into the touch was anything to go by.

Obanai felt… safe.

His mind felt hazy with it, and maybe that should worry him. It was strange, the way Sanemi’s touch chased his memories away. He didn’t feel much of a need to waste his thoughts on that, though.

They stayed like that for a while. Neither of them were sure how long, if it was a few minutes or an hour, but it was long enough for Kaburamaru to slither back into the room.

Iguro hardly noticed, or at least he didn’t outright acknowledge his friends’ presence, but Sanemi watched the snake out of the corner of his eye.

He could never read Kaburamaru even half as well as Obanai was able to, but he could feel those red eyes studying them, for just a moment.

After a few seconds, Kaburamaru seemed satisfied with whatever he’d found, and moved over to a folded blanket Sanemi’d left next to his futon (for Iguro, in case he got cold. The Serpent Hashira was as cold-blooded as the title suggested).

Kaburamaru curled up on the blanket without making a sound, turning away from the men as he seemed to fall asleep.

Sanemi sighed. He got along with Iguro’s companion well enough, but he also wasn’t a stranger to Kaburamaru’s teeth whenever he did something the serpent deemed wrong in any way.

Obanai was usually the cause of those bites, as Kaburamaru’s protectiveness over his companion made the snake a little insane at times, though he was vehemently against the unnecessary violence most of the time; he’d scolded both Shinazugawa and Kaburamaru enough times to prove it.

For now, at least, Kaburamaru was content. Sanemi didn’t want to push his luck.

Similarly, Obanai looked utterly comfortable.

He’d taken to lying almost on top of Sanemi, his head pillowed on the broad chest. He’d used the hand previously tracing his scars to grab Sanemi’s wrist earlier, but the hand had since returned to its previous movements.

It was… they weren’t usually so obviously affectionate.

Distantly, Sanemi realized how easily they could be mistaken for a couple in their current position, should anyone enter the room now.

They were alone, though, and he knew how small those chances were. The only one here with them was Kaburmaru, and the snake fortunately wasn’t physically capable of engaging in any Corps gossip.

(Although, Iguro had once mentioned how much of a gossip his snake was. Sanemi wasn’t entirely sure how accurate that was, but he supposed it didn’t matter.)

As if he could sense Sanemi getting lost in his thoughts, Obanai sighed and opened his eyes, turning to squint at the Wind Hashira. The fingers still gently running along his cheek made him look far less intimidating than he usually appeared.

“What’s wrong?” Obanai asked with a quiet voice, like he was afraid speaking above anything than a whisper would ruin the moment, studying Shinazugawa’s features.

If Sanemi didn’t have at least some control over himself left, he was sure he’d turn red under the scrutiny of those eyes.

“Nothing”, Sanemi hissed back, averting his eyes to pointedly look at Kaburamaru, “but we have a guest.”

Iguro hummed, apparently unbothered as he looked to the side, tilting his head in the process. His scar brushed against Sanemi’s fingers as he moved, and he felt him suppress a gasp at the feeling.

They both looked at Kaburamaru for a few seconds, watching the snake sleep. Obanai huffed, “He’s asleep. If he didn’t hiss at you when he came in, it’s alright.”

To emphasize his point, Obanai reached his hand out (away from Sanemi’s scars, unfortunately) to brush his fingers against white scales. Kaburamaru hardly moved in response, only burrowing deeper into the blankets.

Obanai turned to look at Shinazugawa expectantly, to which the other sighed. He copied Iguro’s move, pulling his hand away from the scarred face to pet the scales, eliciting the same reaction from the snake.

Satisfied, Obanai nodded.

His face felt cold without Sanemi’s hand there, though. It was strange, how quickly he came to miss the touch. He supposed Sanemi’s indulgence in their previous contact made sense, at least. If it always felt so good, so nice and comfortable and warm, Obanai understood why he chased it so much.

Still, as the warmth on his face faded, he could feel something awful clawing at his back.

He knew what would come next, he always did. They’d pull away completely, pretend they never got so close until it happened again, and Obanai’s blood would feel so much heavier than ever before.

That always happened, whenever he indulged in his own cravings.

He’d feel okay in the moment, relish in the comfort of another person or the smell of a good meal he could stomach, until the moment was over and the warmth in his heart would feel as if it was burning him from the inside out, as if rotten hands clawed their way inside and squeezed his organs.

Obanai wasn’t made for good things. Still, he wasn’t ready to let this one end just yet.

He’d always been selfish, after all.

