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“I am scared to lose you.”
The words rush out of his mouth before he can stop them.
In a jumbled, breathless mess, syllables spill from his lips, cacophonous in the peaceful quiet that has settled between them. The only sounds that had been washing over them had been the gentle lapping of waves at the cliffside, the occasional distant noise of gulls squawking overhead, and the whisper of the breeze coming off the sea. Perched comfortably on the rocks looking over the cliff facing, they sat, trading a flask between the two of them. Hanzo’s tongue loosened more as liquor washed over it, much like how boulders erode with water beating at their hardened exterior. With McCree’s fingers brushing his every time they passed the metal flask, his thoughts had started to overwhelm him. His thoughts of McCree, and… whatever it is that this is that they’d developed. A friendship, certainly, but there was a hesitancy to it as well, as if the wrong (or perhaps right , depending on who you asked) thing said could either push them past a limit, or cause the whole thing to come crashing down. That could not be permitted. For many weeks, Hanzo had been derailing his persistent train of thought, but now… The intimacy shared between them, as they watched the setting sun lazily sink below the horizon, accompanied by the liquor, made it easier to broach the subject, although he may not have wanted to even broach it at all.
I am scared to lose you.
The words hang in the air between them, disturbing the comfortable silence they’d been sharing. Hanzo silently curses himself for speaking, and quickly goes to take a long swig from the flask in his hand. The liquor burns as it settles on his tongue, slides down his throat, a pleasant distraction from what he’d said. He wonders if McCree will even respond. From the silence, he assumes not, and chooses to forget about it. Instead, he moves to hand McCree the flask again. When it is not taken, he turns to look at his friend.
Jesse McCree is staring at him with the most curious look in those amber eyes of his. A combination of amusement and cautious worry shines through the slight haze of intoxication. Hanzo feels the very breath stolen from his lungs at the sight; the dying sunshine highlights the angles of his face, warms his complexion even more, makes those amber pools practically molten gold. If this was the last thing he would ever see, Hanzo believes he wouldn’t mind dying, as long as the image of Jesse McCree bathed in the setting sun was imprinted on his eyelids.
“What d’ya mean, Han?” His voice is a dagger swathed in velvet, stabbing through the revere that Hanzo had fallen into while gawking at Jesse, but still somehow soft and smooth enough to soothe the damn near physical way he is pulled out of his own head. Knowing that Jesse was no longer interested in the flask, he lets his hand fall, and places the metal container between them, as if it would perhaps protect him as he explains himself.
Hanzo turns away from McCree, unable to speak with his handsome visage staring him down, and watches the sun in the distance. The lazy orb is lowering itself inch by inch towards the horizon, low enough now to brush the water that stretches across the skyline, endless, as far as he can see. The night is fast approaching. He hears McCree shift to his side, hears the click of a fastener being undone and the soft sigh of metal brushing against leather, and then the scrape of cloth against stone, as McCree moves to sit closer to him. He had taken his flask back. His presence is warm and welcome as the sea breeze begins to cool with the impending night.
“I mean that, I am scared to lose you, I do not know what I would do if you were gone.” The mere thought is enough to choke him, though he manages to swallow down a knot attempting to lodge itself in his throat. McCree hums in a tired way, as if this was a conversation he had had with many before, and it shows in the soft sigh that rumbles out of him before he speaks.
“This is a dangerous line of work, Hanzo, can’t help it if-”
“-no, that is not it.” Hanzo cuts him off, forcing his eyes shut against the dying sunlight. Yes, death is a way he could possibly lose Jesse McCree, but it was more likely that he would lose the man to his own shortcomings. McCree had the devil’s luck, and was more than capable of handling himself in their line of work. Rather than death, Hanzo was scared of his own tongue, his own inability to communicate in the way he wants, to speak honestly and confront this quickly intensifying warmth that blooms in his chest whenever McCree is around. A warmth he does not want to lose, and the thought of confronting himself, of telling McCree about this delightful heat, douses the ember in ice. He can feel it now, in the pit of his stomach, a leaden and cold thing, even with McCree so close to him.
“Then what is it?”
The sun is halfway below the horizon line now, turning the crystal blue Alboran sea into a molten red pool. The breeze is getting colder. McCree scoots closer to him, enough so that he can feel the heat radiating off of his body. He quells the desire to lean into him and sap that ever present warmth, to melt the block of ice settled in his midsection. Words tangle in his throat, a knot he either has to force out or swallow down. He’s been swallowing his words for too long. With a shuddery breath, he manages to push the syllables past his leaden tongue out into the air in front of him.
