Archive of Our Own ^beta

The ghostly blue dragons loop and crackle through the fallen leaves while Hanzo kneels in the dirt, roused by the humming energy of the forest. Though the nights are getting colder, snow is yet a distant memory and there is still much for all beings who dwell in Hanamura to do. The afternoon sun helpfully warms Hanzo's back as he digs, nails gritty, carefully cutting away roots until the pile in his basket rustles sufficiently atop a bounty of nuts and fungi, ferns and nettles.

He lets the brim of his deep blue hat dip over his eyes, mentally turning over his to-do list as he walks up the hill, only lifting his head at the coarse sound of his father's laughter. He discovers him leaning against the high wall of twisted wood that surrounds the innermost sanctum of their estate, dark purple kimono sleeves rolled to his elbows, silvery hair mussed by the breeze and face turned up. Up at Genji, who's performing a series of showy loops, flips, and balances astride a broomstick, of all things.

He lets the broom fall away from him and Hanzo's heart vaults into his throat, hand at the ready and a spell on his tongue before Genji lands, agile as a cat, with both feet balanced on the narrow wood. He drifts slowly to the ground, arms held out in a grand gesture until the broom continues moving perpendicular to his feet, sending him stumbling and grabbing at it in a panic.

“Still working on the brakes,” Genji flashes a grin upon righting himself and hooking the wires of his eyeglasses back behind his ears. The glowing green stripe of his dragon clambers up their father's shoulder, greeting his own cobalt one with a few sniffs and settling comfortably beside it. “Pretty neat, right?”

“Very impressive,” Sojiro nods, shouldering the familiars and smiling warmly. “Who taught you that?”

“McCree! He rejoined a few months ago, I'm so glad he came back,” Genji thrusts the broom at his brother just as he steps forward to greet him. “You try, Hanzo! It's so much fun!”

“I'll stay on the ground, thanks, less chance of breaking my neck,” Hanzo scoffs, pushing the bristles away from his face and managing a smile. “What brings you here?”

“A week-long holiday, acquired through no small amount of determined begging.” Genji's grin turns cheeky before he pulls Hanzo into a tight, one-armed hug. He catches Hanzo up on their conversation without pause, the two following Sojiro through the hidden gate to the large workshop to check on the many braziers going at once. It will only get busier, the villagers always leaving their requests to the last minute and the Shimadas not allowing a single one to go unfulfilled.

Their busy hands allow Hanzo to listen to Genji's chatter without looking at him. The obsidian-like, shifting substance that now makes up his lower jaw and part of his neck never moves naturally enough for Hanzo's liking. The faint reverberation it adds to Genji's voice isn't much better, but it's easier to ignore. To look at him right now, in his loose white shirt and smart black trousers with the suspenders hanging down, it's too easy to see here the flick of a scar, here melted silver grafted into his right arm, here more of that purple-black matter replacing swathes of skin and making him resemble an Omnic, summoned into their workshop to do their bidding.

That last thought makes him chuckle darkly, and he nearly overpours the boiled nettles. He urges himself to settle down, feeling a touch of embarrassment when his father floats his tea over to him. As if reading his mind, Genji's tales abruptly turn to Master Zenyatta this and Master Zenyatta that, detailing their long journey from Nepal while their father hums and and urges him on, wholly interested though his eyes never leave his work. Since the Shimada Clan became only their household, the removal of his previous duties and obligations has allowed him much more time to study, catching up to their mother's potion and herbalist skills through his singular dedication to making good use of his time.

“It's terribly strange of you to still call him 'Master,'” Hanzo demures when their father steps out to hand some crop-winterizing orders off to their mother. “I never got the impression from your letters that he was so-mmph!”

Genji's hand claps over his mouth, forcing his speech into the same chiming tone he might use to inquire about the weather. “Why don't you shut your mouth, hm? I haven't told them yet!”

“Why not?” Hanzo throws up an eyebrow after nipping his brother's palm to free himself. “You're too old to be sneaking around.”

“I'm not! I'm waiting for the right time,” Genji bristles, though his eyes remain bright. “I need them to know how serious I am before I make any introductions. He's- very important to me.”

Hanzo snorts while his brother goes slightly doe-eyed, stirring in another handful of dried nanohana. “Add him to the register while you're here, then. That will definitely prove your intentions.”

After some playful zaps and the wrapping up of the day's batches, they restore the workshop and sit down to Genji's favourites at dinner, Hanzo barely taking a bite before his brother is all over him, making his valiant, umpteenth attempt to coax him into joining the Overwatch Council while Hanzo makes his umpteenth dismissal, blowing the heat off his fried pork after grilling it on the pit of arching blue and green flames in the centre of the table, where their parent's dragons lie dozing. “If you miss me so much, then come home more often. I'm busy enough as it is.”

“No you aren't,” Genji tsks, taking a breath from piling noodles into his throat. “Think of what you could accomplish! There's a unity now- it's not like it was before. Besides, the others have been asking after you.”

“They don't need two Shimadas,” Hanzo fires back, incredulous. “And I haven't received a letter, so that can't be true.”

“I'm not lying,” Genji replies, haunches up and eyes narrowing. “You're just being purposefully obtuse, as usual.”

“I am not doing anything of the sort.”

“Yes, you are!” Genji slams his fist down on the table, rattling his dishes and leaning over the table. “Come on, Hanzo, the Council is doing our part to protect this world. Does nothing about that appeal to you?”

Hanzo taps his chin thoughtfully, leaning forward. “Hm, now that you mention it- Oh, but I've missed the flying lessons! Do you think they'll still allow me to take fortune-telling?”

“Ugh, you're so-!”

Blue flame flares up between them, a flash of heat that sends them both landing back on their heels. Their father chews his food purposefully as it dissipates, fixing his steely gaze on them. “I've waited all year for the four of us to share a meal together, and I'm not spending it listening to the two of you bicker. Understood?”

They mutter well-trodden apologies, a smile curving their mother's red lips as she finishes her rice. “After all, you won't be able to impress that young man of yours with no eyebrows, hm, Genji?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about!” Genji's false smile fades immediately under his parents' disbelieving looks, turning a sharper-edged one on his brother. “Hanzo- ”

“Didn't have to tell us anything,” their father quips as the kettle pours more tea into his cup, an air of mischief in the smile hidden by his beard. “You still don't have much of an inside voice, little sparrow.”

“And do bring Zenyatta next time,” Taeko adds with veiled sarcasm, her slightly greying braid falling over one shoulder as she folds her long fingers to rest her chin atop them. “It's rude to keep him from us for so long. We have much to ask him.”

Hanzo gleans some enjoyment from his brother's childish sulking until they retire for the evening and he's left to his thoughts. He takes the bath last so that he might soak uninterrupted, eyes shut as he sinks up to his chin. The night air is chilled, requiring an old shawl over his yukata as he steps out into the garden. His own quarters lay across the courtyard, pleasantly separate and cozy, but he pauses on his way. Takes a bench and watches the fish shimmer inside the darkened pond, lit white by the half-moon as his dragons dive in and snap playfully at them.

Sleep will not come quick or deep tonight. Genji's presence simultaneously soothes the not-infrequent vice-tightening of his chest and summons nightmares. Blinding memories of a dozen voices speaking in continuous, rasping unison in his ear. His vision turning grey and his limbs numb. His hand on the old sword, the unfathomable terror in his brother's eyes-

“I keep telling you,” his mother's voice shears into his thoughts, her footsteps mere inches away and a lightness in her tone. “If you braid it, you won't have half as many knots in the morning.”

