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Genji has been craving omurice for a long time, now.
He first felt the yearning for it right as his body was being rebuilt. He wasn’t even sure his mouth could work well enough to properly to eat. He was kept alive by tubes and artificial breathing. So, of course, he had to keep that to himself.
Soon there were more pressing matters on his hands, rather than getting omurice.
In between one Balckwatch mission and another he thought, perhaps, he should just walk into a restaurant and order it. There weren’t many Japanese restaurants around, though even if he did find the willingness to ask someone to accompany him, he didn’t believe he’d have the guts to take his mask off and simply eat in a restaurant. Not with how his face looked.
So one day he ordered a take away. It arrived cold, and tasted terribly bland.
Nothing like when someone would offer him the dish, freshly made, just for him.
“Cheer up, Genji. I have something for you.”
Maybe he did need some cheering up.
His mother was great in the kitchen. Baking, frying, she could do it all, and omurice was her specialty. Even when she wasn’t around, Hanamura castle had plenty of other cooks and chefs that would make anything Genji wanted at his mere joke. But nothing quite compared to that omurice. Nobody else could make it just like that. He was sure his mother held some secrets, or ingredients, or perhaps both, close to her chest.
Though, considering how she’d left, he didn’t hold any hope out that he might one day recover that recipe and understand its secrets. One day, during his stay in Nepal, he gathered the necessary ingredients and got to cooking and stir-frying. Zenyatta simply wished for him to enjoy his food, before finally leaving him to his own devices. He was patient, more so than Genji was willing to accept.
He prepared the rice, and the seasoning, and let them cook for a while together. He prepared the omelet, put the filling in, closed it with limited success, and right as he was about to flip it on his plate-
The thing broke, torn right in two. Genji stared at it dumbly for a moment, at the two horridly separated halves, hating himself for it. He was a ninja, a cybernetic one at that, stuck in between being one thing and the other and somehow failing at both of them. He could kill a person without them even noticing and he failed to flip a simple omelet??
He eventually ate it, in any case. He’d spent too much time working on it to waste such food. It was… closer to sating his yearn than what he’d had before. But there were plenty of things missing.
“Ah… it broke this time. Still hope it tastes good, though.” The voice resounding in his head sounded both too young and too old. He hadn’t seen his mother in so long, even her words had become a distant and echoy memory.
Zenyatta offered to prepare an omurice for him. Honestly, Genji didn’t even think someone like him would know how to cook. It wasn’t like Zenyatta needed it, he couldn’t even eat. But the pestering monk begged for at least one chance to prove his worth, and Genji decided that for one day, he should indulge in not having to prepare food for himself.
The monk flipped it with an ease and grace Genji firmly envied, though he mostly cared about the taste. He mentally braced himself for something that should be very amiss. Perhaps too much salt, or not enough filling, or an ingredient that really shouldn’t be there. He thanked for the meal, under his breath and out of routine, turning around.
Showing his face was still something he was not wholly comfortable with even if just with the strange monk. He brought some of the rice, and filling, and omelet to his mouth.
A strange warmth filled him from within. It… there was something off, but perhaps it was just the odd feeling of happiness traversing him at knowing someone had prepared it for him, even if it was this headstrong monk.
“You did good, we should celebrate!”
Though his smile turned wistful, he found himself eating it eagerly.
Genji wasn’t neither man nor machine. He was still organic enough to be considered a person, he supposed, but he could do so much more than the average person, making him on par with omnics. His internal workings were no longer of nerves, but thick cables that gave his brain the illusion of still having a whole body attached.
He’d started to come to terms with that, and he was starting to find peace within himself even, until one of the other monks pestered him about it. Perhaps he did mean well, but he’d asked too many personal questions in such a short amount of time, and Genji had felt overwhelmed and out of place again.
He was mentally approaching the idea of calling Nepal, and Zenyatta, home. Now, he felt right back where he started. It was taken away from him so quickly, he’d simply decided that dashing away and finding a place to try and meditate would work best.
He couldn’t reach the center of tranquility he’d learned to find in his mind. Long after his legs had numbed to the position, he decided he might actually make his way back. Zenyatta must have been worried for him by then.
