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In the dojo of the Shambali monastery, the exchange of bows signaled the end of peace and the start of violence.
Though he adopted a facade of confidence, Genji was anything but, as whenever Ramattra was this close, he could feel it—smolder in his veins, zest in his wires, whispering to him, urging him.
It had been so easy to ignore once, to tune out the prickling and disregard the ensuing thoughts, for it was a plight that developed slowly, over weeks and months. Then just like that, akin to a snap of the fingers, mere distraction proved ineffective and pretending became an expedient solution. Intrusive whispers transitioned into a nigh constant badger of thoughts in the Ravager’s presence, one which deflection and excuses could no longer solve.
For now, entering a spar, all Genji could do was try and apply his attention elsewhere. Focus on movement, the spatial positioning of his body, the weight shifting the soft mat. Draw in air, fill his lungs in measured perfection, feed the fight within him. Analyze the opposing body for intent, see strong arms sweeping, powerful legs stomping, sharp eyes reciprocating scrutiny. Bite down the wrong instinct it all spurred, force himself to think on his feet.
Clever tactics and careful timing were not only a welcome reprieve, they were also necessary; with his size and stature, Genji had no hope to best Ramattra head on, so with a flutter of cybernetic legs—step after step—he dodged.
They could keep this up for hours. A constant push-and-pull between two iron wills, and he lost himself to the rhythm of sparring. Only when one silently decided to give in did things progress.
On this occasion, the concluding act was drawn by Genji. He lagged behind the smallest amount, a smirk lighting his face when caught by mighty hands. Hidden optics gleamed, knowing what would come next.
As quick as a clap, the grab was reversed. Thud, and Ramattra's fall was cushioned by the matting covering the hard, stone floor.
But they were not quite finished—the Ravager would not secede easily, less so on his back, already moving to counter. Genji, however, was swifter, always. Pirouetting his body around the pole of the arm in his grasp, he settled atop the metal chest, pinning Ramattra. Victorious, Genji had cause to act so smugly over his non-organic counterpart; his body heaved for air, steam seeping out of vents and rolling off his body.
A part of him wondered if, maybe, Ramattra enjoyed seeing him go past his human limits.
A calm settled in the wake of the resounding end of their match. Ordinarily, the winner would assist their bested rival to their feet, share a few words that, invariably, lead to a new match—one of sharp wits. Today, however, expectation had steadily sneaked into the ambiance, delaying concluding etiquette. On his perch, staring down at the Ravager unit quietly regarding him, there it was again, that inexplicable yearning. Perhaps it was exhaustion or his body gasping for air, but he did not stop himself. With a hand, he reached out—pet the hair he had been deigning to touch for so long.
“What on Earth... are you doing.”
Genji flushed scarlet, a wave of tension shooting through his body, well aware he should listen to his heart hammering in his chest, bolt away, hide. Still, his fingers tangled with the smooth plaits, marveling at the texture.
“I couldn't resist,” he explained, voice wavering from embarrassment, stopping himself short of pressing a dismayed hand to his faceplate. “They are... they looked so soft.”
Ramattra hissed in baffled incredulity. “I am not some common household pet!” Yet his words did not match his actions, perfectly content to lay there. “I should lecture you for such—such...”
Rubbing along the circumference of would-be metal ears seemed to catch Ramattra's words in his throat. The last tone droned on, stuck, and underneath it, nigh audible, the smallest of rumbles, vibrating throughout the steel carapace. The touch was leaned into, head angled just so, and though Genji's face was hidden behind the usual plated covering, he wished Ramattra could witness the toothy grin.
“Such?”
The taunting request for elaboration barely nudged Ramattra from his sudden daze. His reply was a challenge to form, as if his internal processes were floundering and scrambling from somewhere else entirely.
“... Such in—solence...” Synthesizer stuttered, an electric hiccup, when Genji resolved to scratch the underside of his jaw. A small come-hither motion, of which triggered an instinctive elevation of the head, to expose more of the sensitive neck. Obliging the silent request, he shifted his position to free his bracing arm, adding a second weapon for a joint attack: Rubbing up and down the side of the thick neck, paying close attention to what areas deepened the droning hum and zeroing in on them without remorse.
Enjoying this rare position of dominance, and in particular the manner in which Ramattra turned into putty in his hands, Genji allowed his tone to turn playful. “Am I still being insolent, Ramattra?”
“In—insufferable.”
“Difficult?”
“Dreadful.”
“Arrogant?”
“Intoler—able.”
Such stubborn pride, and it charmed Genji something fierce.
Not quite finished with his search for new nooks and parts to touch, a hand flitted about titanium rib. The trailing palm elicited a shudder, expressed through faint oscillation of hydraulics; a hint for those with cybernetics and an aspect overlooked by those without.