She sits down beside him, already in the blue-striped jinbei she favours as year-round nightwear. He huffs a weak laugh as she gathers his wet hair at his neck. “I can do it-”

Her sharp fingers tip his head forward, brooking no argument. He relents, letting her carefully card through the snarls his combing missed and smooth back the little cowlicks he's inherited from her. Separating it into three pieces, she begins to plait it tightly and he sighs. “He's so ridiculous, carrying on like he's some kind of hero. I worry for him.”

“I know you do,” she replies, her deep voice soft in the chittering of the night garden. “So why not go with him? Watch his back yourself, if you can't trust the others to do it.”

“It's not that,” he chews on his lip, eyes on the rippling water. “It would be irresponsible of me to leave here.”

“How so?”

Hanzo hums to buy time, his mouth pulling to one side as he selects his words carefully. “Well, Tou-san hurt his shoulder when we were hunting last week...”

“And you hurt your back the other day, in the library of all places,” Taeko yanks teasingly on his hair, making him sit up straighter at the twinge of pain. “What's your point?”

“Nothing,” Hanzo smiles thinly. “Just that- something could happen while I'm not here-”

“And something could happen while you are here. Or something could happen to Genji while you're here, or while you're with him. Or something could happen to all of us at the same time while you're somewhere else entirely.” A jesting lilt enters her voice as she continues braiding his hair, left to grow too long over the summer. “Have I covered all the bases?”

Hanzo chuckles under his breath. “Possibly.”

Taeko returns his laugh and goes quiet, hands slowing. “I wonder if perhaps we've let it go too long.” Hanzo perks his head up slightly and a weariness enters her tone, a sigh that extends through all her words. “We all needed time, to heal, to salvage and put away the past.”

Hanzo's throat burns, jaw clenching up. The rest of their clan severed and shut away. Hanamura a murmur of confusion and gossip. Their father struggling to mend the threads of himself once the poison was leached from him, their mother wounded superficially in the ambush and irreparably in her soul, Genji silent on a distant shore and Hanzo ablaze in his own failure. His younger self now seems like someone half-remembered from a dream.

“...And you hardly even go down to the shops any more,” Taeko continues, taking a small hair tie from around her wrist. She ties off his braid and rests her hands on his shoulders, squeezing tight. “I fear harm to either of you more than my own death, but even more, I fear for you living the kind of life where one day, you wake up as a ghost and go about your business because you don't notice the difference.”

She reaches out to gently tuck back the lock of hair that hangs in his face, Hanzo turning with it and smiling weakly, which she gladly meets. In the moonlight, he can better see the resemblance people comment on, in the sharpness of her wide features and the telling flair of her expressions. “...I will consider it. It's not a decision I wish to make lightly.”

“Nor should you,” Taeko replies, bending to kiss his forehead as though he were still small. She stands, her deep green twinned dragons obediently at her ankles and her wrinkled hand lingering on her son's cheek. “You have much to offer the world no matter where you find yourself in it, Hanzo. Do not forget that.”

The ceiling makes a poor listening ear, as do the benevolent house spirits that don't offer straight answers at the best of times, and yet, he decides. So sick of thinking about it that he's nearly bored when telling Genji. The lack of ecstatic response confuses him, his brother simply grinning wide and nodding approvingly. “I'm so glad! I think you'll enjoy it.”

The leaves are soon dropping in heaps and filling the thin gaps of the neatly-woven walls of Shimada Castle. The frosted grass crunches under their boots as they head out with their heavy packs, even their pointed hats lined and sloping with extra ingredients and wards. Genji stands in the morning sun, omnic parts shining like jewels and hakama tied high around his waist. His robes slouch at his shoulders while he makes a convincing plea for them to travel by broom because it takes just as long, his broom can hold two, and it's far more interesting. Hanzo is significantly less keen on weathering the elements and providing an easy, floating target for those of ill intent.

“I'll sleep better if you use the leylines,” Sojiro interjects, his thick arms folded around his chest. “Hanzo doesn't know how to fly on his own, and if something were to happen to you, it might be a long way to the next station.”

Genji puffs out a sigh and agrees, cowed by their father's worry. They hug their parents with the quiet fierceness of departing soldiers, and perhaps they are, in some sense. Taeko prods their ribs and insists they write and take care of themselves and make a good go of it. Sojiro uses his words sparingly, urging them to be and do well, the tightness of his arms at once reassuring and revealing. Taeko takes him into her own protective embrace from behind while they wave to their boys. A tap of the ochre pouch on Hanzo's belt, a few remembered symbols and a rush of sparks. He takes his brother's hand as the rocks are swallowed by white light, swallowing them too to parts unknown.

Genji's map-reading skills have improved tenfold from his youth, or else the journey from station to station would take much longer than two days. Sleeping rough in a tent disguised as a fallen tree lends Hanzo some necessary peace for a night, despite the snoring. The town at the foot of the massive promontory is bustling, and Genji is stopped more than once, Hanzo quirking an eyebrow when he's addressed by his real name.

His brother leads him through the unlit underground tunnels until they pass through an unseen door and the large tile beneath them lifts, propelling them upwards and launching them back into the sunlight. The re-appropriated castle is scored from the limestone cliff it sits in, buttressed by metal and held tight by the roots from the forest above. Jack Morrison's keep has a particularly nice view of the ocean, though it's barely visible behind the books and papers stacked and teetering on his windowsill. The nameplate on the door bears no formal title, unlike the hierarchy of their former clan and the previous Overwatch Council, both long gone.

Winston, the surprisingly talkative alchemy experiment gone right, had done most of the catching-up once Genji made introductions, leaving Hanzo with more reading to do since his school days. Itineraries and housekeeping are left to Morrison, who spares him some honesty, looking tired behind the red crystal lenses that permit his clouded eyes to see.

“We've lost a few of our own to them,” the man remarks with hands folded on the ancient desk, gravelly voice frank and weary. “To curses that appear very similar to the one that was used on you. Any insight you can provide would be an enormous help.”

Hanzo blinks, tasting iron. “I don't have much to offer in that regard.”

Morrison chuckles halfheartedly. “Then your presence and skill will be enough. Numbers and determination are all the advantages we have for the moment.”

Hanzo drops his pack in his blessedly-private quarters before passing out atop clean sheets. He wakes up stiff in mid-morning light, his dragons curled into balls on the pillow beside him, having slept through breakfast like the most ungrateful houseguest. A tray of delicious-smelling eggs and sausage sits on the shelf outside his room. The benign, faintly feminine voice of Athena, an Omnic who seems to possess the whole of the complex at once, pulses through the air and duly reminds him of the importance of nutrition as well as rest.

Hunting is neither a necessity nor a possibility, the village's seaport and market providing ample supplies, but the lowest level of the complex possesses several practice ranges with a supply of target golems, built from clay that crumble only after accurate strikes and reassemble automatically. Hanzo takes up his bow and saves his spellwork for later, focusing on accuracy and the endlessly familiar pull in his arms and shoulders.

Genji's friend McCree discovers him there, shouldering a large broomstick and introducing himself with ease. He twangs a compliment to Hanzo's accuracy, slipping a cragged dogwood wand from his belt and taking aim at the freshly-reassembled golems. Hanzo steals the moment to size him up. McCree stands a half-head taller than him, built strong and thick from the legs up. Faint freckles stand out on tawny brown cheeks, bearing a smile that leaves something untouched in his dancing eyes. Unkempt chocolate locks slip out from under a slouching white hat, his beard mostly tidy. A white cotton shirt tucked into waist overalls, black overdone boots on his feet and a red and gold serape upon his shoulders.