“I do not wish to ruin what we have, Jesse McCree,” Hanzo says, quiet, voice shaking just barely, “but I fear that I may be… Perhaps, becoming interested in more than what we have now. But,” he pauses to suck in a breath, unable to hear anything other than the staccato thrum of his heartbeat, “I do not want to lose you. I fear that you will not reciprocate if what I am feeling is what I think it is.” Hanzo’s voice gets steadily quieter and quieter as he speaks, until he’s barely audible over the crash of the ocean against the cliffside, and McCree is leaning closer to him just to catch the tail end of his confession.
He doesn’t say anything. Silence, tense with words unspoken, stretches between them. It is unlike his friend to not scramble to fill the quiet with the sound of his own voice. For a terrifying moment, he thinks that he has crossed the line, what he was fearing from the beginning. But then McCree shifts beside him, grunts as he pushes himself up and onto his feet. Hanzo watches as he steps a little closer to the edge of the cliffside. The setting sun washes over him, warm, and casts a halo of sunshine around him when he turns to face Hanzo with his back to the sky. His lips are twisted into a smile, brows knitted together. He can’t tell what McCree is thinking, although the man is usually such an open book. The chill in his midsection spreads tendrils of ice through his veins.
“McCree,” Hanzo starts, prepared to apologize for what he’d said, and to take it back. Lock up his feelings in a box and leave them to decay and rot, but McCree stops him with a raised hand and a shake of his head. The sun is almost completely below the horizon now, just the barest slivers of sunlight left. It’s getting dark.
“You’ve given this way more thought than it deserves,” McCree says, voice just barely audible enough for Hanzo to hear. He feels a vice clamp down around his throat, choking him and any words he could think to say as a response to that cryptic sentence. What does he mean? McCree doesn’t care to elaborate, apparently, as he turns to look back out at where the sun was, finally dipped below the skyline. Hanzo watches him, pressing his palms against his midsection and trying to collect his scrambled thoughts. McCree is usually so cut-and-dry, blunt and to the point when it comes to even the simplest of matters. It baffles him that he’s not tackling this head-on like he usually does.
Hanzo forces his mouth to open, but all that comes out is a soft noise of confusion. Has he been thinking on this too much? He cannot help it. The pure terror that seizes him at the thought of losing McCree because of his fear of rejection is not something he can fight. Since he had first spoken to McCree, they’d shared a connection of sorts. An easy, albeit careful, connection, one that Hanzo would not trade for the world. And if it meant that he had to stifle his feelings, to swallow them down and ignore the easy warmth that settled in his midsection whenever he was around McCree, then so be it. His own feelings could be abandoned if it meant he would continue to be his friend.
He lets his eyes slip shut as he turns his head to face the darkened sky overhead. Even without looking, he can tell that the black expanse of it is sprinkled with stars. The benefits of being stationed out on a base on the edge of the ocean, with only the lights of the Watchpoint there to pollute the sky. He wonders how he always ends up out here, with McCree, listening to the ocean and drinking bitter liquor. Trading stories, talking easily, leaning on each other at the end of the night. He knows already how and why he always ends up coming back to McCree, coming out here with him. Why they’ve become something of an unbreakable pair on base. He knows better to include the both of them, to think of them as ‘us’ or ‘we’, and he manages to swallow down his fantasies for long enough to hear McCree clear his throat.
“Hey, Hanzo,” he calls out, the first thing he’s said since he told Hanzo he’d been overthinking everything. Hanzo cracks open his eyes, watching the smattering of stars in the sky blink down at him for a moment before he drops his head. McCree is staring off into the distance, expression vacant, lost in thought. He turns his head to catch Hanzo’s eyes, and the archer has to ignore the incessant jumping of his heart in his chest, and the hopeful light that flares in his abdomen.
“Yes?”
“Have I ever told you that concrete-colored buildings all grow stale?” His lips quirk up into a smile. Hanzo just frowns at him, quashing the hope he’d had for just an instant. More riddles.
“No, you have not, and I do not know what that means either.”
McCree just shrugs one shoulder and steps away from the cliffside, heading towards the barracks. “You’ll figure it out, sooner or later. Yer a smart man, Shimada-san.” Hanzo rolls his eyes and pushes himself onto his feet before hopping down from the rocks he’d been perched on. He walks a bit faster to catch up to his friend, and settles into step beside him. McCree doesn’t turn to look at him, which only serves to twist up his insides even more than the man usually does, although this time it is not pleasant. Again, he damns himself for daring to say something in the first place. This is why he keeps his mouth shut about intimacy. He was content to remain friends, but he had spoken about perhaps wanting more, and, as far as he was concerned, ruined this relationship.