“What is with... you humans...” Scratching the narrow space in between ribs and chassis made Ramattra hum deeply, relieved, and Genji understood it as a place the Ravager could not reach by himself, his hands too large. A huff, accompanied with a flustered turn of the head and a grumbled set of words. “To the right...”
For a being composed of solid metal, Ramattra's body was surprisingly discerning of touch, Genji noted, amused. Of course, some more teasing could not hurt.
“Oh? Would that be my right?” Purposely, fingers swept to the wrong side, and the irritated hiss made Genji feel quite satisfied with himself.
“Mine,” Ramattra ordered with a croak, just as Genji brushed over that spot. The whirring motors pitched, turned loud at the digits rubbing at the long-neglected gaps. No, that sound was not from a motor.
Purring. Ramattra was purring.
A shiver of excitement crawled up Genji's spine, more-so when forced to counter his offset balance as Ramattra arched his back and contorted in place to force the slender digits farther in.
“Y-yes. There.”
Fingers dug greedily at the confirmation, touching and trailing over what they could. Buzzing synthesizer and excitement such as this were not befitting either of them, desecrating what should have been a sanctuary of spiritual respect, yet nothing spurred them to end this strange encounter, to rescind improper conduct and save face.
Leaving one hand to continue its ministrations below faux ribs, Genji chanced a caress down Ramattra's side, the uneven, ferrous landscape a bumpy thrill. With a loud thump, Ramattra flattened the curve of his body, rolling his head to the tickling sensation, not once relenting in his purring. Joining the electric warble were puffs of air, jettisoned through auxiliary vents, the heated air displacing dust and dirt: An omnic sigh of contentment.
“That feels nice, too, huh… Should I keep going?”
The swiveling of Ramattra's head turned into blunt shakes, likely in an attempt to keep his pride intact and refuse the spoken reality. “S...silence.”
“Ah? I will stop, then.” Except Genji did not, and neither was he told to. Dainty hands stroked a converging path, meeting in the middle that was plated abdomen, and much like a masseuse would, pulled upwards together, splaying fingers as they smoothed the length, dipping underneath sandy cloth. “I will stop... How about here?” Genji rested his pads against the hydraulic collarbone, focusing on the quiet shudder so loud. “Or maybe not, I can tell you like it.”
A little ways up, and his hands settled atop hefty shoulders, turning his arms into supportive steeples. His weight, though sheer, disrupted purchase, palms sliding down either side. As gravity gingerly lowered him, his waist was caught by strong hands, and instead of forcing Genji back and away, they eased him down. Their eyes locked, and ideas swirled in Genji's mind, each test of perceived limits pushing him toward boldness, his gaze withdrawing only to skirt along the seam that was Ramattra's mouth, the fantasy idly plucking at his reservations.
Adapting to the burgeoning meeting, Ramattra appraised Genji's balance, experimentally shifting a hand. When certain he would not fall face-first onto him, the hand set off, leaving the other to bear the full brunt of the cyborg. Moving up his body, Ramattra's snaking touch glided over Genji's chest and neck, the feeling coaxing forth a contented hum. Soft sighs prevailed even through the fiddling of his helmet's release mechanism; it clicked, dislodging the faceplate, which clanged against Ramattra's body and onto the floor.
Naked skin met air. What had been revealed barely nudged either from their trance-like spell—the world around them, and the perceptions within it, forgotten. Time slowed to a crawl, yet was still a mere blink, and amid it all, the pull between them had turned irresistible; a magnetism, created by the duality of their beings, of warm against cold. Their lips met, crackled the calm air around them with static charge.
Sensing the tension in the atmosphere and fearing the worst, Zenyatta stuck his head through the doorway, forcing the entwined pair apart.
“I trust all is well—Oh. Oh! Pardon my interruption.”
And though he disappeared as quickly as he came, the knowing smile behind Zenyatta's words left the two flustered and frazzled, morphing their exploratory energy into a need to withdraw and nurse wounded morale.
Despite the manner in which their training ended, since that day, an element of their relationship altered. Or perhaps it had always been there, steadily growing, unnoticed and unchecked, until it finally blossomed; harsh words softened and teasing turned tender. Small moments were clung onto, made to last just the slightest bit longer, to fill the void their absence wrought.
Nonetheless, neither knew how to approach this anomalous kinship. Restraint held them back, and perhaps a modicum of fear in spite of the eager reciprocation demonstrated in the dojo.
Mulling on it, it was decided that, beyond completely forsaking this newfound dynamic, the only way forward was recreating the conditions which lead to the initial lapse in fortitude. Of course, to do that, a dash of courage was needed, and it was a slow build.