He rather resembles someone who had heard about witches once, from a friend of a friend. But his red-tailed spells land without error, exploding the golems left and right.

“I am surprised you still use a wand,” Hanzo remarks, a weak attempt at conversation better than none at all. “Do you not find it somewhat old-fashioned?”

“Eh, maybe, but she's served me well,” McCree tosses it in the air, catching the end and hooking his metal thumb on one belt loop. “I'm sure you can say the same for that bow of yours, archer.”

Hanzo huffs a small laugh, taking aim as the targets stand again, always finding it easier to move his mouth when the rest of him is otherwise occupied. “Perhaps there is still a future for anachronisms.”

***

He sees McCree time and again after their initial meeting, the man being the most gregarious of the witches residing at the Watchpoint. With the possible exception of Hana, the young and exceptional illusionist who half-drags him to her rooftop demonstrations and projection games when he tries to brush off the invitation, finding himself astonished by the complexity of her often-pink, tangible creations and playing fields. Hanzo otherwise keeps to his craft, books, and arrows, awaiting orders and trying to ascertain his place. Is he actually desired as a member, or merely a dowsing rod? A potential step in recovering their lost colleagues? He's been bent to far lesser aims, but still.

“Well, hello there little fellas,” McCree doffs his hat when he notices Hanzo's dragons tugging curiously at his bootlaces while they lounge in the mostly empty parlour, the radio playing on low near their respective settees. The pair stare up at him intently, tasting the air. “I can't tell you two apart to save my soul. Do they answer to their names?”

Hanzo twitches, intending to catch the late night program but having trouble keeping his mind focused, and shakes his head firmly. “I am their vessel, not their master. They are ancient spirits, primordial and powerful beyond mere human imaginings. If they have names, they would be unspeakable to us.”

“Oh.” McCree sucks his teeth quietly. “Genji calls his little one 'Ramen.'”

Hanzo lets his head thump back against the stiff leather arm. “Of course he does.”

***

Hanzo, Genji, and McCree get sent out into the frigid cold of the Swiss Alps to determine if the old Watchpoint is being used as a Talon meeting ground, or worse. Perhaps Hanzo should find some condescension in it, playing the initiate tagging along with two more experienced members. But he'd prefer not to spit in the face of opportunity. He knows Genji is far from vulnerable, a world apart from his reckless youth and the others all outstanding in their own ways. But it feels better to be at his side. He has no higher reasoning, it simply does.

“No use,” Genji pops his head out of the cloak on his return to their hiding spot, the fabric still coloured with the wind-whipped patterns of mountain snow. “There's no opening I could get to that isn't sealed off or a trap waiting to happen.”

“And there's no way we're flying in this wind,” McCree pulls his black robe tighter against his chest, producing a small flame in one palm and holding it close to him, the orange energy flickering but not catching on his clothes. “I always hated winter here. Why couldn't they have set up the first Watchpoint in Maui, huh?”

“Then they wouldn't be able to weed out the weak,” Genji snickers, turning to Hanzo. “Shall I do the honours?”

“I'll do it, save your strength.” Hanzo tugs his leather glove off, peeling back his sleeve to expose his forearm. His dragons emerge, shifting into focus as he holds himself steady. “[I trade my sight for yours.]”

The two pass through his arm and it rings through him, as though he's been struck with a hammer. Shivering painlessly away from his bones until he manages to open his eyes, the feeling distant as the dragons arch and swim through the air, following the mountain ridge to avoid detection. His real eyes will be glowing blue until the connection is severed, essentially locking him in place.

McCree's voice nearly breaks his concentration, coming as if from the bottom of a barrel. “Goddamn, it still creeps me out when you two do that.”

He sighs minutely, looking for signs that his dragons have been spotted. His vision is spread out across four eyes, a little like what he imagines a spider sees. “Genji, tell McCree to shut up.”

Another voice, similarly distant and hollow, but chipper. “Hanzo says shut up.”

“I heard-!”

It's not Talon, not this time, but they do manage to piss off a nest of mountain harpies that hit the homicidal level of their anger much too quickly for Hanzo's taste. He finally gets a firsthand glimpse of the ability McCree so-calls Deadeye. A single spell duplicated a dozen times over, and the smell of burnt feathers fills their nostrils as they make their escape. Genji's dragon is dispatched to mop up but returns just as quickly, enormous green body lighting the slippery path before them. They aren't certain what else these mountains hold, drawn by the old magic of the Watchpoint, but they will need to preserve their energy.

They're shuffling down a ledge, boots gripping the ice when McCree catches Hanzo staring at his bloodshot eye. Hanzo drops his gaze in a nod. “Well done, back there.”

McCree grins, only a little pained and full of light, and nods in turn. “Thanks, partner.”

***

On the errant and destructive trail of an unfortunately-hexed Aatxe-like spirit, Hanzo and McCree rest in the misty, twisting forests of Oiartzun. They're fairly sure it isn't Talon, but its elusivity and violence prompted the locals to call in a favour. An inn would be preferable, but they don't want to draw its anger back into town should it find them again. Chasing the beast is tiresome and frustrating, but Hanzo finds himself relishing his forage in the light frost. Hanamura is surely blanketed in snow right now and though he doesn't truly mind the cold, he recognizes the appeal of warmer climates.

“That's all you could find, eh?” McCree frowns lightly when Hanzo returns with his meagre collection, kneeling by their kindling and flicking a spark into it. “Can't wood witches make food grow?”

“Not in the dead of winter with no seeds around,” Hanzo tuts, raising a hand to draw up their tent, poles sliding carefully into place. “And not whenever it's convenient. The natural order of things will collect with interest if one makes too many withdrawals.”

“Ah, makes sense,” McCree hums, lashing the pot to the branches he's rigged over the fire. Quick flicks of his wand chop the roots and greens to bite-size chunks, tossing them into the pot along with the water and the broth cube that had miraculously survived the trip. Hanzo scratches his dragons behind their horns, feeling their not-quite-there bodies push heavily into his hands. He watches McCree touch his wand to the skin of the stew, drawing it back as a child would while blowing bubbles with dowels and strings. The dim orange energy glows faintly beneath the surface, brightening to yellow just before he releases it, tucking the wand away and letting it simmer.

“Should be good now,” McCree sits back, rolling his shoulders a few times before grabbing the bowls. “One ladle or two?”

The richness of the taste is startling. Creamy broth thick with earthy spices, chunks of limp greens soggy with flavour and sticking heavy and warm in his belly. His dragons cease their flittering about, settling on the rocks bordering the fire and tucking their snouts under their paws. He wipes a drop from his beard, grieved by even a small waste. “I didn't realized you practised vestal magic as well.”

“Just one of my many specialties,” McCree smiles wide, tucking his serape tighter around him and blowing the steam off his soup. “Gets me stuck with cooking duty every time, though, and everybody's always too full to help clean up.” He pauses, taking in a large spoonful. “It's good, then?”

Hanzo nods eagerly, chewing on a rubbery chunk of mushroom. The thought that he'd happily eat this kind of cooking every day crosses his mind, leaving him mildly embarrassed and searching for a distraction. “With great power comes great washing-up, I suppose.”

“You said it,” McCree chuckles, warmer than the hearth, and pushes his slouching hat back from his eyes. “Gotta say, you're an interesting mix of powers yourself. Your brother too, of course.”

“So we've been told,” Hanzo's smile turns wry. “But it was inevitable, to hear my parents tell it. They met rather by accident and as my mother likes to say, 'water excites wood.' Though my father insists it's the other way around.”

