devotion is full of arrows

The sharp intake of breath that punctuates the question is Ramattra’s only indication that Hanzo has heard him, the archer otherwise not even turning to acknowledge him from where the omnic stood beside him. 

In the silence of his mind, Hanzo attempts to stir up age-old recollections, grasping for an answer, something to tell his companion— struggles, and fails. Genji’s face blurs in every scene, shaky smears across the canvas of his memory that refuse to focus and take shape. He remembers a time when he would have given anything to forget his brother’s face— but now, the prospect terrifies him. How could he forget? 

The pair are briefly enveloped once more in wintry quiet, silhouettes painting solitary figures against a backdrop swallowed in white by snowfall. Hanzo interrupts this time with a quiet huff that has the air misting around him in the cold, gloved fingers rubbing absently over the bridge of his nose. 

“In our youth, our father would often send me in search of my brother. He was… seldom home when he was needed.” Hanzo begins hesitantly, “Reliably—around this time of year—he could be found at one of the izakayas in town. 

“The noodle shop that he frequented was a shared favorite, the Rikimaru. It was his preferred haunt after a night out drinking or wandering the party districts. I had the opportunity to dine with him on one such occasion,” a flake of ice drifts from his eyelash and into the palm of his hand as he blinks slowly, “I had caught him during the early hours of the morning and had intended to drag him back home. 

He crushes the cold shard between two fingers. 

“Instead, I stayed and shared a meal with him.”

Genji tilts his head from where it rests on his knuckles, momentarily quiet as Hanzo finishes eating. There is a loose-limbed, self-satisfied glow about him, and a smudge of rouge just under the curve of his chin that Hanzo has to stifle an urge to wipe away. The soft crinkle at the edges of his lips betrays his intention to speak before he even opens his mouth. 

“You won’t tell Dad, will you?” 

Hanzo hums, setting down his lacquer chopsticks on the rim of his now empty bowl. 

“There is very little he does not already know.” 

“He could stand to worry a little less,” ventures Genji, “and so could you, anija,” 

“If you expect for me to turn a blind eye over a bowl of ramen, dear brother,” warns Hanzo, “you will find yourself sorely disappointed.” 

This coaxes a laugh out of Genji—each one bubbling out of him always like they take him by surprise—and he finds his resolve softening in spite of himself. Haloed by the warm haze of electric lights, knees bumping together under their cramped table, Hanzo has never wanted to forgive anyone so badly. 

“Then the next ones will be my treat.” 

(If Hanzo had bothered to remember, he would recall it as the last time they would eat a proper meal seated together.)