But then McCree sidles a bit closer, intentionally bumps into him, throws him a quick smirk, and he melts just enough under his gaze.
“Perhaps you can explain what you mean about concrete and buildings, McCree,” Hanzo tells him as they round the corner and begin to walk along the hallway headed towards their rooms. The cowboy just snorts out a laugh, shaking his head, which Hanzo purses his lips at, “rather than later, I’d prefer to know what you are saying now , Jesse McCree.”
They stop in front of Hanzo’s door. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring up at Jesse. McCree mirrors his position, grinning down at him. He reaches one hand forward and presses his palm against Hanzo’s cheek, effectively stealing the breath from his lungs with so simple of a movement. The archer cannot help but lean into the warm, roughened skin of his hand, though he keeps his expression carefully flat. McCree’s thumb traces the curve of his cheek. Perhaps he had made the right decision by telling the cowboy about his fear of rejection; it seemed the man was accepting it, and soothing those fears in the smallest of ways.
“You can figure it out, Han,” and, though he may be soothing his fears, it is not in the way that Hanzo wants. His hand retreats, and Hanzo misses it’s warmth and callouses immediately, “what’s another day?” The look in McCree’s eyes is sad, though his smile tries to say otherwise. Hanzo stares at the unfamiliar expression with unrestrained concern.
The desire to ask him what he meant, what was wrong , is almost physically painful in its intensity. He bites his tongue, barely managing to restrain himself, as McCree turns away from him and walks the rest of the way to his room. Only when McCree has disappeared beyond his doorway does Hanzo enter his own quarters. The door has barely shut before Hanzo is diving back into his thoughts while he methodically prepares for bed.
A concrete-colored building growing stale? Hanzo cannot even fathom what that could possibly mean. He wasn’t entirely familiar with most of the American proverbs that spilled out of McCree’s mouth, but this one was odder than the rest, given the circumstances. How can a building be stale? And, with the context, how does it pertain to what he’d said to McCree? And, when he’d said ‘you’ve given this way more thought than it deserves’, what exactly did he mean by that? The damn cowboy hadn’t even given him an explanation, and he had more questions now than he ever had before. Hanzo lets out a quiet sigh, frustrated but resigned. With those thoughts bouncing around behind his eyes, he laid down in a futile attempt to rest.
Sleep manages to elude him for the majority of the night. It usually comes in fits, at least, but he cannot find it this night. Not with McCree planting so many questions in his head.
What’s another day?
The next day, McCree acts like Hanzo hadn’t said a thing.
He’s simultaneously grateful and disappointed. A part of him had been hoping for his confession to change their relationship, and a larger part had wanted McCree to say that he felt the same. And, while he hadn’t said otherwise, he hadn’t assuaged Hanzo’s fears in the way that he may have wanted. That he definitely wanted. Instead, McCree smiled at him like he always did when he entered the mess hall that following morning, waved him over, and acted like nothing had transpired between them the previous night. Nevertheless, Hanzo’s thoughts were plagued with the riddle of what McCree had said, even while he attempted to go through the motions.
Training. Running through mission briefing. Meals in the mess hall. The next few days blurred together into a mess of monotony, the only constant thought Hanzo had during the entirety of those hours being concrete-colored buildings growing stale .
What’s another day?
The monotony is thrown off when he goes to meet with McCree the following week. A welcome change. His friend had sent him a brief message, saying that they needed to get away from all of the mission planning and relax. Hanzo had been more than delighted to forget about their duties for just a moment. He had only just spotted McCree near their usual spot when he caught the scent of rain, before a few droplets started to fall from the sky. Hanzo turned his head upwards, glaring at the expanse of clouds, wondering why it had decided now would be the proper time to start a downpour. He heard McCree’s spurs jingle as he approached, because he must’ve caught sight of him from where he’d been near the cliffside. Hanzo dropped his head to catch his friend’s eye, irritation evident in the set of his jaw, a stark contrast to McCree’s amused smirk.
“Hey there, Han,” McCree calls out, stepping closer with that winning grin on his face, “seems like it’s bound to start raining cats n’ dogs soon. Sorry, forgot to check the weather report.” By the glimmer of amusement in his eyes, he knew that this would happen. Hanzo narrows his eyes at the cowboy, wondering what exactly the man was up to.
“It is fine. We will have to reschedule then,” Hanzo tells him, though he makes no move to walk away. He stands there, almost chest to chest with the cowboy, even as the rain starts to pick up from a steady trickle to more of a drizzle, with promises to get worse the longer they wait out there.