He rounded the corner he’d hid behind, trying to find the trail back to the monastery, only to find a lone campfire in a single spot devoid of any snow. A familiar monk was cooking vegetables and rice in a small pot, gently holding it over the steady fire.
“Zenyatta.” Genji murmured. The omnic turned his head towards him.
“Hello, Genji. Would you like some lunch?” He said, calmly. Genji huffed under his breath, dare he think fondly.
“I’m not really hungry.” He answered truthfully, sitting down in front of the fire. Zenyatta hummed, taking the food away from the fire and resting it on his crossed legs.
If anything, being made of metal allowed him that, Genji thought with a pang of pain in his chest.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to make you feel that bad.” The monk said, unlocking another memory. Genji sighed, not fully remembering the context for that sentence. He decided to drop it. Zenyatta was waiting for him, to calmly talk, to explore his feeling. Maybe then he’d also be able to be freed from those memories.
The monk wasn’t going to leave him alone, wasn’t he?
Genji observed the steaming food in Zenyatta’s lap.
“Perhaps… we could talk it over an omurice.” He admitted in the end. With a gesture that reminded him of a grin despite having a face that couldn’t emote, Zenyatta handed him the pot and got started with pouring a little oil in a pan.
Overtime, Genji got at ease with his body. He recognized himself, he came to peace with what had become of him. He’d told Zenyatta, not that long ago, that he’d finally started to feel whole again. And the monk had looked nothing short of delighted at the admission.
“I’m proud of you Genji, you’ve really come a long way.” He said, and Genji knew he was beaming on the inside.
“Thank you, master.” He replied. He felt the odd need to celebrate, and Zenyatta also tried to convince him of such. They’d finally reached their goal, and Genji was feeling far more pleased with himself, with his simple existence, than he’d ever felt in the last nine or so years.
“How would you like to celebrate?” The monk queried, tilting his head. They didn’t have much money, but perhaps they could offer their hands for some simple work that would land a few more coins in their light purses.
“I don’t want to make anything grand.” Genji explained, walking forward. “But I’d like to cook something for myself.”
He went and gathered ingredients, with his master following him, helping him pick out the freshest vegetables and eggs, and just enough milk. Genji stretched his fingers and got to work. He had some spices on himself, pepper and thyme he added eagerly. He carefully poured the eggs and milk into a pan.
“Gently, now.” Zenyatta advised by his side. “You don’t want the eggs gluing to the bottom, but you don’t want to break them, either.”
Genji nodded and got to work. He put the filling in, gently closed the omurice. It wasn’t perfect, jagged at the sides, but Zenyatta assured him that it looked fine, and that it wouldn’t break if he kept going like that.
When it was ready, Genji put that out of the fire, had the pan hover just over his plate.
Using a pair of chopsticks, Genji watched as it landed on the plate, still whole.
His eyes shone, his smile spread unbidden.
“I did it! I flipped it!” A voice resounded in his ear. He didn’t even remember their face, just the smile, the hands on their hips, the satisfaction radiating from their very being.
Genji was feeling just like that, now.
“I did it, master!” He beamed proudly.
“I can see that, Genji. Well done!” Zenyatta praised, right by his side, a hand on his shoulder.
When he tasted it, it still wasn’t exactly how he remembered. But he shrugged the feeling off, far too satisfied with himself. Time had passed, and chances were he’d never see his mother again. He could only indulge in the moment, and indulge he did.
Two years later, Hanzo is busy in the kitchen. Getting his brother to join Overwatch has taken its time, but with him right by his side, Genji feels a little bit better, and safer. His center of tranquility is easier to reach now that his brother’s here.
Though their relationship is still strained at times, they have started enjoying each other’s company once again. A few members of Overwatch still look at Hanzo weird sometimes, but lately those gazes are finally lessening.
Genji recognizes the smell of stir-fried vegetables and chicken from across the room. Rice is sitting in a container right besides Hanzo, soon to be added it to his creation. Genji doesn’t even have to look for where the pan lays, that Hanzo has already taken in.
“Omurice, brother?” He asks.
With a pair of chopsticks, Hanzo’s beating the eggs and a bit of milk in a small bowl. He nods, forcing his shoulders to slouch. Genji walks besides him, making a bit more noise this time. He watches his brother’s practiced movements form over his shoulder.
“Can I help?”