McCree laughs heartily at that, the sound echoing in the small clearing. “They sound like a real hoot.”

Hanzo chuckles low in turn, eagerly returning to his still-steaming meal. “Well, that's certainly one way to describe them.”

***

Hanzo is genuinely surprised that Watchpoint's swept-clean, slightly sloping roof is not a more popular spot in the wee hours. He's no longer so arrogant to think he's the only one with a sleep-thieving subconscious, but he's content to watch his dragons dance in the solitude of the moonlight. McCree only asks to join him the first time, receiving a taunt about being a vampire for his polite efforts.

Some nights they talk, others they drink and fire harmless spells across the inky-black sea, tonight they do neither. McCree purses his lips and screws up his eyes in the late- early?-quiet as he fastidiously tunes the guitar in his lap. Hanzo watches the two blue streaks spin higher, excited by the nearly-full moon, kicking his feet where they dangle over the edge. At last, McCree strums a chord that makes his shoulders sink down and a relieved sigh push from his lungs. He shifts back against the cliff wall, plucking out a mellow, patient tune with increasing confidence in the mended instrument.

Hanzo permits himself one glance, finding the other man's eyes similarly distant, but glinting gold as his fingers move with such gentle skill over the strings and frets. The notes are so beautiful, shivering through the air and sending thrums of warmth down his spine. The relative dark of the rooftop and the burn of earlier liquor emboldens him as the song ends. “Do you know any with lyrics?”

McCree huffs a laugh, barely pausing. “Oh sure, got any requests?”

“Whatever you like,” Hanzo shrugs, sliding one arm beneath his head with care as the sake settles in his stomach. His mind is at once blanched and overfull, no good for sleeping yet, perhaps not tonight at all. He has found routine, rapport with his fellow Council members, every one of them as driven as the characters his father's stories. There is occasional quiet and more frequently, peace. A peace that sends Hanzo's wooden feet itching to leave, walk fast, faster and keep going, the fragility of it more frightening than any actual fracture.

The notes come only half a beat quicker, McCree's voice spilling out with them, hushed and yet unafraid. Accustomed to the night and the slightly wispy acoustics of the empty sea air. Hanzo wonders if the porous stone that permits Athena's consciousness to move and conduct herself so freely will retain any of the silk in Jesse's voice, the melancholy sweetness he sings into words that must be dearly familiar to him for his lack of stumbling. They mean nothing to Hanzo and yet he is moved, briefly and spectacularly present within himself, though he longs for just a few bars more.

McCree gives appropriate pause after the last strum, ever the performer. The cool April air only broken by a few clumsy notes and a grunt of indignation. “Hey, get outta there! This ain't no three-man act!”

Hanzo sits up out of his reverie, finding McCree trying and failing to scowl as he coaxes one dragon out of the hole in the guitar, the other nibbling curiously on the metal pegs. He laughs, soft and amused, the sake still burning in his throat.

***
“So,” Hanzo wets his lips, mindful of his tone. “One of them is Reyes.”

“Give the man a prize.” Jesse polishes off another long gulp from his flask, metal hand knotted in the wet grass. His broom lies at his side, noticeably unused despite the clear midsummer evening. Just standing atop the promontory feels close enough to flying for Hanzo's tastes.

Hanzo keeps his gaze in the grass. “Perhaps, if we're able to contain him somehow- the curse might be-”

“Don't- Han, goddammit, don't you feed me that line too,” Jesse scrubs a hand viciously over his face, his tone cracking. “I've seen curses- hell, I've set worse ones, on people with half- that ain't no curse. I don't know what the hell came after us, but if any of it is still Gabe-”

Jesse's voice stalls out, his teeth sharp in his lip. Hanzo takes measured steps to his side, tugging the waist of his trousers up as he kneels, still giving him space, and waits.

A rattling wheeze leaks from Jesse's chest before his words slur out, facing away. “...Maybe I shouldn't be saying nunna this to ya, but you saw- I mean-”

“I did,” Hanzo interjects coolly, palms on his knees. “Whatever it is- it is much worse than what I was afflicted with. There is little comfort I can offer, so I won't patronize you, but know this.” Hanzo places a hand lightly on the man's shoulder, feeling the muscle stiffen underneath. “If I encounter him, I will do my best to subdue him alive- whatever that may mean in his current state -and bring him to those who might restore him from the hell he's been cast into. If that is not possible, he will at least be afforded a respectful burial.”

Jesse turns slowly and regards him with a strange intensity, neither angry or sad, more- Hanzo can't even put a name to it, but it's unquestionably pained. It dissolves slowly into the water of his brown eyes. He leans over his knees and breathes in, out, in, out- like Zenyatta often encourages, the advice helpful despite the fact that the Omnic himself doesn't generally breathe. “Y'might have to beat Jack or Ana to that, but best of luck to ya, darlin'.”

Hanzo politely chuckles, studying his friend's slouched posture and shaking hands. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Heh, nah, I just need to cool my head for a bit,” Jesse skims a hand through his untamed hair, hat abandoned alongside his broom and still-smouldering wand.

The sky has faded from violent pink to deep purple, the sun inching lower and leaving all of its heady warmth behind. Hanzo lifts his hand as if to scratch his nose, whispering “tenkyuu,” against it and flicking one finger. His dragons leap off his shoulders and whip up a small raincloud over Jesse's head, crackling with static as the droplets rapidly soak him.

“What the- oh, get outta here with that!” Jesse flaps a hand between the dragons, turning on Hanzo when the cloud doesn't disperse. Hanzo's barely-there concentration breaks with a hard shove and a guffaw, falling sideways on the grass while Jesse rubs the moisture from his hair. “You think you're real clever, don't ya?”

“Think implies doubt. I know,” Hanzo chuckles, his attempt to sit up met with a pinning spell that he easily deflects, grinning to meet Jesse's burgeoning smirk. “Try again, firestarter.”

***

The crude map the village residents had drawn up for them ceases to be useful once they enter the woods proper, the clumps of trees and rocks much less significant to outsiders. They follow something resembling a trail while Hanzo keeps his dragons out and his eyes sharp. A family had reported their children stumbling on what sounded like a necromancer's well in a cave somewhere past the stream. Even if it's a false report, its location being a mere fifty miles from the Watchpoint makes it worth investigating.

Jesse comes tearing out of the brush, cursing and beating away a pair of loudly squawking crows with his hat. He angrily swipes the leaves and detritus from himself when they finally flap away, a few threads hanging loose on his clothes. “This is bullshit. Crows used to serve witches n' do what you told 'em!”

“Not the helpful source of information you expected, then?” Hanzo barely stifles a snicker and gestures to the shallow valley below them. “I think that might be the cave we're looking for. Seems appealing enough for curious young children.”

“And unassuming enough for someone up to no good,” Jesse smirks in the fashion of someone who knows, replacing his hat and withdrawing his wand. “Shall we let ourselves in?”

“Indeed we shall,” Hanzo smiles briefly and folds the useless map away in the pocket of his robe, his dragons landing to perch on either shoulder. The strap of his quiver feels warm against his chest, gathering heat in the summer sun as he fingers the sight window on his bow. The refinement of practice clears his mind without effort and keeps him focused, ready.

The cave is much longer than its outward appearance indicated. A dank, downward slope littered with stalactites and stalagmites casting toothy shadows in the light of their respective fire orbs. Cobwebs catch on their arms and hair, but no spiders drop down to investigate. No long-legged things skitter at their feet. There are no bats flapping and chittering in the ceiling, no bits of fur and bones from predators dragging their meals to safety. It's all deadly silent but for their boots scraping along the ground, and the cause is soon readily apparent.