“We don’t hafta reschedule,” McCree responds, reaching out a hand and easily taking Hanzo’s in his own. The cowboy has no problem with being physically affectionate with him- with anyone, really- although he must know by now that it causes his heart to skip. He must not care, with his thumb gently rubbing his knuckles. “We can always just go back to one of our rooms, drink ‘n’ talk there. That alright?”
Hanzo nods, doesn’t trust his voice to stay even if he decided to speak. McCree’s grin widens twofold, his hand twisting so that he can lace their fingers together. Hanzo feels his breath catch in his throat when his friend gives his fingers a squeeze and leads him towards the barracks. The feel of his roughened palm brushing against his own calloused hand is undeniably right . Everything pertaining to the cowboy seems to be right nowadays. McCree walks in front of him, his plaid shirt hugging his muscled back in the best of ways, and Hanzo openly appreciates it. Eyes wandering along the dips and the valleys of his back, he almost doesn’t hear his friend ask him if his own room was okay, since McCree was afraid his would be too messy for his “refined tastes”. Hanzo agrees with a nod, focus entirely centered on McCree’s hand in his own, and how delightful it feels, and how he wants this to last forever and a day.
His hand is dropped when they reach his room. Hanzo tries not to let his disappointment show on his face as he steps forward and punches in the passcode on the keypad. It slides open with a sigh, and the pair duck into the room without a second thought, just as the rain increases its intensity outside. Hanzo feels slightly damp, the rain soaking into his clothes, uncomfortable enough that he wants to take them off. McCree is looking around the room, whistling softly and investigating baubles and paintings that Hanzo had hung up. It had been quite some time since McCree had been in his room. The last time he’d been here, his quarters had been embarrassingly spartan. But, well, things had changed.
McCree grins as he picks up a small white rabbit figurine that he’d given Hanzo, and turns to shoot that megawatt smile his way. Hanzo can’t fight the smile that crosses his lips at the sight, his heartbeat picking up to double time.
Things had changed.
“Pardon me a moment, cowboy,” Hanzo mutters as he passes him, scooping up a pair of sweats and a soft shirt before he escapes into the en suite restroom.
He’s in the middle of shucking his training garb when he hears a knock on the door, and a soft, warm chuckle, “what’re you doin’ in there, Han? Slipping into something a lil’ more… comfortable?”
Hanzo barks out a laugh at that, pulling on the sweats one leg at a time, “yes, but not in the way that you think, you perverted cowboy.” That earns him another laugh, this one deeper and more sonorous than before. It washes over him in waves, rocking him straight to the core. His heart really shouldn’t beat this fast, he thinks, as he pulls his shirt on over his head. The fabric settles soft and pleasant against his skin, like a wearable blanket. That, accompanied with the way Jesse had been laughing, has him feeling warm inside and out.
Before McCree can pester him more from the other side of the door, Hanzo opens it, finding the cowboy leaning against the wall right next to the doorway. He smirks at the man, the permanent smile on Jesse’s face morphing into a grin, as he signals for his friend to follow him. They walk towards Hanzo’s hidden alcohol stash, where he pulls a bottle of sake and two cups out, and then they sit across from each other on the floor. Hanzo sits with his legs tucked underneath him, back to his bed, and McCree sits with both legs spread wide. The spot between them looks comfortable enough to curl himself into, though Hanzo does not entertain the thought with action. Instead, he pops open the bottle of sake, pours both of them a half cup, and settles with the ceramic cradled in his hands.
The first few sips are quiet, neither wanting to break up the silence. They let the sound of the rain outside and their breathing make up the background noise. Only when Hanzo is going to pour himself another cup of sake does McCree’s velvety voice cut through the quiet.
“How’re you, Han? Feel like I haven’t seen ya in ages.”
Hanzo snorts at that, “please. It has been just a week.”
McCree’s smile falls just the slightest, his eyes carrying a weight that is deeper than he knows. Hanzo is struck by it for just a moment, before that smile he’s always enamored by is back, wide and disarming. “It felt like a lifetime, partner.”
Part of Hanzo wants to joke, or to question that look he’d seen for just an instance, or to deflect to another topic. For once, he manages not to run from the subject, and pushes words out of his tight throat.
“For me, as well, it was too long.”
McCree’s surprise is evident in the raise of his thick brows, the parting of his lips, as if he wasn’t expecting Hanzo to agree with him. Hanzo ducks his head a bit, feeling his face warm under McCree’s gaze, and hopes that they can swiftly move to a different topic. With a cough, he upsets the tense silence between them, “anyways, I am doing fine. Winston has been keeping me quite busy.”
