Genrai week Day 5
Summary: The shinobi life was not an easy one. Genma and Raidou have different scars, endured different hardships and fought different battles. They were still reeling and damaged and cracked. But they had each other.
Enjoy kids
Raidou had always worn his scars without an inch of fear or a care in the world.
He never covered them up even when the war turned him inside out and shoved him back into Konoha with a raw angry wound carved across half his face like veins and the weight of a thousand deaths on his fragile shoulders.
His scars laced around his torso and reached out like stretching, grasping fingers from his left hip to his waist and spread to mid stomach.
It ached when it rained. Mocking him. The acid had fried Raidou's skin to almost beyond recognition.
There was another on the outside of his left thigh as the result of an Iwa-nin getting in a lucky hit with a kunai.
It's taut white against Raidou's golden skin, jaggedly ripped through and hastily ripped out again.
Raidou's body was an ever-changing battlefield from the old and faded craters rippling along his skin to the odd discolouration of still healing injuries.
Raidou forged through the agony like he'd walked it a million times before.
Genma's scars were smaller.
They scattered his body from the thin lacerations spread across his shins, thighs, forearms, stomach and chest from when an exploding tag had blown three of his team to nothing but memories and sliced Genma apart during the Third Shinobi War, to the long lacerations that had ripped his back to shreds and tore his shoulder open as a mission had taken a turn for the worst.
His smile has been crooked ever since he'd come back from a mission that had gone from B rank to A rank in less than a second.
He couldn't dodge the shuriken, only stop it from skewing his eyeball.
The right side of his mouth doesn't quite lift up properly, almost invisible scar tissue lacking the flexibility.
Genma's scars were never something you noticed immediately. He'd always been the one to quietly take the worst hits the shinobi life had to offer and never complain.
The life of a shinobi had dealt them different cards and pulled them through different ringers but it spat them out on neutral ground. They'd endured the worst trials and fought their way through the shinobi world bred for someone older than two war children who had more blood on their hands than most fully grown adults.
Life had spat them out with no safety net and not an ounce of sympathy but it had given two tired, exhausted shinobi something to live for.
Their scars still hurt more than anything, and they still bled the same blood.
They were still reeling and damaged and cracked.
But they had each other.
I'M SORRY THIS WAS SHORTER THAN I MEANT IT TO BE