Chapter Text
Hanzo may not be old enough to understand the nuances of adult behaviour, but he’s relatively certain that Family Time traditionally includes two brothers and their father, not two brothers and six bodyguards at a private beach while their father leaves to take a business call which will possibly last the entire afternoon.
Genji adapts surprisingly quickly for a five-year-old confronted with disappointment, running down to the sea squealing and kicking up sand while Hanzo watches his father’s sleek black sedan pull away from the beachside and disappear around a curve. He makes the face that earned him the description of ‘stern child’ by his tutors, much to the amusement of his father who at the time claimed his son was much too little to scowl and that was how Hanzo learned what this particular face was called.
Yesterday’s trip to explore the grounds of Matsumae-jō and enjoy the exquisite cherry blossoms had been tainted by grief among the now reduced Shimada family. The boys, Genji especially, hadn’t been dealing well with the loss of their mother and the Clan expressed a haughty disapproval of such emotional outbursts once the mourning period had been strictly—albeit briefly—observed, prompting the kumichō to propose a leave of absence and journey with his sons to one of their getaway spots tucked into the southwestern Hokkaido coast.
(The sole purpose of this retreat had been to spend time with his children and gain closure, yet Sojiro Shimada steadily became something of a rare presence. After a handful of mealtimes and the singular visit to the castle, the boys—Genji, strangely enough, without difficulty—learn to expect his company less.)
Hanzo sighs, trying not to feel upset. Father never cries, he reminds himself, and he’ll be back soon.
The next breeze is chilly and Hanzo shivers in his tank top and shorts. He absently scuffs a sandal against a large, sun-warmed stone for a few minutes, then looks out towards the rock pool where Genji is now happily collecting sea creatures with one of the guards—Goro, who has rolled up the pants of his suit to wade in and provide assistance.
Not really wanting to join them, Hanzo opts instead for abandoning his sandals and climbing the jagged rock formations at the shore’s edge. He leaps from boulder to boulder, scrambling for purchase on the rare occasion that he slips. He’s getting better at it. Maybe he can show father when he comes back.
He scales one of the many tooth-shaped islands jutting up from the shallows and reaches the top with no small effort. He remains there, crouched low against stinging salty winds while he surveys the beach; a small sandy crescent punctuated with volcanic rock and edged by imposing cliffs, separated from the private, narrow road that borders it with a barrier cut into the stone base. He watches this road with hawk-like intensity from his vantage point, aware that he probably won’t catch a glimpse of an armoured car any time soon, but feels hopeful all the same.
After a few moments of stillness, pretending he’s a handful of mythological creatures and maybe one or two of his favourite heroes, he arranges himself into a seated position and lets his bare feet dangle over the edge, pointing his toes towards the sea to stretch out his calf muscles.
He catches some movement in the lower edges of his periphery and takes a deep breath, ready to call out that he will be down soon, anticipating a Genji eager to show him something slimy or one of the guards checking in—which is silly because Hanzo can absolutely look after himself and besides, what he’s doing is Very Important—but when he looks down it is not Genji and it is not one of the guards. Instead, it’s a scruffy, scrawny, dark-haired little boy, peering up at him from a small space between the rocks not too far from where Hanzo is perched.
The deep breath previously assigned to calling out is alternatively used for a cry of surprise which startles the child, prompting him to disappear behind the rocks quicker than Hanzo can blink.
Hanzo, alarmed, abandons his spot and scrambles over the edge, ignoring the scrapes and scratches gained in his haste. He drops heavily into wet sand and, as if being chased, makes a break for the beach, running at full speed because he’s confused and excited and doesn’t know what else to do except seek protection from the guards as he was taught, even though a part of him feels foolish for doing so.
A couple of the guards, alerted by Hanzo’s earlier cry, are already making their way down the beach to intercept him, suits stark against the sand. The rest remain with a protesting Genji, who is being ushered out of the rock pool and positioned safely behind somebody, for the wrath of the kumichō will be mighty if either of his sons come to any harm in his absence.
Once Hanzo is close enough he stumbles to a stop to catch his breath, “I saw someone!” he pants to the nearest guard, who just so happens to be Goro, the most senior of the gathered security detail.
Goro, his pants still rolled up, carefully sets down a neon green bucket full to the brim with seawater and Genji’s creatures, unholsters his gun and utters, “Where.”