A pit the size of an ample pond sits at the end of the cave, smelling like rotten meat and bubbling with a purple-black tar-like substance. Within moments of their light reaching it, a few bubbles stretch unnaturally into four-legged, arched-back bodies that are all teeth, claws, and smoke, lumbering towards them with intent. A blast of fire and an electricity-laced arrow rip through them, cutting them down only for their halves to shudder and stand up on newly-formed viscous limbs, doubled in number with more welling up behind them.

“Well, shit,” is McCree's only comment over the gurgling and ear-piercing inward moaning.

The narrow cave gives their opponents the advantage, and any that are allowed more than a minute after forming seem to gain their land-legs and scrabble towards them much more quickly, landing a few sharp blows. Hanzo shoulders his bow when the arrows run out, his hands sparking wildly with every defence and offence spell he knows. A call for help might take an hour. With only two of them, they won't be able to block off or evacuate the entire village. His dragons could destroy them and the well, but their usual method-

“If they're not destroyed in one go, they'll just keep coming. I've seen this kinda thing before,” McCree grunts as he blasts away one making a lunge for his legs. “I've got an idea, but we'll need some lead time. Can you-”

“[Form a wall and block the way.]” Sweat drips down Hanzo's temples as he raises roots from deep in the ground before them, the makeshift spikes glowing blue and zapping the beasts that land against them. He turns and lopes towards the sunlight. “Hurry, it won't hold them for long.”

At the mouth of the cave, they dig their heels in. Jesse raises his wand and Hanzo clasps his left hand over Jesse's flesh one. The root wall gradually crumbles under the creatures' efforts, the pupil of Jesse's right eye narrowing to a slit and the iris glowing like an ember. “Can you see them all?”

“Yeah, just- when I say the word-” Jesse's voice is tight, his hand as tense as iron. “Now- do it-”

“Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!”

A clap of thunder, a glimpse of the electricity striking the creatures and the well simultaneously in a great web as his dragons rush forward in their full forms, before a backdraft of acrid black smoke washes over them. Choking the air from their lungs and leaving Hanzo staggering, overwhelmed by the thought of dying here and-

A thick arm grabs his waist and hauls him into the air, the rush nearly emptying his stomach. Once he's in clear sunlight, he registers the press of Jesse at his back and a broom handle beneath his thighs. They both wetly hack and gag for several minutes, Hanzo blinking the tears from his eyes first and realizing they're fifty or more feet off the ground, his hands gripping the broomstick tightly. “Are you- are you alright?”

“Yeah, m'fine,” Jesse groans after a final raw cough. “Shoulda known that would- can you see anythin'?”

Hanzo squints into the dark cloud still welling out of the cave, relieved to see his dragons returning, flying sluggishly as they only do after a sizable meal. He reluctantly removes his hand to press an affectionate palm to each of their broad noses, then tugs the left side of his robe open to bare his ink as they shift back to their smaller forms and slip inside. “[My endless thanks to you, for honouring me with your protection once again.]”

“Nicely done, lil' fellas,” Jesse scratches the chin of the second one, causing the first one to reemerge and wheedle for its own attention before they both disappear beneath the shimmering surface of Hanzo's skin. “Let's get outta here. That won't be the only one we'll have to deal with, I'm sure.”

“You're probably right,” Hanzo swallows audibly when Jesse points the broom South and starts flying quickly. “I don't suppose we could return by leyline?”

“This is faster,” Jesse insists, his voice hoarse. Hanzo doesn't dare turn around, his right eye surely a painful sight. “Not scared of heights, are ya?”

“Of course not,” Hanzo retorts, resolutely staring forward. He's ridden in an airship once. Briefly.

Jesse chuckles, breath hot against the back of Hanzo's neck where his hair is tied up. “S'just like riding a bicycle. Put your leg over like so- yeah, knees together, hands up by mine, sit back comfortably. See? Not so bad.”

Hanzo manages to look below the horizon, and finds it much less disconcerting in his more stable position. Fields of yellow-green, roofs and towers speckled like rocks at the seashore, nearby rivers and roads running as far as the eye can see. It really is his dragons' point of view, just as Genji described. He nearly says as much when he hears Jesse hiss in pain. “Are you injured?”

“Just a scratch,” he replies, confident and easy. “I'll be fine 'till we get back. You go on and enjoy the view while I do all the work.”

Hanzo grins almost childishly, worry assuaged by the strength in Jesse's tone and the high of survival burning in his veins. “I hope that isn't the line you use on all the men you take for broomstick rides.”

Jesse sputters, the broom dipping slightly as a breeze rushes past. “You are damn lucky my hands are busy right now, or you'd pay for that.”

“That one's even worse. I expect better from you.”

“Hanzo, I swear-”

The banter dissipates quickly, the scenery becoming gradually more recognizable as they make for Gibraltar. Hanzo can taste salt on the air and has to fight gasps when birds fly alongside them or their feet skim the tops of trees. The occasional bob doesn't concern him, until they become more frequent, the broom descending rapidly despite his companion's efforts to pull up. “Jesse? Jesse, what's-”

Jesse only bites out a curse before they land rough in a field. Hanzo puts his feet out to brace the impact and feels a few unfortunate cracks, the two tumbling to the ground and spitting dirt. Jesse heaves sick onto the ground and moans, curling on his side. Hanzo scrambles towards him, forcing him onto his back and reeling at the blood and viscera hidden beneath hiss serape. “This is not a scratch, you idiot!”

“Adrenaline lied to me, alright?” Jesse wheezes, cradling himself as more blood spills onto Hanzo's hands. “Fuck- little bastard got me good. I was fine till I tried to sit up n' opened it-”

Hanzo's pulse hammers in his throat, drawing his dragons back out. He barks “Get Genji!” at them and hopes he'll understand, that help will come quickly. He can see the Rock perhaps one leyline station away, but his legs- they're fractured and shrivelling on his stumps and he can't stand, can't walk, can't carry Jesse.

He grabs his hat from where its fallen and yanks two bottles out, mixing the thick substances in his hand until they're off-white and adhesive, almost the consistency of wet clay, and spreads it over Jesse's deep gash. Clothes are left where they are, if they're stuck they can be cut away later. Just as his mother had done, after hitting him with a glancing lightning blow that knocked him reeling, scooping Genji's ruined form into her arms and begging him to live-

“Didn't know you were a healer too,” Jesse says, weak and a little dazed. “You're just full of surprises...”

“I'm not. Stay with me, they're coming, alright? Jesse?” The other man blinks as if forming a response but his eyes fade, the reddened one weakly closing. “Jesse!”

In a panic, he slaps McCree fully across the face, hard. Jesse lurches up, yelling in pain and clutching his cheek. “Gah! What the hell, archer?”

“If you die on me, so help me, I will learn necromancy just to raise you and get the other side too. Stay awake!” Hanzo snarls and spreads the sealant with shaking hands, summoning all the magic he can. “[Blood, staunch your flow. Poison, cease your spread. You who protect those at their weakest, dwell here a little longer until human hands can mend-]”

He barely knows the words, rarely hearing them used, except by those his mother brought to Genji's side. The healers, garbed in what he recognized now as Overwatch Council-issued robes, rush his brother away while his bloodstained mother stumbles to his side, speaking though he can barely hear her through the ringing in his ears- Stay here, Hanzo, you're safe here. Don't move, don't go anywhere, just- she dragged a wall of roots around him, effectively sealing him into the corner of the room. His sword thrown aside, the castle finally silent, him scorched and alone in the darkness as his dragons at last returned-

The moments go by like hours, until Angela lands hard beside them, field bag in hand and her metallic wings spread wide. Lúcio follows shortly after, the glowing-green blades on his boots cutting across the uneven ground with ease. Hanzo quickly assures them that he's unhurt and gives them room. Angela, in her infinite kindness, spares a moment to touch his shoulder and reassure that all will be fine. But then they whisk Jesse off towards the Watchpoint at double-time. They wouldn't be in a hurry if he was fine.

