Chapter Text
“I said no, Genji,” Hanzo growled, careful not to let his frustration disrupt the stroke of his pen. A complex grid of curved, intersecting lines crowded his page.
Genji leaned on his desk, tossing his head back with a groan. “Come on, just this once. If you were in the same position, I’d take your clients for you.”
Laying his pen down on the table, Hanzo sniped back without looking up, “No, you would not, because I would never be so careless as to overschedule myself. Call your friend and tell her you can’t make it.”
“Have some pity, brother.” The eye-roll that accompanied Genji’s plea did nothing to make his plight genuine. “When Hana invites you to a party, you can’t turn it down.”
“You certainly can,” Hanzo argued, pulling up the appointment book on the shop’s computer. There, staring back in accusatory, rough pixels under the timeblock for Friday at 8 P.M. was Genji’s name with the completely uninformative note, ‘Genji, skull tattoo, for McCree.’ Not even a phone number was listed.
“I don’t think you understand the nuances of social networking,” Genji scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “Especially with celebrities.”
Hanzo scowled up at him and waved a dismissive hand. “Ask Lúcio to do it. I have plans tonight.”
As if the act of Hanzo saying his name had summoned him, the young artist came strolling out of the back office, throwing his shoulder bag around his neck. “Sorry, I can’t do it either. I’m DJing a party.”
“The same one I’m going to,” Genji emphasized to Hanzo, eyebrows furrowed meaningfully. “If you’re scolding me, then you must scold him, too.”
Punching Genji in the arm, Lúcio chastised, “Don’t look at me. I put in my PTO early.” He crossed his arms, shooting Hanzo a sympathetic glance. “If you really got plans, I’ll just put in a word for Genji with Hana. But if it’s nothin’ too big and you can stay, you’re welcome to time and a half.”
Not that Hanzo even needed the money, but at least that was more of an offer than what Genji gave him. Saying no to Lúcio was difficult, especially when he smiled at Hanzo with that well-meaning, affable air. Hard to believe sometimes that this man was their boss and not just their coworker. Equally unbelievable was the fact that Genji had managed to win a stable relationship with him.
Wincing in pain, Hanzo turned to Genji, who was already giving him the same shit-eating grin he always wore when he won an argument. Hanzo complained, “I have no idea what design the customer chose, or the quote you gave them, or how to contact them. You included no phone number in your report. You didn’t even write down their full name.”
Genji practically dove over the counter, reaching into the desk for an index card. He took the ink pen Hanzo had been using to draw--a very expensive illustrating pen that was meant only for drawing--and began scrawling loose, messy letters onto the card.
“Genji,” Hanzo growled threateningly.
“His full name is Jesse McCree. Here’s the quote I gave him,” his brother chirped happily. From where Hanzo was sitting, he could already tell whatever Genji wrote down would be nigh unreadable. “The design he wants is in my drawer. I labeled it with his initials. And don’t worry about contacting him, I’ll give him a call and let him know about the change. He’s already in my phone--I just completely forgot about putting his number in the computer.”
Hanzo scrubbed a hand over his face, taking in a deep, controlled breath. “Please tell me this is not another of your ‘friends’ you picked up in a random bar.”
“Nope. He is a friend I picked up in a club, during my apprenticeship. We go way back,” Genji proudly claimed, casually dropping the pen on the desk in front of Hanzo. As it rolled toward him he noted that Genji hadn’t put the cap back on. Hanzo felt himself chafe in his own skin.
“If he’s anything like your other friends, I will kick him out,” Hanzo threatened. “And he will pay up front.”
Giving Hanzo a comforting pat on the shoulder, Genji condescended, “Everything will be fine. Thank you, brother. I owe you. Give me a moment, Lúcio, and I’ll go pull the car around.”
He strode victoriously out of the shop, the bell jangling as the door slammed shut behind him. Hanzo watched him pass in front of the graffiti-lettered logo of their store’s name, Accelerate. From the inside the design was backwards, along with the little black and green frog that was Lúcio’s calling card in all of his business ventures.
Hanzo capped his pen, eyes flicking over to Lúcio. He did his best to keep his expression composed. “Is this paid time off for him?” Lúcio simply shook his head, loose dreads falling over his shoulder. Hanzo closed his eyes and murmured sincerely, “Thank you.”
Barking out a laugh, Lúcio clapped Hanzo on the arm and assured him, “I got you. Remember, company policy only gives him a few of these a year, right? Next time he’ll just have to deal. But this time … well, you’re doin’ me a favor, too. Hana’s gonna love me for bringin’ him.”