—

It wasn’t hard for Iguro to get lost in his thoughts. It happened more often than he was willing to admit, and Shinazugawa had learned to deal with it. As had most people who’d grown close to the Serpent Hashira.

It never stopped being at least a little concerning, though.

There was always something so overwhelmingly sad in his eyes. Even now, during a moment Sanemi hoped was good, there was grief clouding those mismatched eyes.

It only lasted for a moment before Obanai shook his head, almost like he had to physically shake the thoughts out of his mind. It worked, though, because Iguro’s eyes were back on Sanemi only a second later.

“Iguro—“, Sanemi started, a little concerned at that shift in the others’ eyes, before he was cut off by Obanai grabbing his arm, tugging it away from the pile of blankets Kaburamaru had taken over.

For a moment, Sanemi watched as Iguro seemed to study his arm, as if contemplating what to do next. He thought he saw a blush spread on Obanai’s face, although the dim light made it hard to tell.

With a sigh, Obanai carefully brought the arm closer to his face, and pressed a kiss to one of the scars.

Sanemi made a noise of surprise at the affection, feeling his own face heat up as he watched Obanai kiss the scar again and again, until he moved on to the next one.

His lips felt strange against his arm. A little dry and cracked, probably as a result of the bandages he usually wore, but it wasn’t at all unpleasant. It felt good.

After pressing another line of kisses along a scar, Obanai, annoyed at their position, glanced up at Sanemi with half-lidded eyes, before he sat up. Feeling a tug at his arm, Sanemi allowed himself to be pulled up with the other.

Once they’d settled into a more comfortable position, Iguro still looked a bit disgruntled. “Wait”, he muttered, before sitting down at Sanemi’s right side instead; the side he had his facial scars on.

“Iguro”, Sanemi stammered, flustered and confused, “what are you—“

Obanai exhaled sharply, cutting him off, “Shut up.”

Subconsciously, Obanai chewed on the inside of his mouth a little, a habit he could usually hide through his mask, before he brought a hand up to caress the unscarred side of Sanemi’s face. Within a second, he’d pulled Sanemi’s face down a little, closer to his own.

“I’m—“, Iguro tried, although he struggled to voice his thoughts, “just let me do this.”

He hesitated for a second before adding, “Unless you don’t want me to?”

Face-to-face like this, breathing the same air, Sanemi could see the furious blush on Obanai’s face. He was embarrassed, clearly, but seemingly unwilling to back out now unless Sanemi told him to.

Sanemi thought he must look ridiculous to Obanai, with his bright red face and wide eyes so close to Obanai’s own, but that didn’t seem to deter him.

At least Iguro looks pretty up close, he thought.

“It’s fine”, he said, trying to sound reassuring over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, “do whatever. I’ll punch you if this gets too weird.”

There was a flicker of something in Obanai’s eyes, before his lips quirked up into what might be a smile. It was hard to tell, though the way his eyes seemed to squint up ever so slightly gave it away. “Kaburamaru would make you lose a finger if you did that.”

Any arguments Sanemi had died on his tongue when Obanai tilted his head, careful, as if he was afraid he’d hurt him, and planted a soft kiss on the scar on Sanemi’s cheek.

Iguro pulled back just as quickly, retracting his hand to cover the lower half of his face and focusing his eyes on Kaburamaru’s sleeping form instead. He coughed, as if trying to cover up how flustered he was.

It was almost sad how quickly he seemed to put his walls back up.

Sanemi wanted nothing more than to tear those walls back down.

And he’d never had the best impulse control. He supposed he could blame his father for that, in some way, but he’d rather not waste a thought on that man now.

With nothing but a sharp exhale as a warning, Sanemi used one hand to pull the hand covering Obanai’s face away, startling the other. Undeterred, his other hand came up to cradle Obanai’s jaw, unusually warm beneath his fingers.

His thumb brushed against Iguro’s scar, silently asking for permission. He was impulsive, but Sanemi wasn’t an idiot. If he pushed too far now, he worried Obanai would never even look at him again.

Obanai stared, reduced to nothing but wide eyes and a burning face. He felt as if his skin would melt off his bones any second now.

His throat felt as if it was squeezed shut, kind of like Kaburamaru whenever he coiled up a little too tight. Only Kaburamaru was always cold, and all Obanai felt was warmth.

Still, he trusted Sanemi. He wasn’t sure exactly how the Wind Hashira achieved to gain his trust to such an extent, but he couldn’t force himself to care about that.

Iguro made a noise, giving Shinazugawa permission, although he sounded utterly pathetic to his own ears.

