Work Text:
It wasn't much at all. Up six flights of stairs to the smallest apartment he'd ever seen, one tiny room with an equally miniscule bathroom. It was just big enough to fit the queen size bed and the weird set of cabinets that made up the kitchen, closet, and tv stand all at once. Anyone in their right mind would call it cramped.
But Hanzo's breath was taken away by the wall of windows leading out onto a shabby little rooftop terrace with a scummy fishpond. It needed a lot of work, clearing all the junk and making the pond something other than a mosquito ridden algae cesspit, but it overlooked a shady street full of similarly old apartment buildings, both private and terribly public, everyone’s lives on full display and his own not much better. But it was bright, airy, and best of all, his for the foreseeable future.
First order of business was to sweep out the room, dust, clean away anything left from a previous tenant. A few hairballs had sequestered themselves under the bed and in the closet, but fell quickly to Hanzo’s swift work. Soon it was clean, scrubbed, smelled of the incense he burned habitually in any space he claimed as his own.
This was his space. This was his to keep, even after the mission. He had the money. He could potentially rent this apartment for as long as his accounts didn’t run out. He would have a safe place to run to when the Watchpoint proved claustrophobic and too full of feelings he couldn’t manage.
It didn’t matter how luxurious home was. The high walls surrounding the castle always made him feel closed in, collared and leashed. A caged animal. Subject entirely to the whims of the elders. It made the dragons within him roil in dissatisfaction.
Control. He wanted control. His day was regimented. Training, meals, schooling, what he wore, who he saw. Routine, routine, routine day in and day out to mold and shape him into a good little figurehead.
He wondered idly if the people outside the walls had such routines. If perhaps they were able to choose for themselves. What would he even do with such freedom? How different would his life be?
He had always been told he was fortunate to live in such a place, but the older he got, the more the Shimada estate felt like a gilded cage, iron bars cold and hard beneath the pretty veneer.
But he was not meant to question. He was meant to obey.
The cubicle door slid shut, and he was alone in the cramped space, his only company for the night a somewhat outdated computer tower and an office chair. It was clean enough, it was enough space to lie down on the floor, and it didn’t require any ID to rent.
He scratched at the scruff growing on his chin- when had he last shaved? He couldn’t remember- and sat on the shabby carpet, unpacking his vending machine haul for dinner. Over the cubicle wall he could hear the sound of breathing, of chewing gum, of soft muttering from the other café residents. Genji had told him of this one months ago, before-
-he choked down the thought before he sickened himself all over his sleeping space. He’d showered so many times since, but it still felt too raw and real, too heavy for him to bear.
How the mighty had fallen, from yakuza prince to net café refugee.
The deck was filthy, some of the plants growing in the little garden were long past dead, requiring Hanzo to throw himself into sweeping, organizing, weeding, and pruning for the next few hours. The dead tree was pulled down and sawed up for wood for the firepit, maybe if he decided he wanted company or just to have a little grill-out on his own. The deck and concrete walls would need a good power washing, but he didn’t have the equipment just yet. Still, he stood and wiped the sweat from his eyes as he surveyed his handiwork. Now it wasn’t a hazard to be outside. In fact, it was downright pleasant. A coat of paint, a few new plants here and there…
He smiled, thinking of bringing Genji to come visit. Now that they were older, calmer, it would be nice to bring his brother into what he was considering his home.
Home. What a concept. He had never felt that there was even the slightest possibility of calling anywhere home, not while he was running, and not while shacked up in a dingy concrete room at the Watchpoint. Home required roots. Home required belonging. This could indeed be a home.
Hanzo paused, gazing out the window at the cherry blossoms filling the air, his brush stilling on the page. The flowers perfumed the air so strongly it was nearly impossible to know anything else- all he could think of was pink petals, drifting on the breeze.
He set aside his work, taking out a new page, sketching loosely with the brush. A tree, a few birds flitting through the branches, and blossoms everywhere, so profuse the trees seemed to be made of cotton candy. The drawing was amateur at best, his lines shaky and lacking confidence, but he needed to get it out of his mind and onto the page.
Until the crack of the cane on his knuckles spilled his ink and made him cry out in shock and pain.
It felt strange and humiliating, picking through trash for recyclables to fund his next meal. True, he had accounts, but the family would be keeping their eyes on them to hunt him back down, bring their wayward scion to heel once more.
He would rather die than allow them to find him because of some stupid mistake. He knew better. He had trained better. He was better than that, could fly under the radar for months if need be. He just needed to stay careful and close, keep himself from getting too prideful. Use as little as possible and stay awake and wary at all times.
They would not find him.
He would not let them. Not until he split them in two with his arrows.
Hanzo stretched, catlike, lazy in the late morning light streaming in from the wall of windows across from his bed. In the street he could hear faint bustle, hear the cries of shopkeepers and children as they went about their business for the day. Maybe later he would get up, go down the street to the little café he’d found and buy himself a sweet roll and coffee, make his way to the river and enjoy his late breakfast.