That gets him a snort in response. McCree’s jovial smile is back on his face. The sight of it has Hanzo’s insides twisting in a familiar way. Being near McCree is so undeniably right , sitting and drinking and talking with him makes him feel like he’s home, since he hasn’t had one for so long. Being on the run from a family that wanted to use him as a pawn, a figurehead, and bouncing from safehouse to safehouse had morphed Hanzo into a cold, unforgiving, cynical man. Joining Overwatch was simply to chase redemption, and to perhaps earn the forgiveness his brother had given him. Staying a part of Overwatch was due to this man and the way he had easily broken Hanzo’s walls down, and melted his icy exterior. The man was a veritable sun, truly, and Hanzo had never been more willing to let himself burn if it meant that McCree would continue to stay beside him.
This . He doesn’t want to lose this .
As the night goes on, and the bottle of sake is emptied between the two of them, McCree eventually ends up right beside him. The drunken haze that settles on his mind is a stage of oblivion that he finds quite comfortable, especially when he lays his head on McCree’s shoulder and gets a happy rumbling in response. Without the liquor on his tongue, he wouldn’t have the confidence, nor be loose enough, to do such a thing. It’s all worth it when his friend rests his head on top of Hanzo’s, scooting just a bit closer to him. That ever present warmth is practically surrounding him now.
“Hey, Hanzo,” Jesse whispers into his hair, breath fanning over the strands of salt and pepper, “‘member when you first came t’base? An’ y’didn’t speak to anyone for a good few weeks?” His accent has thickened, like it always does, with tiredness and alcohol. Hanzo revels quietly in that whiskey timbre of his.
“Yes, I do recall,” Hanzo says in response, cheek pressed to the solid warmth of McCree’s shoulder, “I was not… exactly personable.” He feels his face burn at saying so. Not personable was an understatement.
McCree shifts beside him, and, suddenly, there is an arm around his waist that is pulling him closer. Hanzo ends up flush against McCree, pressed shoulder to hip, with his flesh thumb rubbing small, soothing circles into his waist through his sleepwear. The air that had been occupying Hanzo’s lungs leaves him suddenly, and he’s breathless, because, even unfamiliar as this territory is to him, it feels so right .
“Well, I get it now,” McCree mumbles, nuzzling into his hair and causing Hanzo’s head to spin, “why you were so absent, n’ why y’never told jokes. Even though yer damn funny. I get it. ‘M glad I got ya to come outta yer shell, though.” His warm breath and slurred voice, his hand on Hanzo’s waist, those honest and sweet words- Hanzo cannot take it much longer. He twists to face McCree more fully, unwilling to let that hand leave his side, and moves to lift his head when McCree’s grip tightens on him.
“Didja think about what I said?”
He’s said so much and, yet, not enough, but nothing comes to Hanzo’s muddied mind. Slurring, he says, “what did you… Which part? You say so many things.”
McCree pulls away from him just a bit, just enough to lock their hazy, drunken eyes together.
“Y’know, concrete colored buildings all grow stale?”
Hanzo blinks at him, trying to reach back and remember when he said that- what he meant. Right. Last week, in the dead of night, after he had confessed, albeit in a roundabout way. He hadn’t thought too much about it, really, even though the phrase had been stuck in his head. He purses his lips and, with a sigh out of his nostrils, shakes his head.
McCree’s answering smile is sad again.
He unwinds his arm from Hanzo’s waist and struggles to stand. Alcohol and old age make it difficult for McCree to find his footing but he manages. Hanzo watches in confusion the whole time. McCree dusts off his pants and won’t look at Hanzo, but he can see the dim look in his eyes even in the low light of the room.
“I should… pro’lly go.” McCree says.
Hanzo’s brows knit together as he forces himself to stand, scrabbling to get onto his feet despite the liquor loosening his limbs. He sways a bit, but McCree catches him with a hand on his back. It’s warm, feels so right, needs to stay there, need him to stay-
“Please do not go. McCree,” Hanzo gasps, reaching a hand out and gripping his friend’s shoulder so hard it may bruise, “please, stay. I am…”
I am scared to lose you.
“...I do not wish to be alone.”
It takes a few moments, but he gets his answer when McCree winds his arm more fully around his waist, like earlier. “Okay,” he hears him saying, but the word doesn’t register, because he is too busy wrapping an arm around McCree’s neck and bringing him in for a tight, desperate hug.