Genji kneels beside him, broomstick in hand. He hadn't registered him landing, feeling hollow at the gentle hand on his back and that familiar voice sounding so calm and together. “Can you stand?”

Hanzo shakes his head, his jaw clenched. “My legs, I can't-”

“Allow me to be of some assistance,” Zenyatta floats closer, plucking two golden orbs from the air and attaching them to Hanzo's calves. The golden energy fills the cracks in his legs, returning them to wholeness, though it feels alien. Like he's on invisible strings again.

Hanzo manages to lift his head, thanking the Omnic sincerely. Zenyatta beams generously in reply, his face as strangely malleable as the rest of his assembled gold and steel human-shaped form. His fondness for facial expressions is endearing, although he still frequently eschews moving his mouth while speaking because “it seems like such a lot of bother.”

He's unsteady on his feet, but Genji's arm comes tightly around his shoulders while Zenyatta politely collects their things in his lap, the three of them moving slowly towards the leyline rocks across the meadow. “That's it, one step at a time. You're alright, Hanzo, it's alright.”

Genji sounds so composed, so much like Zen, and yet Hanzo wonders if he's reassuring his brother or himself.

***

Jesse- thank everything -survives, but needs 'an exceptionally long nap' as Angela puts so lightly. The Amaris are at his side, as is Jack, and Hanzo feels wretchedly out of place and in the way. His urge to exit the wheelchair he'd been placed in after Zenyatta's Harmony wore off wins out, leading him to wheel his way to the elevator and out into the area still shielded by the concealment spells, informing Athena that he won't be long.

The path through the woods is well-maintained enough that the wheels spin without trouble. It doesn't take him long to find a pair of suitable stone pine saplings, about six feet tall each, lean and sturdy, free from termites and rot and not yet home to any bird or rodent families. His old legs come away easily, Hanzo shimmies down to bury them deep enough that they might nourish whatever grows above. A shame, he prefers to replant them when possible.

He pulls himself back into the chair, moving it close enough to the saplings that he can place his hands on both of them. His dragons wander through the grass, chasing each other playfully, but still on guard. Such spells take his full concentration and leave him vulnerable. He murmurs his thanks before he begins chanting, the wood shifting and bending under his hands. The words, taught to him from his youth, older than his first language with only a few syllables vaguely recognizable as words. Spoken with deep reverence as the roots draw up, the trees slowly bending in the middle and twisting around themselves, tight and yet still malleable. Shifting and rounding to become his knees, bulging out at the calf, narrowing at the ankle. The branches at last shake loose their leaves and are sculpted with great care into his feet.

Hanzo wipes the sweat from his brow before withdrawing a small sheathed knife from his pocket. The wound on his finger just big enough to paint the blood seal on each of his stumps and is easily sealed after the limbs graft themselves on, alighting his nerves. Cautiously, he stands. Herein lies the art, learned only in experience, of how to perfect the prosthetics. How high to shape the arches, how flexible to make the ankles without weakening them, how to carefully separate and articulate the toes so they grip properly.

He's dressed lightly in the oppressive heat, tying his robes around his knees to properly observe how the wood moves and flexes. With a flick of his wrist, he distractedly sends the chair rolling back to Watchpoint. The testing is not to be rushed, a mistake now could cost him dearly later. He runs, jumps, and climbs a few boulders, entirely focused on the feeling of them. With relief, he jogs down along the beach, half-tempted to strip and jump in for a swim. The sand feels so pleasantly hot and gritty against his soles.

He turns around once more to ensure the knees are moving properly, and catches a pair of familiar brown eyes staring back at him from the woods. Jesse drops his head, looking embarrassed. “Ah- sorry, Han. Didn't mean to intrude, I asked Angela where ya went and-”

“No need to apologize,” Hanzo hurries up to him, examining him closely for any signs of pain or weakness. “It's good to see you out of bed. How are you feeling?”

“A smidge sore, but they patched me up good.” A grin stretches the man's freckled cheeks. “Got a new scar out of it. Your brother pointed out that with the ones on my chest, it looks like a face when I take off my shirt. Now I can't unsee it.”

Hanzo laughs dryly, shaking his head and pressing his lips together. “I'm sorry I didn't realize the extent of your injuries sooner-”

“No, don't be. I was the one who- anyways,” Jesse ruffles his hair with a sigh. His wand is in his belt, but otherwise he looks like one of the town residents. Sans hat and serape, wearing a borrowed shirt and loose slacks. “That'll be our last two-person errand for a long time. Jack's been walking around with the hang-dog face goin' should've known this and should've known that. He's a real drag when he gets like this.” A chuckle pops out of him, smile turning soft. “So don't go feeling guilty, you saved my life. I can't thank ya enough for that.”

“Well, it seems like it's standard procedure around here.” Hanzo chuckles, though his chest still clenches and burns with a thousand what-ifs. “You saved mine as well.”

Jesse hums, and they rock on their heels for a moment, the ocean breeze lifting their hair. “Didn't know you made your own legs. That's damned impressive, I gotta say.”

“Ah, it's not so different from my other spells,” Hanzo shrugs, toes flexing in the dirt for want of his boots. “I imagine your arm uses a blood seal as well?”

“Oh yeah, I put all the charms on it myself, but I have to get the parts from somewhere. I'm no blacksmith,” Jesse holds his metal hand out between them, flexing the fingers. “Hundred and thirty-five pieces altogether. I take it apart once a month for cleaning and if I count more or less, I know I'm in trouble.”

Hanzo laughs at that, taking Jesse's hand in his own and examining the interlocking metal and neat screws and joints. “How fascinating. And do you have feeling with it?”

Ten years of aching looks at Genji's partly-crafted form is eased somewhat by Jesse's immediate nod. “Oh yeah, just like your legs, I reckon. A little- distant, I guess. But I can tell how warm your hands are right now.”

Hanzo glances up from his intense interest in the prosthesis. There's an impossibly rich fondness in Jesse's tired eyes, unfamiliar and yet he's sure it isn't new. Standing so close, at the forest's edge, it would be so easy for them both to lean in and-

A chill in his blood. The vivid memory of a lamp-lit room, Genji backed into a corner and shaking like one of the deer they hunt before winter, a multitude of voices whispering inside his ear- He disrespected you, Hanzo. He's never cared about anyone but himself, certainly not you. He's nothing like you-

Just a flash, clear as anything and only a half-second long. But it's enough. He jerks away and brushes past McCree. “I have to be going now. I'll see you at supper.”

Jesse's voice is confused when he calls out. “Uh, Hanzo?”

Hanzo glances over his shoulder, his demeanour icy even as he watches the hurt it inflicts on Jesse's gentle, bewildered face. “Yes?”

After a pause, he points towards Hanzo's legs. He looks down and notices his robes still tied up, baring him to the thighs. He huffs, lets them down quickly, and mutters a thank-you before striding off, his dragons at his heels.