“As long as he’s anywhere but here, I suppose.”
A sleek black car rolled to a stop in front of the storefront, the top folding down to reveal Genji’s unmistakable green hair. He honked the horn a few times.
Lúcio held out his fist in invitation. “Keep cool, Hanzo. Time and a half. Remember to lock up the register when you go back to do the ink.”
The insinuation that Hanzo would forget raised his hackles, but he calmed himself and clumsily bumped Lúcio’s fist. Outside Genji laid on the horn again and Lúcio hurried to the door, calling goodbye over his shoulder. Hanzo watched as he ran out and vaulted over the passenger’s side door of Genji’s car. They sped off, tires squealing, and Hanzo couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Even in the simplest of actions, Genji was prone to theatrics.
Hanzo pulled the index card closer, squinting at Genji’s messy handwriting. The quote was a mere twenty dollars--way cheaper than what they normally charged for even their small tattoos. That sharpened Hanzo’s ire even more. What kind of work did Genji expect him to do for such a low price? He stood and crossed over to Genji’s desk, rifling around in his unorganized drawers for his current work designs. After ten minutes of searching he found a sheaf of loose-leaf papers and when he picked them up, a scrap of paper about half the size of all the others tumbled out onto the desk. When Hanzo turned it over, he saw a plain black skull on the front with the initials “J.M.” inscribed in the top right-hand corner. An additional note was marked below the letters, saying, “lower back,” to denote the placement.
There were no features that defined this skull. The whole design, from crown to jaw, was little more than an inch-long black smudge with eye sockets carved out. The teeth jutted out in a short row like a comb. He turned the paper over in his hand, searching the white back in confusion. This was the tattoo? The one so important that made Genji pester Hanzo to cover his shift? This was stupid. A waste of ink that the client could take anywhere else and get filled in within the same day for next to nothing.
Hanzo tossed the paper on his desk and dropped into his seat, roughly rubbing one shaved side of his head. This must be an important friend. Probably one of Genji’s silly boyfriends. He was always doing this--inviting random people to the shop, usually men and women he met while on a night out, and leaving Hanzo to turn them away when Genji became tired of them. He had earned a couple of regular customers that way, but none he was happy to claim. One of them took some kind of party drug before the first session of a new tattoo, and following an unfortunate sequence of events, Hanzo had to ride with him in the ambulance all the way to the hospital.
Glancing back at the design, Hanzo felt an immediate loathing spread outwards from the pit of his stomach. The skull stared vacantly back at him. How uninspired.
-
At 8 P.M. on the dot Accelerate’s front door swung open. Hanzo looked up from some paperwork to see a tall, barrel-chested man saunter into the shop. From the first glance, Hanzo felt a keen sense of exasperation. Not all of the man’s attire evoked anything strange--his scuffed leather boots and mud-stained blue jeans painted him as a working man, part of the ordinary lower middle class. But when Hanzo saw the brown cowboy hat perched atop his head of shaggy, unkempt hair, this new customer suddenly resembled every man born from the Midwest to the South who had ever asked Hanzo the question, “What part of Asia are you from?”
“Good afternoon,” Hanzo greeted with as much professionalism as he could muster. Despite knowing the answer, he asked, “Are you here for an appointment?”
The man met his eyes and gave him a lazy smile. His nose and cheeks jutted out from a wreath of untrimmed beard hair. The sight of him made Hanzo itch.
“Yeah, I’ve got an eight-o’clock,” he responded in possibly the thickest, smoothest drawl Hanzo had ever heard. He cordially stretched out his hand. “You’re Hanzo, right? Genji’s brother? I’m Jesse McCree.”
Hanzo looked between the hand and the man’s face. Even though he really didn’t want to bother, he stood from the desk and shook his hand, saying, “Thank you for coming by, Mr. McCree. We are sorry for the sudden change.”
“No, thank you. I really appreciate you doin’ this for me. And you can just call me ‘McCree.’”
Sitting back down behind the desk, Hanzo pulled out the tattoo design and the requisite consent forms. He showed McCree the tattoo, confirmed this was the one he wanted, and had him sign. While McCree bent over the desk and scrawled away at the forms, he casually remarked, “I’ve heard a lot about you. Seen some pictures of y’all together. You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”
Hanzo scowled briefly. How charming. He was certainly the kind of man that Genji would fancy--tall, broad, and willfully lacking in social grace. Hanzo reigned in his anger and sighed, “I cannot imagine what Genji has told you. Surely nothing good.”
“Depends on your definition of ‘good,’ I guess,” McCree replied with a cheeky smirk, handing back the pen and the forms. He was already exhausting.