McCree returns it with his arms wound tightly around his waist, a comforting thumb rubbing soothing circles into his skin, and a murmured, “I’ll stay.”
And Hanzo can admit it to himself now, without a question, that he is falling in love.
He doesn’t try to leave for the rest of the night, and most of it Hanzo remembers through an alcohol-induced haze. Meaning that he does not remember much at all. But he does remember sleeping better that night than he ever had before, in the entire time that he’d been a part of Overwatch. When he wakes, he realizes it’s because Jesse is pressed against his back, with an arm slung around his waist. Warm and solid. The rapid-fire beat of his heart against his ribcage was only quieted by the soft snore that rumbled through McCree’s chest, and the way his arm tightened around Hanzo’s midsection, pulling the much tenser man closer to him. Like they’d done this a million times, just a normal morning routine, and not the first time they had ever shared a bed together.
Nothing has ever felt so right before.
It is not awkward when McCree awakes, surprisingly. The cowboy stretches and smiles at Hanzo, with only warmth in his gaze. He busies himself with getting water and headache medicine for the both of them, and bids Hanzo goodbye around noon. His smile is easy, but there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes that Hanzo cannot bear to see. A part of him wants to call out to McCree, ask him to stay with him for a bit longer. He wonders if he can assuage whatever it is that is eating at his friend, if he can be a balm to soothe whatever wound it is that is festering so inside of McCree. If McCree can do that for him, can help him sleep , then surely he can do something for him.
That night, when McCree is not there in his bed, he finds his insomnia plagues him even worse than before. He cannot sleep as easily when McCree is gone. Just one night with the cowboy in his bed and he was already craving another, desperately needing the warmth and solidity and comfort that only Jesse McCree seems to bring. He wants to call him back to his room, to ask him to help him sleep through the night once more. It wouldn’t hurt too much. It was only another night. Just another day.
What’s another day?
Their mission goes well the following week. Most everyone comes out of it with scrapes, bruises, and a bit of battered machinery. As with every successful Overwatch mission, the team wants to celebrate. Hanzo finds himself sitting on the couch in the recreational room, sipping his beer calmly while observing the chaos of his rowdy team. Hana and Lucio are playing a fighting game while Jesse, Jamison, Mei, and Lena cheer them on. Hanzo keeps his gaze on his closest friend, and the man he loves, watching him hoot and holler and toss his hat around. The younger members of Overwatch always seemed to make him act so childish. When McCree’s eyes slide over to him and he shoots him a wink, Hanzo turns his eyes downward, heart skipping a few beats in his chest.
Not a few moments later, McCree flops down beside him, his own beer in his hand. Hanzo turns to look at him, amused at the way he tries to act nonchalant about scooting closer to him, with his arm across the back of the couch behind Hanzo’s shoulders. Their thighs press together. Hanzo melts just a bit when McCree shoots him an easy smile and settles closer to him. Such an easy relationship they have; it doesn’t feel awkward to lean into each other, or for Hanzo to rest his head on McCree’s shoulder. The few beers he’s had loosen him up just enough to not feel too embarrassed about such a blatant display of affection in public.
“Are you not going to join them, McCree? I’d like to see you try and beat Hana at 16-Bit Hero. Or perhaps Starcraft, if you’re up for the challenge,” Hanzo teases, tilting his head so McCree can hear him over their raucous teammates.
He answers with a snort, a shake of his head, and a sip of his beer, before speaking, “oh no, I’m not into getting my ass handed to me like that. That’s just social suicide, challengin’ her to a battle on her home turf when I’m still wet behind the ears when it comes to video games,” McCree turns his head to look at Hanzo, lips split into a wide grin, “you wanna watch yer huckleberry get tech-no-logic-ally destroyed by someone half his age?”
Hanzo arches one thick brow, smirking up at his friend, “who said you were my, what was it? Huckleberry?”
McCree cocks a brow back at him, smile morphing into a lascivious smirk, “I did.”
Oh.
Hanzo’s smile falls, surprise evident on his face. Huckleberry. McCree was his… huckleberry, apparently. What did that mean? What even was a huckleberry? Whatever it was, it sounded romantic, and McCree was calling himself Hanzo’s huckleberry, and did that mean what he wanted it to mean or-
“Hey, Han, come back to me. I’m losing you here.”