***

Hanzo has a stack of a half-dozen books on his desk- the Watchpoint library even better stocked than the one at Shimada Castle -as he etches notes into one of the leatherbound notebooks he'd purchased on a trip into the city with Hana and Satya. Leaving the window open to enjoy the fresh air turns out to be a mistake, as Genji floats into his field of vision, perched atop his broom with a smarmy grin. “I knew you liked him.”

“I don't know who told you what, but it isn't true,” Hanzo snorts, tapping his ballpoint pen against the paper, his next thought lost.

“Nobody had to tell me anything, it's all over your face,” Genji leers, his glasses sliding down as he leans in to tap his brother's nose. “I've got lilac seeds if you need them. And I can testify to Jesse's favourite foods, so you can-”

“Your input is not needed,” Hanzo spits backs, scratching nonsense notes into the paper. “I will not be 'confessing,' bringing him flowers, or anything of the sort, so let it be.”

Genji affects a pout, black lower lip bunching up. “Why not?”

“You know very well why not!” Hanzo slams the shutters in his brother's face before he can think better of it. The emotions that have been roiling in him all day surface with such force that the lightbulb above his head bursts, throwing the room into darkness. “Damn it! Damn it all!”

He sends up a few balls of dragonfire and throws open his wardrobe. He had never truly unpacked, only hanging up his clothes and toiletries for ease of access, and they're easy enough to shove back into his bag. His mind spins as he struggles with the clasps. This side of him, this unrestrained, immature side is what let the rest of the clan use him for their own ambitions. Worm their way into his mind over months and months, exploit all the worst parts of him until their desires took over completely, lead the two of them into a trap where their dragons couldn't be summoned and-

He had torn his baby brother to ribbons. How much less would it take to hurt Jesse? To turn on the entire Watchpoint and just-

The shutters rattle open, pried apart by Genji, who steps carefully over Hanzo's desk and comes to sit behind him. He dares to grip his hands, despite Hanzo's resistance, slowly turning him to face him. “No, Genji- you shouldn't have brought me here, I never should have- I can't-”

“And we're hugging, and we're hugging,” Genji drawls persistently, faint levity in his tone. Hanzo finally relents at the press of his brother's arms, turning his face towards the wall in embarrassment. How pathetic, to be nearing forty and still unable to manage his own mind.

“I am sorry,” Hanzo murmurs when his voice feels steady enough.

“Don't be,” Genji replies, far too kind and content as he rubs circles into Hanzo's shoulders. “You used to do this for me all the time.”

“When we were children,” Hanzo snaps back with little venom, his resources depleted. He shrugs off Genji's arms. “Please, don't comfort me. I'm fine.”

“Wow, what a liar you've turned out to be,” Genji places a hand on his cheek, snickering while Hanzo pulls back, deep eyes turning a little despondent. “You're so bad at saying yes to people. Usually it's the opposite problem.”

“It's not an option for me,” Hanzo draws one knee up to lean his elbow on, staring at the floor. “I'm a danger to him- to everyone.”

“No you aren't,” Genji sighs, exasperation in his thick, furrowed brows. “What kind of fool do you take me for, that I'd bring you here and put so many at risk? It isn't true, Hanzo.”

Hanzo's mouth tightens to a thin line. “But if that curse is still dormant within me somewhere- if we encounter Reyes, or the others and I am compromised-”

“It isn't possible. Here,” Genji holds his hand out palm-up, a small spiral of green lightning spinning atop it. Hanzo reluctantly lifts his hand adjacent, a blue spiral joining it in the opposite direction, finally blurring together and breaking apart into tiny, glassy shards before disappearing. “They're gone, Hanzo. They can't hurt us anymore.”

Hanzo feels a flicker of resentment, merely over being the older brother and having Genji be the reasonable, pragmatic one, it seems so backwards and- unfair, somehow, to Genji especially. He feels a tug at his sleeve and finds Ramen holding on with its teeth, pulling on it seemingly just for fun.

Genji chuckles, settling his chin on his palm. “I wanted you to come here because I hoped you were ready to let time flow forward again. Misery isn't redemption.” He places a hand on Hanzo's arm and patiently waits for him to look up. “It's okay to just enjoy things, I promise. It took me a while to remember how, too.”

Hanzo half-smiles and glances away, recalling Genji's first joining of the Overwatch Council, the initial arrival of his letters and the subsequent change in them, from half a page to five, double-sided. “I will try.”

“You're doing pretty great so far,” Genji beams, eyes then glinting impishly. “But listen, Jesse's asking you something in earnest. He deserves an earnest answer, right?”

“You've already reached your advice quota for the week,” Hanzo retorts, smiling while his brother laughs. He looks around at his scattered clothes with some degree of embarrassment, tugging the loosened tie from his hair. “I think I'll head to bed. You should too, it's late.”

“Alright, do you want me to stay with you?” Genji stretches up and frowns at Hanzo's peevish expression, dipping to kiss the top of his head. “Alright, sleep well, anija.”

Hanzo stands and rolls his eyes as Genji picks up his broom and clambers over his desk to the window. “The door is right there.”

“This way is quicker,” Genji insists, Ramen hopping onto his shoulder as he leaps into the darkness. Hanzo leans out to watch him with some amusement, as he floats over to the still-glowing window that is definitely Zenyatta's room, not his own.

***

Their brush with the worst inspires in Hanzo a new appreciation for the skill of flying. In advance of their next mutual day off, he privately requests lessons from Jesse, who seems eager to forget the awkwardness of their last conversation. Hanzo spends the week shaping olive wood, drying and braiding straw, as per Jesse's instructions that it's easiest to learn on one you've made yourself. He enters the woods with confidence, their last flight together having been quite enjoyable apart from the takeoff and landing.

On a spot halfway up the Rock, he watches Jesse's easy dismount, the broom coming up to gently catch his fall and leaving him balanced on the wind. He copies the motions, breathes out, and leaps. The broom does come up, much too fast, nearly throwing him off. He over-corrects and hurtles down. It's a struggle to merely stay seated, let alone fly straight, despite Jesse shouting instructions. He zigs and zags, finally landing on the blessedly sturdy branch of one of the tall pines and cursing his ability to control powerful storm spirits, but somehow not a simple household object.

“Well, you didn't stand up for the first time and run three miles, or did ya? Hard to tell looking at you,” Jesse chuckles, tugging down the brim of his hat. Hanzo's own is somewhere on the forest floor, hopefully not being nibbled on by hungry animals. Jesse extends a hand, which the dragons take as an invitation to perch on his arm like hawks, making him laugh again, cheeks glowing in the afternoon sun. “C'mon now, you gotta get down from there somehow.”

Hanzo tries again, and again, each attempt less erratic than the last. He learns how little magic it actually takes to propel the thing, finally manoeuvring with relative stability and discovering it to be about as draining as a brisk stride. They rise higher, his dragons floating free on the wind beside him and the promontory a mere hill below. It feels a little like bobbing along the surface of the sea, weightless and heavy at once.

“See? You're a natural,” Jesse drifts alongside him as they fly over the ocean, Hanzo adjusting to the change in winds. A particularly strong breeze blasts into their faces, making Hanzo's teeth chatter. “That's why you gotta dress warm up here, do you want-?”

“No, no, it's fine,” Hanzo quickly answers as soon as Jesse places a hand on his serape, despite his shivering, because there's no way it wouldn't smell like him and be warm from his body heat and- “No sense in you being cold just because I am. Let's head back.”

Jesse hums thoughtfully, lifting one hand from the broom to conjure a small ball of pale orange flame, no bigger than a gumball. He passes it to a slightly confused Hanzo. “Close your hand over it, quick now.”