Sanemi didnt seem to mind, at least, as he leaned in close to press a soft kiss on Obanai’s scar, so close to his mouth that it made Obanai want to scream.

He stayed silent, somehow, as Sanemi continued littering kisses across the scar on one side of his face. His thumb brushed against the old wound sometimes.

Obanai would definitely hate himself later. For now, though, he found himself leaning into the affection, sighing softly.

He thought Sanemi’s fingers against his scars had been the best thing he’d ever felt; he wasn’t prepared for his lips, heavenly against abhorrent flesh. Obanai didn’t know he could feel something so good. He worried he’d want this all the time, from now on until the day this body could finally be laid to rest.

Not willing to think about that any longer, Obanai felt an awful mixture of gladness and disappointment when Shinazugawa pulled away.

Their eyes locked, something unreadable between them, before Sanemi tilted Obanai’s head and repeated that pattern of kisses on his other scar.

If it didn’t feel so good to have those lips against his scars, showing love to the most gruesome parts of him, Obanai thought he’d be frustrated at the way Sanemi seemed to avoid letting their lips touch.

Not that it mattered all that much, really. This… whatever they were doing already felt awfully intimate.

Obanai fought to keep his mind straight, trying not to melt under Sanemi’s careful, loving touch. He didn’t want this to stop, but Shinazugawa likely wouldn’t want to overwhelm him too much.

Or maybe he did, Obanai thought when he felt Sanemi’s hand come up to caress his other scar fully. He grew even more convinced when he felt him smile against his scar at the sound that escaped Obanai’s throat.

At least Iguro was still present enough to jab his fingers into Sanemi’s ribs for that, relishing in the way he flinched and hissed a sorry under his breath.

That seemed to be enough for Shinazugawa to pull his head back, though his hand remained on Obanai’s scar. Now that his face was on display again, Obanai noticed how red Sanemi’s face was.

Anytime Obanai’d seen Sanemi blush, his whole face seemed to light up with it. It was kind of cute, really. He wondered if Sanemi would be offended by that sentiment, or if it would only deepen the red on his face.

Another day, he decided.

“You know”, Shinazugawa suddenly spoke, “it feels like I just made up for months of not touching your scars. I should get some kind of reward.”

He was teasing now, like this was a totally normal thing people did. Then again, it wasn’t like Obanai was an expert on that, either. Again, it wasn’t something he was dying to discuss at that moment.

Obanai huffed, trying to hide his amusement with annoyance. Sanemi saw through him, anyway. “Would a sword through your neck be reward enough?”

Sanemi made a noise of disagreement, “I’m not sure I’d like that, Iguro.”

Humming, Obanai’s eyes softened. Even their banter felt a little softer like this. He couldn’t really complain about it, he realized. “Really?”

“Pretty sure, yeah”, Shinazugawa nodded, a stupidly genuine smile on his face that would usually make Obanai want to claw his own skin off with its sheer kindness.

Before he could think more clearly about it, or before that overwhelmingly bad feeling seeped back into his veins, Obanai moved quickly.

His right hand came up to pull Sanemi’s face closer again, allowing him to press a line of kisses to the scar on his cheek again, stopping on his nose. He felt Sanemi’s face heat up all over again.

Some awfully possessive part of him lit up, knowing he caused that reaction. Obanai smothered that proud whisper in the back of his mind just as quickly as it appeared, pulling back to admire the blush on Shinazugawa’s face.

“There”, he spoke, unable to suppress the smile dancing on his damaged lips, pulling at his scars. “Does that work, Shinazugawa?”

Sanemi nodded before he coughed, trying and failing to force his blush to go down.

He looks beautiful like this, Obanai thought before he could stop himself. He almost wished he was wearing his bandages; his feelings were much easier to hide with most of his face hidden.

“I mean”, Sanemi lamented, “I was just going to suggest we spar again, but that— that works too, I guess.”

If it weren’t for the pink hue still on his face, Obanai would’ve almost assumed he wasn’t happy with it. He supposed he wasn’t the only one struggling to hide their emotions.

Obanai hummed again in response. “Tomorrow, after our patrols?”

Sanemi’s eyes widened for a moment, like he wasn’t expecting Iguro to agree so easily. As if he’d ever turn down the opportunity to spar with him.

“Uhh, yeah—“ Shinazugawa stammered, stumbling over his words. “Sure. It’s a date.”

Maybe the term date should scare Obanai. It usually would, but he felt oddly content with that idea. Idiot Shinazugawa and whatever tricks he had to have used to have such a strong hold on Obanai’s heart.

“It’s a date.”