Hanzo whips his head up, blinking rapidly, and catches sight of a worried-looking McCree. His eyes shine with concern, and a tinge of sadness, and Hanzo curses himself for letting his shock show on his face as plain as day. McCree turns his head away from Hanzo, lips pursed and eyes half-lidded, dim.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to upset-”
“No! No, you did not,” Hanzo interrupts, leaning away from McCree and sitting up straight. The sudden outburst garners unwanted attention, as some of their team look up at them with surprise and wariness. He continues, ignoring the stares, “I just was not expecting it, I am sorry, you did not upset me. It is quite the opposite, I assure you.”
Now it’s McCree’s turn to be shocked, as he stares at Hanzo with wide eyes. Most of the room has quieted down to watch the scene unfolding in front of them. Hanzo is about to open his mouth again, to assure McCree that he is his huckleberry (whatever that may be), but McCree clamps a hand over his lips before he can speak. He almost protests it, but then he catches sight of his friend’s face. That sun-kissed skin is darker across his cheeks, climbing up his ears, tinting his face in hues of crimson. He’s blushing. Hanzo stares, breathless, at the sight.
“I-I think Han has had a lil’ too much to drink,” McCree says loudly, addressing the room, “so ‘m gonna make sure he gets back to his room, safe ‘n’ sound.” Their teammates all quickly turn back to what they were doing, acting like they weren’t just watching the two of them with bated breath, waiting for something to happen. Much like Hanzo was waiting for something similar to happen between the two of them.
Hanzo lets his friend take his hand, laces their fingers together, watching his reddened ears as he’s hauled up from the couch and towards the door. He doesn’t protest as McCree leads him out of the recreational room, nor does he make a sound as they head towards the barracks. It’s only when McCree turns to look at him outside of his room, with his hair and hat illuminated in moonlight, and his eyes averted, his skin darkened with embarrassment, does Hanzo say-
“I love you.”
If he thought McCree had been shocked before…
Jesse was staring at him, mouth open, eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. He won’t stop staring. Hanzo feels a twinge of regret fester in his midsection, but he quells it with an audible swallow and steps forward. McCree still hasn’t said anything, but that’s alright. Hanzo hasn’t said enough.
“I mean it, McCree. I love you. You are-”
McCree rips his hand out of Hanzo’s and takes a step back.
Hanzo feels his heart jump and ice flood his veins.
He chances a look up at McCree’s face.
The man’s eyes have always been so expressive, those gorgeous amber eyes, and they still are, even now. Sadness, hope, happiness, grief- all flashing through his eyes, which are locked on Hanzo, wide and fearful.
Shouldn’t Hanzo be the one that is afraid?
I am scared to lose you .
Apparently he was right to be.
“McCree,” Hanzo starts, taking a step towards him, which McCree retreats from with another step backwards. He raises a hand to stop Hanzo from saying anything more,
“Didja.. Didja even think about what I said, Hanzo?”
This again. He purses his lips and crosses his arms over his chest, arching one brow at his friend before he slowly shakes his head. “No, I was more concerned about not getting us killed while we were escorting the payload while on Route 66. I had no time to think about your concrete buildings.”
McCree huffs out an exasperated laugh, running his flesh hand down his face with a deep sigh, “it’s ‘concrete-colored buildings all grow stale’, Han. And, before you go around sayin’ things you don’t mean, you should really think about it.”
Things you don’t mean?
Hanzo sucks in a breath. “Things I don’t mean? Really, McCree,” he takes a step towards him, a snarl crossing his features, “you think I toss around phrases like ‘I love you’ without meaning them? Do you really believe that I would tell you that without deliberating? That I have not been thinking about this for the past six months , or the depth of my feelings for you for the past three, and if I should tell you for a good portion of this month alone?” He pauses to uncross his arms, hands balled into fists at his side, “Jesse McCree, I mean every syllable when it comes to my affection for you and don’t you dare tell me otherwise.”
McCree has authority problems, does not like being told what to do, and is very, very stubborn. It comes as no surprise to Hanzo when the man growls at him and steps into his space, using those few inches of height he has over the archer to his advantage.
“I think you toss ‘em around without understandin’ the extent of what those damn words mean, Hanzo. Listen to what I said , and think about what I told you, then get back to me on those misguided feelings.” He goes to step around Hanzo, having said his piece.
He shoots a hand out to grab McCree’s wrist before he can leave, fingers wrapped damn-near bruisingly around the metal appendage. McCree grunts disapprovingly and tries to wrench his arm out of Hanzo’s grip but he won’t let him. They are going to discuss this now .
“Have you ever thought that maybe I don’t understand what you mean by ‘concrete-colored buildings all grow stale’?”