Hanzo does, and feels a small pop against his palm before a low-grade warmth sluices through him, from scalp to his wooden toes. Such a spell is deceptively difficult. Controlling his lightning to use it in any way that wasn't at least mildly searing had taken nearly the whole of his life, and fire is far less obedient. “You're quite an accomplished witch.”

“Takes one to know one,” Jesse winks by way of thanks. “Want some more practice? I bet I can get from the docks to the lighthouse before ya.”

Hanzo smirks back, undeniably charmed, much to his dismay. “We'll see about that.”

Eventually their stomachs demand that they land in town for well-salted pub fish and chips and a tall, stiff drink each. The bartender, whether fond of the Council itself or the hefty tips its members always leave, piles their plates high enough for Jesse to loosen his gaudy belt buckle a notch before they leave on foot, brooms slung over their shoulders.

“Y'gotta let me treat next time,” Jesse insists as they shuffle up the road to the underground tunnels. He'd seemed almost annoyed when Hanzo had laid some bills down before he could so much as open his wallet.

“My family makes a habit of charity, but we have a rule. When we can be paid for our work, we are, and we're paid well,” Hanzo replies, crunching on the remnants of the peppermint he'd snagged from the jar near the cash register. “I try to apply the same standard to others, and I'm certainly no charity case. You've earned more than that dinner today.”

“Aw, that wasn't really work, though,” Jesse scoffs, half a step behind. “I like spending time with you.”

Hanzo schools his face into a neutral expression as they near the tunnel entrance, the sun low and orange-purple at the ocean's edge. “Well, that's very kind of you, but still-”

He stomps on a thin green vine that he should have spotted in time, a loud snap as the olive tree beside them bursts into full pink blossoms, falling like soft rain all around them. Jesse startles, staring up at the heavy branches. “The hell?”

“One of Genji's parlour tricks,” Hanzo answers with a scowl, tugging at the vine where it's wound around the trunk, the flowers continuing to fall. How many more of these are there? How could he be sure they'd come back this way? “I'm going to jam my foot so far up his ass he'll be coughing up splinters for a week.”

Jesse snort-laughs at that, irrepressible as ever. Hanzo yanks harshly on the green cord to try and break the illusion when he feels a warm hand brushing magicked petals off his head, his hat dropped at his feet. “Are the real ones this pretty?”

Hanzo nods after a pause. “Hanamura has so many that they have to sweep the streets in the spring. People come from far away for the blossom viewing festival, it's like a second New Year's.” He smiles sadly, a pang of wistfulness that he doesn't normally allow coming over him. “The ones on our family's land are twice as old as the castle itself. They're teeming with spirits, you can hear them sometimes at night, especially when they're blooming like this.”

Jesse whistles low. “Must be quite a sight.”

“It is. Should you ever wish to visit, I'd be happy to play host,” Hanzo snaps his teeth into his tongue, feeling every inch seventeen-years-old again and twice as stupid. “Not that you'd want to trek halfway around the world to look at some flowers, that is, but if you did.”

Hanzo gives another hard pull on the vine, finding it rubbery and slack. Genji's made his pranks hardier over the years. He fumbles with the knife in his belt until Jesse's rough hand closes over his on the trunk. “Hanzo, darlin', listen-”

“Jesse, please don't,” Hanzo cuts in, loathing the tension in his throat. “You are kind and good. You risk your life enough as it is, do not endanger yourself further by involving yourself with me.”

“Endanger-?” Jesse stills, sighs, and stands up straight as the sun leaves them in mostly darkness, the cherry blossoms' glow more noticeable now. “If you think I don't know what you're talking about, I do. But it doesn't matter-” Hanzo tries to interrupt and Jesse plows on. “-'Cause there's not a single thing I've told you about my old calamities that's made you even bat an eyelash and that's- that's not an easy thing to find. So whatever you haven't told me yet, it ain't gonna scare me off. Honest.”

Hanzo has no response to offer, though he's transfixed by the changes in the man's face. Yearning to pensive to almost abashed, all in the scrinch of his lovely eyes and the set of his shoulders, the purse of his soft lips and the mild flush in his cheeks. The heat of their hands is enough to form a thin layer of sweat, and their closeness permits a whiff of salt, sap, and smoke from their day spent together. Would it be so deluded to take this man in his arms and accept this? To give himself over, at least for a little while, to the daydream of being desired, wanted, perhaps even loved?

“I'd rather compare scars with ya than hide 'em away, and more than that,” Jesse lifts Hanzo's hand slowly, telegraphing his intent. Hanzo does not retreat, even when the man brushes the lightest, sweetest kiss over Hanzo's knuckles. Jesse's eyes shine like leaves after the rain when they open and meet Hanzo's again. “More than anything, I want to make you smile at me again.”

Hanzo is silent another moment and Jesse pulls away, but he catches those heated, whiskery cheeks in his hands. Holding him just long enough to catch the change in Jesse's eyes, then tugging him down to press their lips together. Jesse yields gladly for him, wrapping his arms around Hanzo's middle and pulling him closer. Hanzo catches a taste of Jesse's favourite sour liquor as he tangles one hand in surprisingly soft hair, the other sliding down to palm his comfortable waist. A dozen wants satisfied at once, a hundred more ignited, as brilliant and unpredictable as newborn stars.

They part for air, Jesse's pupils doubled in size and his surely to match. Hanzo starts to laugh quietly and Jesse joins him, such a handsome, merry sound. They press their foreheads together and linger for a moment or two, noses brushing and hands mapping each other. Hanzo's dragons leap through the petals at their feet, chasing each other in a tightening circle. Beneath his skin he feels a persistent, faint spark, not unlike the oncoming of a welcomed summer storm.

***

Hanzo rolls up the cuffs of his grey shirt, the later autumn air still so balmy compared to Hanamura. He flies low, just above the trees, his hat pulled down and his hair loose beneath it. His dragons perch on the far end of the broom's handle, their beards and spines whipping in the wind as their tongues flick out, never truly hungry but always on the hunt. Large white clouds pass overhead, broad circles of shade racing across the peninsula.

Genji floats up beside him, sitting side-saddle as is his preference and kicking his boots in the air, Ramen preening in his lap. “Mind if I join you, brother dearest?”

“Not at all, I'm only posting a letter, though,” Hanzo's lips curve on a sly smile. “Jesse is meeting me for lunch afterwards.”

“Ah! Not to worry, I'll make myself scarce,” Genji grins wide, retrieving a small piece of paper from his trouser pocket. “I have a few things to pick up, for Zenyatta.”

“You don't say,” Hanzo replies, glancing again at the cherry-red cardigan that's a size too big for Genji. He touches his vest pocket to ensure the letter to their parents is still there. The remaining balm on his hand itches, coating a superficial wound from yesterday's encounter with a Talon-hexed hippocamp that attacked the pier as a distraction from an ambush in the north, dividing the Council but not overcoming them.

Though you wouldn't know it to look over the city now, peaceful and returned to normal, as is the Watchpoint behind them. There would be further danger, perhaps an hour from now or perhaps in a month. Even without Talon, ceaselessly would trouble return to the world. In the meantime, they are the same as the city residents below. Preparing for tomorrow and taking enjoyment wherever they find it.

“You know,” Hanzo says, his dragons scampering up his sleeves to belly-flop into the air, startling a family of swallows that was keeping pace with them. “I'm really beginning to like this place.”

Genji smiles warmly at him, white teeth and obsidian jaw shining in a short burst of sunlight. “I'm glad.”