“I’ve checked your file in the computer, and it says that you’ve been here several times before,” Hanzo started, scrolling through the file on the computer. “So by now you probably know the procedure. And you’ve had several lower back tattoos done by Genji, so I’m sure you’re familiar with the level of pain and your own physical response.”
McCree nodded. “It’s just a little stick-n-poke. I won’t pass out or nothin’, so don’t worry.”
“Have you eaten recently?” Hanzo inquired, wanting to make sure.
“Yes,” McCree answered with a wry smile. “This is old hat for me. I’m good.”
As Hanzo opened his mouth to ask for an upfront payment, he turned to find McCree already had a twenty in his hand, plus tip. “Whatever’s left is for you.”
Hanzo glanced up into his face, met his brown eyes, and allowed himself the briefest kindling of respect. He took the money, put it away, and said, “Thank you.”
After locking up the register, Hanzo led McCree to the inner workroom and had him lie down flat across one of the chairs. There was a brief, fussy exchange over where McCree could put his hat. Ultimately, the hat got its own privileged place in the middle of the other chair that sat adjacent to them, like a personal friend observing the process. As Hanzo pulled on his gloves and checked his equipment, McCree folded his arms under his chin and raised his eyebrows at Hanzo.
“I’m tellin’ you, it’s a stick-n-poke,” he insisted. “You don’t even gotta lay me down--Genji does ‘em when I’m sittin’ up all the time.”
Frowning, Hanzo retorted, “Genji is careless. If your back isn’t flat, the ink might be warped. I will have a word with him that.”
McCree snorted derisively, making Hanzo bristle. He grunted tersely, “Pull up the back of your shirt for me, and show me where exactly you want this.”
When McCree lifted the back of his dingy flannel button-up, Hanzo was surprised to see, lined in arching rows across his lower back, eight more skulls identical to the design he wanted today. Pointing clumsily to that area of his back, McCree simply instructed, “Doesn’t matter where it goes. Long as it looks somewhat balanced.”
Hanzo furrowed his brow in confusion. He shot a look at McCree’s face, whose furry cheek was mashed unattractively against the meat of his forearm.
“I’m not really sure what you--” Hanzo started, then closed his mouth. “What is this for? Is this part of a larger piece?”
“Oh. Right. ‘Course Genji didn’t tell ya’.” McCree’s eyes flicked up toward the corner of the room, landing on one of the many framed designs created by Hanzo, Lúcio, and Genji. After a moment of hesitance, he explained in a smooth, calm tone, “I got lots’a friends in low places, and friends like that tend to die. Whenever I hear someone’s died, I get one of these on my back. Just to remember ‘em.”
A sobering chill passed through Hanzo--the kind everyone feels when a stranger opens up about a deep sorrow, but there’s no connection, and only a little sympathy. Hanzo replied stoically, “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be,” McCree told him with a grin. “When you’ve got those type of friends, you’re ready for ‘em to go at any time. Y’know?”
“Yes, I do know,” Hanzo responded, and that much he was sincere about. He had grown up in a yakuza family, which taught him how to prepare for the detachment of death. For many members of the Shimada group, they coped with loss in much the same way as McCree, albeit with a little more than a mere skull.
He squinted at the two rows of skulls and their sameness, differentiated only by the minute flaws of Genji’s subsequent reproductions. “I am sure that your friend looks down on you with favor for this. Should we perhaps add their initials?”
“Just do what’s on the paper,” McCree insisted. “I’ll remember who it is, ‘cause I’ll remember the feelin’.”
That was difficult to believe, but Hanzo wasn’t paid to argue with customers, so he refrained from inserting his opinion. His eyes skimmed over the rows of black skulls, staring back at him now with the gaze of dead men, and he placed his forefinger over a blank spot at the end of the second row. Near the spine, but not too close.
He asked, “How about here?”
“Works for me,” McCree murmured, resting his chin on his arms, facing away.
The tattoo should have taken under thirty minutes, but Hanzo made extra time. This was important. He had to get it right. When he finally finished the tiny skull, its hollow eyes stared back at him and he tried to look back through them, as if he could see the next world in their empty spaces. He then dipped his gun back in the ink and started touching up one of the many other skulls lining McCree’s back.
“Uh,” McCree piped up in a muffled tone, “What’re you doin’ back there, Hanzo? Feels to me like you’re goin’ rogue there with the design.”
Hanzo didn’t spare him a glance, instead concentrating fully on keeping his hands steady. “I’m touching up the other skulls Genji has done.”
“I didn’t pay for that,” McCree reminded him.
