Chapter Text
“I sympathise with your frustrations, Hanzo, but the matter at hand concerns sanctuary for a victim of war and trauma – as much as any of us, if not more. It would be inhumane–”
“Do not speak to me of humanity, omnic . A Bastion unit, a victim of war? Is this the drivel you pour into my brother’s ears as you offer him your comfort at night?”
“You are letting your prejudices cloud your judgment. Perhaps we should talk later, when you have had time to reconsider.”
“We will talk now . Do not presume to lord over me in my own home.”
“That is enough, I think,” Genji says, sliding open the shoji door and nodding curtly at the rapidly (guiltily) turned heads. “Master, I believe Lena was asking for you. Hanzo, a word, if I may.”
The room’s occupants share a tense, heavy silence, neither stirring, neither relenting. For a moment Genji is almost convinced he will have to physically drag his idiot brother out of the room and speak to him in the language he is sometimes convinced is the only one Hanzo actually understands, despite his fluency in others.
At last, Zenyatta folds out of seiza and glides towards the door. He inclines his head at Hanzo (the tersest Genji has ever seen his Master) and places a slender hand on Genji’s shoulderplate. (Because of course, his Master would think only of Genji’s comfort after he has spent a good two hours butting heads against the iron wall of Hanzo’s stubbornness.) A soothing pulse radiates through the small point of contact, washing over Genji’s body and cooling the transistors threatening to overheat. A smaller, private nod of thanks and encouragement at him, and then Genji is left in the room with his brother, who looks as torn as ever between jumping off the nearest cliff and embracing him tenderly and sending a not-so-tender arrow flying through him.
Genji pushes the door shut. He braces himself for another long and trying conversation. The room is smaller and danker than he recalls, as though it has not been aired out in some time. Its staleness is barely masked by the waft of incense burning on the tea table and the yeasty-sweet smell of overindulged sake beneath that. He gathers the reserves of his patience. He does not sit.
“Brother,” he begins. “We have discussed this matter at length. Bastion has done much to aid Overwatch in its recent efforts. The least we can do is provide it refuge in compensation. We are short of neither the space nor the resources to accommodate it here at the Castle.”
Hanzo seems to consider his answer for a long moment, with the stubborn-set jaw of a man who is exasperated at having to explain his reasoning time and time again to no avail. His brows are furrowed as he exhales heavily. “Shimada Castle,” he says, carefully enunciating each word as though speaking to a child (or perhaps that is simply the slur of drunkenness; Genji can no longer tell), “was never intended to house the burdens of the outside world. We are not short of space or resources because of the effort I have put into restoring them. Do you suggest I welcome what may very well be our downfall into my home? The Bastion is not human, Genji. It has no alliance and so it has no place here.”
And he has the gall to say all of that while he stares intently at the tatami, determined to avoid Genji’s gaze. Look at me! Genji wants to scream. Look at me, damn it, and accept that this is who I am, that this is the consequence of what you’ve done. Am I so hideous you would rather no brother than a brother like this?
“A pity,” he muses. “If you had only told me sooner I would not have imposed on you for our mission.”
The coldness of his tone is what finally jars Hanzo out of his indifference. His head jerks up, sudden and wide-eyed and incredulous (and clueless as always). “What are you talking about?”
“Bastion has no place in the Castle because it is not human, you say. Clearly as I myself am no longer a human in your eyes, I, too, must have no place here. Fortunate that I have long stopped considering Hanamura my home.”
He sees the sting of that register in Hanzo’s eyes; the flush of shame and the flinch of remorse. He sees also the newest offense added to the chain of regrets Hanzo flagellates himself with in the solitude of his mind, but he chooses to ignore it. Hanzo is determined to be left to his personalised feedback loop of regret and denial, and Genji does not have the patience to attempt a breakthrough.
“Still, that resentment is between you and me, and I have learnt to live with it, as it were,” he continues, gesturing at himself. “But my Master has done nothing to anger you. He cares for you greatly. I will not have you return his concern with bitterness and spite.”
“I do not spite him,” Hanzo says. His hands are balled into white-knuckled fists on his thighs.
