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“One day, I will have to show you the mountains,” Zenyatta says, as they travel. The weather is warming; Genji doesn’t bother to keep track of exact times, or exact dates. That kind of data is for people on a calendar, which they’re not.
It’s oddly freeing.
Even before - long before (he’s not that old, but the person he was seems so far away now) - his time was scheduled; he was chased down for this or for that, always being bothered by something.
Such things seem far away; now, there’s only open sky, the sounds of nature. And Zenyatta, naturally, which makes him appreciate things more. Everything seems brighter, when he’s here; the world comes into focus around him. Feels more alive with him there.
(Zenyatta radiates a warmth like nobody he’s ever met. He’s well aware of how formidable the omnic is in combat, knows that his desire to talk things out can often lead to being underestimated; has trodden the edges of those dark, sad burdens Zenyatta carries.
But despite everything, he’s still warm. Still kind, as kind as these days allow.
Like a flower turning towards the sun, Genji soaks it up; finds himself drawn to it.)
“If they are the mountains you came from, I would like to see them,” the cyborg answers, carefully watching his step. Grass and flowers are starting to bloom in earnest as the weather becomes more ideal; everything is moving here. It’s a lot to take in, for someone who didn’t really notice those things before.
(The world is alive. These days, Genji feels a little more like he’s part of it.
It’s not perfect - by no means is it perfect - but he’ll take what he can get.
It’s better than he was before.)
“They are. The sunrise is wonderful so high up, Genji. And there is as much snow as you could wish for.” There’s a spark of amusement in Zenyatta’s voice; he remembers fondly that first winter when Genji laughed.
(Though mostly what he cherishes is the fact that Genji did laugh, for the first time since they’d met. The season was mostly irrelevant.)
“I never paid much attention to mountains, before,” the cyborg replies, a little bit of playfulness seeping into his tone. He’s surprised to hear it. “You will have to show me around. And introduce me to your siblings, too.”
He wonders if he’s overstepped, but if he has, Zenyatta doesn’t show it. The omnic simply hums in laughter.
“They would all crowd around you and marvel at you, Genji,” he says, with the certainty that comes from knowing people innately. Being able to imagine their reactions without even thinking about it.
Genji’s heart twinges, painfully. He, too, had been able to do this, once;
(“-you know how father gets, Hanzo, he’s all-”)
he pushes the memory away, losing the thread of Zenyatta’s conversation. The words jumble meaninglessly, out of focus, out of mind.
“Genji, is something wrong?”
Sometimes he wishes that Zenyatta wasn’t so quick to pick up on things. He feels too vulnerable, too exposed - even now, even with someone he trusts very much - to like the idea of someone picking up on his emotions so easily.
(The wounds are still raw, slow to heal, painful to the touch and to open air.)
“I’m-- fine, Zenyatta,” he forces out, trying to steady his voice, hating his own weakness. Some part of him, some morbid curiosity, wants to reopen that particular set of injuries anew.
He can’t handle it. Not now.
(Perhaps even the memories will take him back to the person he had been after he was remade. Broken, bitter, empty. He can’t face it, not in this brightness, this warmth that he craves.)
“I was just-- thinking about something,” the cyborg finishes, somewhat weakly. He almost cringes at the tremor in his own voice, embarrassed. “Not that your stories weren’t interesting, I just...”
“It is all right, Genji.” Zenyatta places a hand on his shoulder, squeezes gently in reassurance. Just that simple gesture is enough to get him to relax, relief flooding his body, tension he didn’t even realise he was holding in.
(He hates it, a little, that this is all it takes. Hates himself more than a little, for being so weak.
He places so much of his own wellbeing on Zenyatta being there, an unasked-for burden that the omnic doesn’t need - he has his own sadnesses, his own injuries, his own life to live.
If death had taught him anything, it had been that he couldn’t trust that things would stay the same. But here he is, running after Zenyatta like a stray because the omnic had shown him kindness, was full of a warmth that spoke to his injured self.
It’s foolish.)
“Perhaps that is enough talking for now,” the omnic muses, keeping his hand on Genji’s shoulder for a moment longer. The warmth he leaves behind -- lingers longer than that.
As promised, the rest of the day passes in relative quiet.
Zenyatta hums to himself, catches Genji’s attention to show him something that he finds particularly interesting; leaves, strange rocks, birds and moving animals.
Genji forgets, for a little while, the worries that their talk had brought up. For now, what matters is that he is here, and Zenyatta is here, and the world is coming alive - is alive - around them.
(And little by little, in places he hasn’t yet sought out, light is trickling down. Though he doesn't fully realise it, he is coming alive again, too.)