“I’m almost done, anyway.” Hanzo pours half of the beat eggs in the pan. The omelet starts sizzling placidly. “There’s some for you as well.” He continues, eyes still fixated on the food.
Genji nods gratefully. “Thank you, brother.”
Hanzo doesn’t reply. Using a spoon, he puts the rice in the middle of the omelet, and then closes it. He stirs it in the pan, and it moves without issue. From experience now, Genji’s more than sure it will end up being perfectly flipped.
As soon as it’s ready on the plate, Hanzo gets to making another. Genji doesn’t question him, but waits for his brother to finish before carrying his meal to the table, along with a small bottle of ketchup. Hanzo doesn’t mimic him, he always preferred his food simpler.
They thank for the food and get to eating. Genji slides off his mask easily now, and Hanzo glares at the food as if it hold answers. Genji tries to not be bothered too much. Seeing him without his mask took some adjusting to, even for himself. He’ll leave Hanzo the time he needs to unwrap his own feelings about it.
He grabs a bite of the succulent food, and instantly stops as the flavors explode in his mouth, humming softly. Just the right amount of meat and seasoning, the not too cooked vegetables, the tomato sauce mixing with a perfectly cooked omelette… and on top of it all, pepper, thyme and… oregano, he thinks. That was what he was missing all those years!
It tastes… just like…
Genji was seated under a cherry tree, pouting with his arms crossed. He just wanted to be left alone.
Until known, hurried footsteps, those of a concerned older brother, came right behind him. Genji pouted harder, coiling up on himself. There was a hand put on his shoulder, soon enough.
“Cheer up, Genji. I have something for you.” A young Hanzo said.
Genji was sick, and had been forced to bed. He just wanted to go out and play, but nothing seemed like it could save him from this hell.
A person with long hair opened the doors to his room, carrying something in his arms. He smiled as he looked down, though somewhat wistfully.
“Hanzo.”
“Genji, how are you feeling?”
“Bad.” He admitted. Then, a familiar smell enveloped the air. He looked up, through groggy eyes. “What do you have there?”
Hanzo helped him sit up and offered him the plate. “Ah… I broke it this time. I still hope it tastes good, though.”
Genji disarmed Asa, their sword teacher, with just one single twirl. He ran that high for the rest of the day. Hanzo came up besides him, with one of the truest smiles he’d ever seen plastered on his face. He took his shoulders and guided him to the kitchen, following an inviting smell of eggs and rice.
“You did good, we should celebrate!”
After one of the hardest and longest lectures Genji had ever received from his father, his punishment was to be left alone in his room. He wasn’t even an adult yet, why was his father so obsessed with him and with his ‘duties’ and whatnot?
A knock resounded as he looked up from his studies. Really, he was just staring at the books, doing nothing, but just in case it was his father beyond he door, he hadn’t risked clawing his way out of the window just yet.
It didn’t help that Genji had skipped dinner because of that entire ordeal, either...
“Brother?”
“What.” He replied, gruffly. Hanzo was already peeking through the door, a plate of something warm in his hands. He walked to him, closing the door behind himself, and placed it right on top of Genji’s notes, that were still just blank sheets of paper. He sat besides him.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to make you feel that bad.”
Hanzo enjoyed cooking. He was slowly getting to their mother’s level, one recipe at a time. His cheeks were puffed out in concentration while Genji stared at him, right besides him, sharing some of the tension, helping him hold the pan. The moment of truth would come any second now.
The omelet was flipped perfectly onto the plate, whole, and Hanzo’s eyes glowed.
“I did it! I flipped it!”
“Genji?” Hanzo asks, bringing him back to the present. He blinks at nothing for a moment, before finally looking up. Hanzo’s watching him now, with a strange sort of concern over his features. He’s halfway through his meal, while Genji has never moved on from that single bite. “…Is everything alright?” He continues, looking at his food as if studying it.
Genji hastily takes a second bite. “It’s fine, don’t worry.”
Hanzo doesn’t look terribly convinced, but he resumes his chewing soon enough.
Genji feels an odd feeling of… wholeness, at eating it. The meal is scratching his brain just right… the craving that has been there for as long as he can remember, reduced to a background buzz over the years, seems finally sated.
It was never his mother’s cooking he was missing, Genji starkly realizes.
It was Hanzo’s.