“Oh,” Genji says, his voice rising, irate and embittered and tired of benevolence. “So your delightful exchange just then, where you spoke to him with none of the maturity or graciousness I know you’ve cultivated over the years – that was what, out of affection? Forgive me; I was unaware the long-wizened customs of the Shimada had changed so greatly in my absence.”
Hanzo’s nostrils flare. A muscle twinges in his cheek. “You will speak to me with respect,” he says through gritted teeth. His eyes are filled with that familiar indignant self-righteous anger he’d always assume during their squabbles as children and this – this is familiar ground; this is a game Genji will take pleasure in playing.
“If you cannot afford basic civility towards my Master then you cannot demand the same for yourself.”
“Yes, of course. Your Master , who is dearer to you than your own family, than your own brother. Your Master, a false entity built of metal and powered by circuitry, whom you – whom you consort with, whose dogma you’ve embraced and whose whims you’ve enslaved yourself to –”
“You are wrong,” Genji interrupts. “You are wrong, and I do not know how to make you see otherwise, stubborn as you are. Hanzo. I follow my Master of my own choice and desire. He has offered me life and purpose freely and I have accepted them without glancing back. And as for what he and I choose to do in privacy – that is none of your concern, brother, though this I recall you have always had difficulty understanding.”
“You are a fool,” Hanzo snaps. “It is you who refuses to see the perils of entrusting yourself to an omnic. It is you who refuses to see that I have never wanted anything but the best for you, that my every thought and every action has only ever been for – because of – so you don’t – but if I can’t –”
It’s a sight too obscene for Genji to watch, too private and unmediated: the hurt flashing across Hanzo’s face, the confusion and doubt and self-loathing twisting his handsome features into something raw and painful and anguished, the wetness in his eyes. Hanzo’s hands are clenched so hard that his nails must be cutting into his palms. His eyes are squeezed shut and he has turned his face away in humiliation. Genji follows the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he schools his breath, as he suppresses his weakness the way they were taught to from when they were weaned, with a sick fascination.
“How can I know that,” he hears clattering out of his voicebox, impossibly, involuntarily, “when you cannot even bear the sight of me now?” And the moment the echo of the words reaches him he knows what petty cruelty he has unleashed upon his brother, and he wants to claw at his throat to swallow the words back, dig at his brain to beat his anxieties into obedience. The guilt eats at his flesh (what remains of it) like acid, and he curses himself for his recklessness, for his imprudence. Have you learned nothing? What worth are your words of wisdom if you yourself cannot live by them?
“No,” Hanzo croaks out. “No. That is not – it is not – Genji,” he’s trying to say something, it sounds almost like an apology being retched out of him, but there is too much water blurring his eyes and choking his throat for him to finish the sentence. Genji’s heart is in his mouth; he is beside him immediately, kneeling by him, a hand on his shoulder and another tipping his face toward his own, thumbing away the tears from beneath hollow eyes and sallow cheekbones.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. A hand reaches up to the one he has cupped around Hanzo’s jaw. It clasps his wrist for a moment, warm and urgent, trying to communicate what words have failed to. Brother, brother, brother , his pulse chants. Then Hanzo is pulling his hand away and smoothing out an invisible wrinkle on his hakama, willing himself into composure.
Genji crosses his legs to seat himself more comfortably. He allows the unease to lapse away into a contemplative silence. His hand is a constant, warm pressure on Hanzo’s shoulder. When Hanzo is sufficiently re-collected (but has not had time to stew over the momentary slip-up), he says, “Our moral obligations concerning Bastion are…cloudy at best, brother, I know. But is it not possible to give the arrangement a chance? Winston and Doctor Ziegler are both ready to facilitate the rehabilitation it requires. Perhaps a wing farther from the centre, or perhaps we could consult with Torbjorn for additional security measures. The possibilities of letting it roam alone are far worse, at any rate.”
Hanzo frowns. “I have heard all of this.”
“But you are yet to be convinced?”
“But I am yet to make a decision that may endanger an entire district and its inhabitants. I will see the omnic later this week and think it over once again. Let the matter rest for now.”
“Very well. May I join you when you leave for your visit?”
“If you can wake before the crack of dawn, which I know for a fact you cannot,” Hanzo sniffs. And then he hiccups.
Genji laughs.
“We shall see.”