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Jesse dreamed of something he'd never seen before. There was no bloody sewer, no howling wind, no screams. There was no garden, no family, no young Deadlock Jesse; no nightmare.
This time, he was laying in a field of countless wildflowers, a sea of color. The sun was bright, so bright, almost too bright, but it was beautiful and radiant and warm. Warm like the hand in his, like the laughter in the air. Warm like the chocolate eyes peering into his own. Hanzo was blocking the light, the sun behind him like a rainbow-tinted halo of purity, of redemption and of love.
Love.
Was that what he felt? He thought so. But it was too soon! He didn't know Hanzo well enough to love him, did he?
The lips smiling down at him, kissing him everywhere and nowhere at the same time told him otherwise. If there was anyone in this world that Jesse loved other than Ana, Jack, Gabe, and Genji, it was Hanzo. Or, it could be.
The flowers were like cool hands against Jesse's sun kissed skin, caressing his freckles and surrounding him in their sweet scent. Was this what it felt like to die? Bright and warm and cool and happy? If so, he'd welcome death with arms wide open. He lifted his hands to cup Hanzo's cheeks, and his vision hyper-focused on the archer leaning over him, the background blurred as if he were a camera and his eyes were the lenses committing this heavenly image to memory.
He felt surrounded by Hanzo in the best of ways.
The cool breeze knocked his hair down from its bun, a golden sash fluttering off in the wind as strands of pure ink fell like a black waterfall over Hanzo's shoulders, down his back, and even coming so far as to pool in a silken puddle against Jesse's slowly rising and falling chest. Flowers began to peek from the pitch, pinks and blues, yellows and purples; a living rainbow colored his hair, flowing between the strands in a mesmerizing manner. He had a flower crown now, too, made of cherry blossoms of every color imaginable.
Hanzo reached a hand up to card through Jesse's hair, fanned about him and mingling with the wild flowers in much the same way Hanzo's hair looked now.
He had a flower crown too, made of marigolds and poinsettia blossoms. The cowboy couldn't recall a time where he'd ever been happier.
In reality, he hugged Hanzo close in his sleep, mumbling happy words in his native tongue that were muffled by silky strands the color of midnight.