Work Text:
“Mr. Shimada?”
Hanzo did not know what prompted the ex-monk to enter the room, just as he did not know what made him stay when the archer gave him nothing but a harden stare in return; his fingers curled tightly into the end of the sheets, knuckles gone white from the tension they held. Annoyance played on his lips, a quirk upward of the lip into that of a sneer.
“What? Exasperation, the question sharp and meant to ‘ persuade ‘ the former monk into giving up whatever endeavours he sought.
The winters of Nepal were terribly cold; the blizzard would send even the bravest of mountaineers running, but no winter storm could match the chilling gaze of the archer.
“I am quite tired,” Zenyatta started, a quiver of his bottom lip as he worked his way around the bed Hanzo had begun to neatly arrange. Zenyatta’s bed, nonetheless, with changed sheets for his guest and several pillows tossed aside or claimed by the man before he offered his room; he gave Hanzo what privacy he could find within the peaceful monastery, if not more. “It has been a very long day … “ He had spent hours working. The months had passed quickly, and while Zenyatta did not often complain, the week began with a blooming pain along his lower back, and a horrendous knot had begun to form in the middle as the week progressed. With Hanzo occupying his room he had little privacy himself, no true relief that he once sought by the way of soft cushions and closely set heaters.
In an odd bought of hesitation from the once monk, Zenyatta’s fingers just dangled shy from the end of the blanket, then fingers caught the cloth, and the two of them guided the sheet across the bed. Zenyatta bent, smoothing the blanket down, soft blue hues flickering up to meet the beautiful dark, rich browns of the eldest Shimada.
“... And what of it?” With a reluctance to be perceived as a man who stepped down, Hanzo stepped back from the bed. He may have been a guest, and there were pieces of him that believed he deserved no kindness Zenyatta had given him as he was not a king, no longer a scion to be waited on, he refused to give in. He would not play a guessing game of what Zenyatta wanted nor would he fold his cards on faith alone; Zenyatta would tell him what he wanted or Hanzo would sleep.
“I wish not to impose, but I would like to sleep in my own bed.” Zenyatta’s breath caught in his throat, a painful lump he could not swallowed down, at the squint of the archers eyes, at the way his lips began to curl into a look of thoughtful disgust; Zenyatta glanced away, rising with hands coming to rest along his backside, fingers dug into his lower back, small circles rubbed into him to soothe himself.
He stretched, toes curled in his shoes, attempting to free himself from rising tensions.
The silence was utterly deafening.
Beneath the white noise of breath was the sorrowful sounds of whipping winds that announced, with loud hallowed moans and sharpened, gelid cries, the beginning of a snow storm. One that would lock the monastery in a powdered time, without power, disconnected from the world, even from the village just beneath them.
If Hanzo sought respite, it would be found within the weeks where none could bother him, and where he could not check and fret on those hypothetical, paranoid thoughts that often followed a depressed man as ravings do a mad one.
“We will share then. If I have imposed myself onto you without care, then I should not blatantly disregard such honest kindness … nor should I repay your kindness with nothing. It is only fair you sleep in your bed.” A sharp breath, dark hues flicker elsewhere, and sharp cheeks dust with crimson at the embarrassment of admitting to his own greed of Zenyatta’s hospitality. He would not have done the same. Pulling back the sheets, with his free hand palm facing upwards in a show of offering, Hanzo cleared his throat. “I will sleep elsewhere.”
The action was too quick to be anything but surprising, skilled as he was, Hanzo could not have foreseen the quick catch of his wrist; fingers curled tightly, and he fought to stop himself from yanking his arm back. Zenyatta’s touch was not one he should fear.
“There will be no free beds tonight, Hanzo. Many of the villagers have taken refuge from the storm here.” Quickly, whispered to hide the desperation, the needful whine to Zenyatta’s words. “Sleep here, with me. I do not take much room and it would be far more preferable than sleeping alone, in the cold, Hanzo.” Oh, he was bold. With a bed between them, Zenyatta was too bold for how young he was and how little he knew Hanzo.
The archers chest hurt.
What reason could he have to stay? What excuse could be made to a man whose soft blue hues stared at him with grand audacity?
Had he grown used to the comfort of Zenyatta’s mattress, the warmth of his sheets, or did the idea of sleeping besides the young man, smooth and soft just as he was vicious and strong, holding that very man close to his chest, and feeling the shallowness of his breath while knowing he slept safely and soundly, wholeheartedly appeal to him?
How long had it been since Hanzo had felt safe anywhere?
He was always running, hiding; how could Zenyatta stand with open arms, with a kind and welcoming smile on his face, and have the archers knees weaken and heart quicken?
It was shameful, how quickly they slipped beneath the sheets together, Hanzo unaware of his actions until an arm draped itself around his waist, and the soft press of a cheek to his bare chest stirred him from his dissociation.
The young man was fast asleep.
A hand cupped the back of Zenyatta’s head, holding him closer, ghostly shivers traveled along his spine at the warmth of his breath; a tired sight escaped the archers lips as he closed his eyes to sleep.