Hanzo finally shot him an unimpressed look. “I know.”
Meeting Hanzo’s gaze over his shoulder, McCree told him, “So I ain’t gonna pay for anythin’ extra.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to,” Hanzo huffed, shaking his head and returning to work. “We should have followed the proper procedures the first time you came to us. Of course I won’t make you pay for us to correct our mistakes.”
McCree’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “That’s mighty considerate of ya’. But there’s like, a billion of ‘em, and I wasn’t expectin’ to be here that long.”
Giving him another deadpan stare, Hanzo responded, “There are only eight of them. You just focus on watching the time, and you can tell me if you start running late for your next appointment.”
That finally shut him up. Hanzo became absorbed in his work, the hum of the ink gun lulling him into a deep sense of calmness. At times his gun came close to McCree’s spine, and he felt the muscles tense beneath his fingers, though McCree never made a sound. Even so, Hanzo had felt him falter. In that moment, he couldn’t help but feel a connection to this stranger. That was one of the curious features of Hanzo’s job. The closeness, and the secrets that the body told, without the mouth’s permission.
He was learning that McCree was just as macho as he appeared from first glance, and Hanzo tried not to let the loathing he felt erode the grain of respect he felt for the man’s attempt to commemorate his friend’s death. With a tiny oil-drop of a black skull. Completely identical to all the rest.
Since McCree was so worried about leaving the parlor on time, Hanzo made quick work of the retouching and dabbed off the excess. As McCree stood up from the chair he grabbed his cowboy hat, perching it delicately on top of his head. The edges were frayed, and covered in mysterious, dark substances in some spots. Hanzo grimaced briefly. He would have to wipe down both chairs after McCree left.
They returned to the register, where Hanzo gave him care instructions and sold him some lotion to rub on the tattooed areas. To which McCree ungratefully replied, “You realize that my whole lower back is gonna be on fire for the next week ‘cause of you.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Hanzo answered, and for a moment McCree seemed surprised. Hanzo gave him change for his order and told him, “Thank you for doing business with us again. I hope my brother’s conduct will not deter you from returning.”
“‘Course not. I’m the one who gave him the go-ahead to do things the … wrong way, I guess,” McCree said, smirking as he took the money from Hanzo’s hand. “Next time somebody I know dies, I’ll be back again.”
Frowning, Hanzo suggested, “Hopefully the next time will not be under such somber circumstances.”
“Sure, sure,” McCree responded, waving his hand in a noncommittal way. “Well, thanks a bunch, Hanzo, for makin’ the extra time. I’m sure you’re real busy.”
His tone was wry and almost mocking, eye gleaming with a mischievous light that Hanzo didn’t appreciate. Hanzo ignored his comment and emphasized, “If you do come back for another of those skulls, make sure Genji does it right. He must pay his proper respects, and so must you.”
McCree pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “That your professional advice?”
“Of course. You may do with it what you will,” Hanzo replied firmly. “Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”
He received a searching stare, one that was not entirely friendly. Eventually the slight hostility dissipated and McCree shook his head.
“Naw. Thank you kindly for your work.” He stopped and scratched his beard, thinking hard. “What’s that y’all say? ‘Oh-su-ka-ray-sah-ma,’ or whatever? By the look on your face, I butchered that somethin’ fierce.”
Hanzo winced, maintaining the firm mold of his professional expression. “It’s … comprehensible.”
That earned a deep belly-laugh from McCree. “Just tryin’ out my phrases. Genji’s taught me a couple ‘a things, so I thought, y’know, I’d thank you in one of them Japanese ways.”
“You need not trouble yourself,” Hanzo said, which drew another laugh from his customer. He paused and gave McCree a quick once-over. “Genji taught you, you say?”
“Yeah. It was a couple years ago though, so I’m kinda rusty.”
A couple of years ago? So Genji must have known him for a while. At least this wasn’t one of the “friends” Genji picked up in the streets. Or if he was, he had made the cut to stay in the clique for a while. Hanzo couldn’t imagine why, though. Besides his honor toward his comrades, there seemed nothing else impressive about McCree.
His eyes lingered on McCree’s stupid grin for a few more moments. “We should be thanking you. We rely on our regular customers.”
“Even the ones who come in for twenty-dollar tattoos?” McCree asked him playfully.
“Believe me, during the slow months there is no better support than the teenagers with twenty dollars to burn,” Hanzo told him, shaking his head.
“Bet you have to do them little stick-and-poke beach waves a thousand times a year,” McCree snorted.
Hanzo dipped his head in agreement. Unfortunately. “You’d better be going, Mr. McCree. We must close up soon.”