It felt good not to mind being seen, being known. For decades he had been out of sight, hopefully out of mind. Overwatch had brought him a purpose, more than he had had in years- something to work for besides the utter destruction of the Shimada-gumi, people who actually gave a damn whether he lived or died. Sweet little Mei, who blushed every time he spoke to her. Hana, who wasn’t afraid to hassle the “old man” whenever she noticed him retreating into himself. Jesse, always ready with a smile and some kind of plan to get into the most minor of trouble, surprisingly gentle for all of his bluster. Bastion, kind and hopeful and willing to listen while they gardened together.
And of course, Genji. So different now, still impulsive, a little thoughtless at times even after everything, but so much more willing to try and keep trying. He’d grown so much. Hanzo couldn’t help but be intensely proud of him even when the guilt grew overwhelming in his belly. They had both grown so much, made so much progress, far outstripping what their family had ever intended for them.
He scrubbed at his eyes, miserable again as he watched Genji, always Genji, make his way over the wall and out to the town, leaving Hanzo to clean up yet another mess, always at home, always resenting. Arguing with his brother did nothing, only made him feel stupid, putting angry knots in his guts that no amount of meditation could work out.
Genji never got punished. Not the way Hanzo did. And he never thanked his brother for covering for him, never offered to let Hanzo go while Genji stayed behind to keep everyone distracted.
Some days, he was sure he could kill his brother.
The blood still wouldn’t come off.
He was in the bathroom of another cyber café, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing and the blood wouldn’t come off and he couldn’t stop scrubbing again and again-
Hanzo gritted his teeth and muttered to himself as he pumped more soap into his stained hands, still spattered from that night, still crimson with his little brother’s lifeblood even now, months after the fact-
He let out a high, wounded keen, crumpling before the sink, fingers still covered in suds and ghostly accusation.
Hanzo set his plate in the drying rack beside the sink, the soft, warm breeze from the window ruffling his hair, the fountain burbling merrily in the little koi pond. Hana was streaming with Genji, their antics playing on his small TV as he cleaned up after his lunch. He’d gone for a small jog in the morning, chatted with his team- no, his friends - back home, made a bowl of spicy noodles and watched the stream as he ate. He’d even spoken to Zenyatta and Bastion briefly, updating them on his small garden and how well he was doing in his little rooftop terrace. It was a shame that Bastion was physically unable to come visit- they were thrilled with his flowers and the little vegetable plot he’d put together. And McCree- Jesse - had been wildly complimentary of the place after a short video tour, swearing to come visit with a few succulents to add to his growing collection of potted plants, his smile all promises and sly winks that made a pleasant heat curl in Hanzo’s belly.
“You seem at peace,” Zenyatta had said, his voice soothing even over the poor connection Hanzo had available. “Very good. Genji has been worried that you would not do well on your own, but you seem to have found your niche.”
“I have,” he replied, smiling despite himself. “I think that this is a good place to be. I am… content.”
The feast before him was beautiful, everything arranged just so, cooked to perfection. Tantalizing smells filled the air. By all rights Hanzo’s mouth should have been watering, but something else sat heavy in the pit of his stomach, making everything on the table seem sour. The others were all eating, but he had barely touched his plate.
He didn’t want this.
He didn’t know what he did want, but it wasn’t this.
Slowly, he pushed his plate away, feeling bile rise as he watched the rest of his family gorge themselves on delicacies. All he could see was a flock of vultures picking over something long rotten.
He didn’t want any part of this.
He didn’t have a choice.
Between stealing from gardens and konbini and hopping into dumpsters he’d found enough to scrounge a paltry meal together that would at least keep him going another few days before risking showing his face in public again. It was cobbled together, nothing was going to taste good with anything else on the plate, but it was food and he couldn’t argue with the end result.
A belly full of food would last him longer than a belly full of pride, he reminded himself as he scarfed down the odd combinations of rolls, vegetables, and packets of dry noodles. Revenge generally required that the one performing it be alive, and not starved to death in some back alley.
It tasted miserable.
It was food.
He would survive.
Hanzo hummed softly, listening for the quiet chime of the rice cooker as he sautéed the chicken for his dinner. It was a simple meal, nothing fancy, but it would taste pleasant and be something to savor out on the roof while he watched the city settle down for the night.
Once upon a time this would have seemed decadent, he thought, glancing out the window. And even before that, it would have seemed beneath him. Funny, really, how life could slingshot one from the height of luxury to absolute hardscrabble rock bottom. And even funnier how he missed neither and both all at once.
Sometimes the old panic would grab him again, even now. Some days the blood on his hands was too bright, too hard to wash off. Some days his dinner went cold and untouched. Some nights he woke screaming and fighting nothing but ghosts. But those days were becoming fewer and fewer, and for that he was immensely thankful. A space like this, he could claim as his own little peaceful sanctuary.
In a place such as this, he could simply be Hanzo, and have that be enough.