In the resounding calmness enveloping the monastery, hiding away in a pile of cushions in the library, Genji lazily indulged in some screen time, well aware electronics infringed upon the Shambali dharma of simple living. Among devout omnics, he was only a flawed human, and instead of listening to his internal nagging about discipline and guilt, he listened to the birdsong welling in from the open windows. He scrolled through a list of swords—sharp and dangerous, two of his favorite things—and he admired each make and model, committing their names and descriptions to memory.
For someone growing up in the lap of luxury, this was as simple of a living he could be expected to make. And much like how he missed that comfort, it would seem he was not the only one grappling with longing for a warm lap; a weight settled on his, and he very nearly dropped his phone as Ramattra's frozen mask grinned up at him. Surprised, flustered, tongue-tied—at most, Genji could only stutter out a tangle vaguely resembling words before his brain shut down.
“What is the issue? I am merely offering you the chance to end our latest spar in a proper manner. Or have you forgotten your decorum, human?”
Though Ramattra's words were confident, quick—blatantly prepared in advance and meticulously practiced—both parties were well aware of the true reason behind the brazen act. A prospect so unexpected, ought to be no more than dark, quiet fantasy hidden in the depths of innermost desire, Genji would have sworn he was dreaming had it not been for the simple fact he knew he was not.
They had shared a kiss, yet his insides tangled into knots of apprehension, and he was left speechless at the first careful strokes of cabled hair. The prior confidence guiding his actions in the dojo was nowhere to be found, though it was not readily apparent what aspect differentiated the two scenarios. Was it the flipped positions wresting control from his eager hands? Or the fact Ramattra initiated this, all on his own prerogative?
Whatever the reason, Genji hid his opened visor behind the screen of his phone, scrolling endlessly with his thumb, seeing the text and images pass by albeit unable to register anything other than the presence in his lap and the texture between his fingers.
Had he been able to steer his thoughts, he would have realized the cosmic karma had shifted, twice.
They did not venture further than that, but the precedent had been set. So whenever Genji found himself busy—meditating in the stone garden, penning letters, hiding to play games on his handheld, what have you—Ramattra would appear, take a seat, and plop his head down onto his lap. Whatever had once entailed the concluding etiquette of a spar would henceforth elude him and Ramattra, and the excuse eventually faded into memory, either of them fine to let their silent meetings meld together, become routine.
Conversely, Genji began wandering the halls, drifting from room to room, hovering by thresholds, all to seek Ramattra out. On occasion, during days when he felt less like a monster, he would forgo the use of his helmet, and on such days, he noted, Ramattra always strayed close by, dropping all pretense of clandestine observation.
Frankly, it made Genji feel less and less like a patchwork of human and machine.
With renewed confidence, catching Ramattra in his own little game whenever the Ravager had his nose in a book, Genji would pop out of nowhere, ducking under arms to climb atop his lap for the warmth of his cold embrace. Again, the dynamic swapped, and Ramattra's brash composure faltered, turning timid with lost dominance.
Likewise, this too became habit, and soon, wishing to give him all his attention, the Ravager's book became replaced by green cyborg ninja. A trade up, if Genji could say so himself. They would sit snug together, chest to chest, reveling in the intimacy, sharing ideas and thoughts.
Eventually, in between the chances of petting and talking, Genji understood spontaneity fell to him, and he decided it was time for a new variable to enter the equation, pressing his face into the crook of Ramattra's neck. Velvet lips brushed against metal, careful and testing, but hungry and insatiable. Comparatively inexperienced in all areas of intimacy, Ramattra let Genji be his guide, mirroring his indulgences with shy instinct.
But even these small, private connections turned insufficient. They began exchanging furtive glances in the midst of company, a silent signal to slink away at the first opportunity, hide from the curious eyes of the Shambali monks.
Over time, award outweighed risk. During morning prayer—an event conducted by all the residents—they would sit together. Each successive session, the distance lessened, until finally, their hands were intertwined throughout meditation.
At midday, going about Shambali duties and personal chores such as preparing meals, arms would snake in from behind, chin placed atop shoulder. And Genji would indulge him, stroke the head of the pleading Ravager, futilely trying to juggle tasks.
Then, when night fell and it was time to retreat to one's quarters, Ramattra and Genji always lagged behind. Touches and gazes would linger, words and sentiment woven with flowery language, both increasingly at peace with the notion of being seen, overheard. Finally, all subtlety was cast aside, and no one ever questioned when Ramattra would step through Genji's door in the mornings. Little by little, day by day, they had entered a companionship, and in contrast to their prior fears, Zenyatta and the monks were overjoyed they had found each other.
And to think, it all started with that inexplicable human desire to pet.