“That’s why I told you to think about it-”
“Would you just tell me what it means-”
“-it’ll make sense once you-”
“I cannot make sense of it-”
“-s’not that difficult-”
“Jesse, please just tell me why you will not accept-”
“ Because you’re going to get tired of me! ”
The halls of the barracks echo the shouted sentiment back at them.
Hanzo stares at him. McCree will not look at him. They stand there in silence.
Tired of him?
“I… What?”
This time, when McCree goes to rip his hand out of Hanzo’s, he lets him. He doesn’t run away. Instead, he lets his head fall into his hands, and speaks into them, muffled.
“‘Concrete-colored buildings all grow stale’ means that… yer gonna get tired of me. It’ll get boring. Monotonous. Repetitive. You,” McCree gestures to Hanzo with one hand, still not looking at him, “are gon’ look at me one day and realize that I’m nothin’. Just a plain ol’ concrete-colored building. Ain’t nothin’ special about me.” He barks out a laugh and finally tilts his head up to look at Hanzo, his amber eyes that are usually so bright now dim.
“Better to save us both from heartbreak by not lettin’ a passing fancy get to you.”
Hanzo stares at him. He takes a step forward. McCree doesn’t retreat, but does drop his head to stare at his feet.
“Do you really believe that I will tire of you?”
McCree doesn’t look at him. He nods.
Hanzo takes in a deep breath and steps even closer to him, enough that they are only a foot apart. McCree still will not look at him.
“I can assure you that there is no possible way I could ever tire of you,” when McCree opens his mouth to protest, Hanzo plows onward, “I have spent a lifetime running away. A lifetime not knowing when my next meal would be, when or where I would sleep again, if I could ever feel safe in my own skin. My childhood was filled with others making choices for me, and it led to fratricide by my own hand. I am done letting others tell me what to do, McCree, and I am tired of my life being different every single day.
“What is wrong with a little monotony? I have not had any for the majority of my life, and I like the routine I have settled into with you. It is safe. It feels right. I am making my own choice here. My choice is you . There has not been a single moment with you that I did not feel right . How can you tell me that this is a passing fancy? Jesse McCree. Listen to me.
“I love you.”
McCree finally looks at him, eyes wide, mouth pressed into a tight line. He looks close to tears. He sucks in a stuttering breath.
“But, I’m-”
Hanzo’s hands shoot up to grab McCree’s face, stopping him before he can say anymore. He yanks him down to eye-level, noses brushing, and stares into those shocked amber eyes that he is more than willing to get lost in. He hears his friend’s breath quicken, feels hesitant hands settle on his hips, and watches those pupils dilate a bit.
“Does it matter if you are a concrete-colored building if you are the only place that feels like home?”
Hanzo swallows the choked sob that bubbles up from McCree’s chest by pulling him in for a kiss. He feels Jesse’s arms wind around his waist, and he wraps his arms around his love’s shoulders in kind. There’s fire in the seam of Jesse’s lips that Hanzo chases with his tongue, tasting barley and reveling in the slick heat of his mouth as those lips part for him to delve into. McCree presses forward in kind, his hands resting solidly against the small of his back, and Hanzo makes a noise of delight as they tilt to deepen the kiss. Fireworks ignite in his midsection as McCree gently scrapes his teeth along the length of Hanzo’s tongue. He lets out a soft moan at the feeling, his heart thundering against his ribcage.
They part with a soft gasp.
He stares at his love with half-lidded eyes, pleasure and desire sitting warm and heavy in his midsection. McCree is breathing a bit heavier, and Hanzo knows his is just as laboured. He cups Jesse’s face in his calloused hands, thumbs stroking the wiry hairs of his beard. McCree smiles at him, turns his head to kiss the inside of one of his palms, his beard tickling Hanzo’s skin. He cannot help but smile at his love in return.
“Do you think I could ever tire of this?” Hanzo teases, dragging his cowboy forward for another quick kiss that McCree hums happily through, “I feel like I could kiss you for hours, Jesse.”
“Well, sugar, I could kiss you for days. No way I’ll ever get tired of how sweet you taste.”
Hanzo laughs softly, tilting his head to the side as McCree leans in to kiss at his neck. His beard scratches pleasantly along the column of skin, and those lips drag along the corded muscle down to where the collar of his shirt is. He gasps happily, and Jesse chuckles against his skin. Days . He smirks, fingers tangling in McCree’s unruly tawny locks.
“What was it that you said to me,” he whispers teasingly, “after you told me I’d figure it out?”
Jesse parts from his neck to brush their noses together and stare into his eyes, amber meeting umber, and grins.
At the same time, they breath the words into the air between them, “what’s another day?”