“Just call me ‘McCree.’ Remember?” He tipped his hat. “I’ll see you ‘round.”
He sauntered out of the shop, letting the door smack behind him. Hanzo watched until he left sight of the front window, then let out a deep sigh. What a nuisance. And now Hanzo would have to talk to Genji about his poor etiquette.
Oh well. Time and a half.
-
When Hanzo received the spiraling dragon on his arm, his father had personally wielded the needle. This was a rite of passage in the Shimada clan--a welcoming into the adult world. Hanzo had accepted it with a swell of excitement for the future, spread out over several sessions worth of agonizing application. During his youth, his father had always told him that tattoos were once engraved in blood. They drew people together with strings tighter than the bonds of kinship, and made unrelated people family. Such a sentiment was common among all yakuza Hanzo had known, who proudly displayed matching designs to tell the world who they belonged to, and who belonged to them.
The Shimada family had an especially precious relationship with tattoos, however. As soon as Hanzo reached adulthood, he expected his old-fashioned, practical father to begin arranging an omiai for him. Hanzo once brought up the subject--as delicately as he could--and was astonished to hear his father’s answer.
His father, who had never once spoken of fate, told him calmly, “Since before you were born, the blood of the ink had already chosen a person for you. On that person’s body is engraved the image of your soul, which you will know on sight. If you have not yet had a vision of it, you will soon.”
“Is that how you chose Mother?” Hanzo asked him, still young and naive, trying to hide his confusion.
His father paused, a solemn expression stealing over his face. He shut his eyes and responded, “You will have the vision, and then you must wait. For how long depends on your fortune.”
Genji was the first to receive his vision. He and Hanzo had been strolling through the garden together, on their way to another of their father’s appointments, when Genji froze in step, a vacant look on his face. He knelt down and, unable to find a stick, feverishly drew with his finger in a patch of bare dirt. Hanzo crouched down to scold him, only to be distracted by the design, which appeared to be some sort of animal.
“What is that?” he asked Genji.
Sweat poured from Genji’s forehead. He replied, “A frog.”
Looking back now, the frog seemed fitting. Frogs often appeared carefree, easily gobbled up by the likes of a dragon--like Genji. Somebody quick in body and mind, full of energy, able to keep up with Genji’s pace. When Genji first began working at Accelerate, and begged Hanzo to come down and meet his new boss, Hanzo knew from one look at his design. This was the person fate had chosen for Genji. And though Hanzo had trouble accepting this at first, he couldn’t deny that Lúcio was the best thing that had ever happened to Genji. Even their father blessed the two of them, toward the end of his life.
Hanzo had not been so lucky.
At the age of twenty-two, Hanzo had his vision while sleeping one night. It came in the form of a nightmare, a swirling miasma of smoke, out of which appeared a black and menacing yet simple design. Though the tattoo blended into a black background, its owner shrouded beyond view, Hanzo’s eyes could trace every border of the carved-out image. The design mimicked the silhouette of a stylized human skull, its teeth stabbing downward like blades, and then curved sharply to start a winding trail around what looked to be the person’s forearm. A swath of black girded the upper forearm like an armguard, and then suddenly cut off, and where the person’s hand should have been Hanzo sensed a profound sadness. He knew from a glance this was the tattoo that his father had told him about: the mark of his betrothed. He could feel his own soul within it, black and despairing. This tattoo was also located on the person’s right arm, a complement to the dragon on Hanzo’s left side.
The vision terrified and excited him in equal measure. He could tell from a single look: this person was powerful. They were simple, logical, without pretense. They were beautiful.
He awoke from his dream with tremors and a fever, shaking so badly that he could not get up. When he missed breakfast, Genji came to retrieve him and found him ill, covered in sweat. He thought that the panic would never subside. He spent the whole day resting in bed, Genji tending to him with surprising care, and Hanzo feared a visit from his father. To his great fortune, and slight disappointment, he never received one. If his father had been there, Hanzo could not have retained his composure. He would have confessed everything.
He knew. The person that the ink had chosen for him was a man. For Genji, the cherished younger son, this could be forgiven. But the future of the Shimada clan rested on Hanzo’s shoulders. With a man, he could never continue the family line. At that time, he decided, if he had truly seen his own spirit in another man’s body, then there must be some defect in his soul. Maybe if he corrected himself he could change fate. He worked tirelessly to be a devoted son, to champion the Shimada’s success. He worked past his father’s death, and the dissolution of the gang’s social order that followed. He couldn’t remember when he finally gave up. He never received a new vision.
Since he first saw that tattoo, fourteen years had passed.