Characters: Kenpachi, Ishida, Orihime
Summary: Scars that are a source of pride, scars that are not, and scars that go unseen altogether.
Pairings: None
Warnings/Spoilers: General spoilers
Timeline: None needed
Author's Note: Nothing to report. Feedback would be appreciated.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
Kenpachi takes great pride in his scars, of which there are many. A vast interconnecting network of flesh ridges, red and white lines, jagged and raised. A sight to fascinate Yachiru, a spectacle to command the respect of his subordinates, a device to inspire terror in his enemies. Those who can see his scars and not balk, not show even the slightest fear, Kenpachi knows will provide good sport. Byakuya is always a good opponent.
There is no shame in scars like these. They've been obtained cleanly, reminders of great battle, of blood sport that got all the tension out. Every scar is reminiscent of a good fight, of a skirmish against an opponent that was strong enough to make Kenpachi bleed.
Every new scar breeds exultation. Scares are what memories are made of, those braided ropes ingrained into flesh that never, ever leave. Strong, knotted fingers clench giddily on the wrapped hilt of the nameless sword as blood rises and the promise of battle comes anew.
Soon, he knows. Soon, there will be blood.
And more scars to count to count the days by.
.
No one knows how Ishida got the scar on his chest. Everyone wonders, of course, but they get no answers, not even a hint from his own lips, and the look he gets on his face, pale and strained, whenever they ask makes them wish they hadn't.
It stars out scarlet and livid against white flesh, raised from the skin, and Ishida says not a word when his friends gape at him in shock. Eventually, the scar just goes stark white, still livid, but not as pronounced. It would fade from memory, but still stands out because of the lengths Ishida goes to not to draw attention to it.
Everyone wonders, and write it off to different reasons. They all live lives that makes scars an occupational hazard; they all have them, thick and thin. No one can quite tell what makes it something that Ishida's not willing to talk about.
And it wouldn't bother any of them, either, if it weren't for one thing.
No one knows why Ishida seems so tense when he won't talk about how he came by the huge, five-pronged scar on his chest.
.
Pale and pretty, Orihime's face reads like a porcelain mask. Smooth and flawless, no cracks or imperfections are ever revealed. Everything would be alright if the inside was just like the outside, but it's not, and the cracks that exist run deeper than the skin, threatening to make her fall apart at the seams.
Orihime holds her hands up to the harsh, mercilessly honest fluorescent lights of her small bathroom and wonders why the translucent skin she sees doesn't show what's going on deep inside of her.
There should be blood, but isn't. None anywhere, not a cut, nor even a scratch. No lesions, no abrasions. Just pretty, unblemished skin, smooth as the surface of an alabaster sculpture.
She knows better, knows it shouldn't be like this, shouldn't have to be like this. She ought to be able to show all her internal hurts on the outside, on the surface of her skin, but she doesn't.
The scars are all there, they're all real, but she can't find them.
None of Orihime's scars ever show on her skin, because they are instead sitting on her heart and her mind, layers of tough skin to make the pulse that much more difficult to maintain.