Hanzo whips out an arm to point in the direction he came from, and Goro ventures there with one other guard while Hanzo stays behind getting his breath back. Watching them go, mean-faced and guns raised, produces an unfamiliar flitting in his stomach and a fidgeting of hands as he fights anxiety. What will they do if they find the small visitor? Not everyone knows that this beach is exclusively Shimada.
Now that he has a minute to recall the scene properly, the boy had been unclothed, wide-eyed—perhaps lost or scared. Hanzo’s insides roil with shame; he should have better controlled his reaction and not have been so easily surprised, he should have explained himself clearly to Goro, should have stopped for a moment to think. A child would be shot and it will be all his fault .
His distress increases at hearing Genji’s excited whisper, some distance behind. “...Are they gonna kill someone? Can I see?”
It’s only a boy , Hanzo wants to call out to the men who have now disappeared from view, don’t punish him.
A loud cackling startles him if only for the manner in which it resembles the crack of a gunshot, and Goro’s head pops out from behind a column of rock, gesturing at Hanzo to join him while grinning from ear to ear. Hanzo takes a second to process this, allowing Genji the opportunity to race past him to shore, unencumbered by a human shield and protocol.
Hanzo swiftly follows and catches up to his younger brother, now splashing into the water and skirting the rocks he’s too young to climb. Hanzo gets close enough to grab his hand and leads him out into the sheltered inlet where Goro and the other guard, guns holstered, stand waiting.
Goro points towards a little cove just a few feet away, constructed by pieces of the cliffside that had fallen victim to time and erosion, “There’s your ‘someone’.”
Hanzo does not know much about seal migration despite his impressive eight-and-a-half years, but he is familiar enough with this particular coastline to be surprised at the appearance of a lone seal pup so early in the season.
“That’s not what I — ” he begins, but is interrupted by Genji’s high-pitched squeal of delight and the snatching of his hand out of Hanzo’s grip in an attempt to charge towards the cove, except Goro grabs the back of his t-shirt and effectively holds him in place.
“Easy, waka-sama, it could bite.”
Huddled against the side of the cove’s mouth ‘it’ watches them; head lowered, luminous brown eyes large and wary, whiskers quivering. The grey colouring of its plump little body gently fades into brown, speckled and shimmering as it catches the late afternoon sun.
“Probably waiting for mama,” Goro says, crouching carefully in shallow waters to put himself at eye-level. Genji copies him, giggling. “All this trouble over a baby,” he adds, throwing an amused glance over his shoulder at Hanzo.
At this, Hanzo feels his face heat up with indignation. “I didn’t see a seal, I saw a boy!”
“Nothing else around here but rocks and water...” Goro stands and gently taps the crease between Hanzo’s brows with an index finger, “you gonna make us check again?”
Hanzo opens his mouth to reply in the affirmative, only to shut it again with an audible click. He has two options: insist on locating a human child who evidently refuses to be found, or admit he confused a seal pup for one. Hanzo greatly dislikes being the subject of anyone’s amusement and dislikes being wrong even more, but he recognises a second chance when he sees one and slowly shakes his head.
Goro snorts, “Thought so,” he turns his attention back to the seal, “should probably shoot it,” he muses, thumbing the flap of his holster, “it’s gonna eat its own weight in fish if we let it get bigger and we got enough of these little shits around here doing that as it is.”
Hanzo’s stomach drops all the way down to his feet. He is no stranger to violence and does not want to appear weak in front of the others if it comes to that, but the pup’s eyes are huge and beseeching as if it knows . Fortunately—and to Hanzo’s great relief—Goro seems to change his mind, bending forward to gently tug a creeping Genji back by the waistband of his swimming shorts, then settles once again into a crouch to peer at the creature some more.
“Cute little bastard, though.”
Goro turns his head and calls out to the other guard there with them, lounging back against a boulder. “Tanaka! Get the leftovers from lunch.”
He jerks his chin in the direction of the beach and Tanaka obeys, heading promptly to shore. Genji shrieks with excitement, scaring the small huddle of blubber into squeezing as far into itself as physically possible.
Hanzo feels himself drawn by sympathy and takes a few steps forward to squat beside Goro and Genji. Goro makes an approving noise, as if Hanzo has passed some test of bravery or manhood.
The seal has its head turned away and tucked into the side of the cove, clearly distressed, and Hanzo feels an intense need to comfort it. Perhaps Goro senses this because he encourages both boys to inch closer with him until the three of them are but an arm’s length away, or he is simply tired of maintaining his grip on Genji and no longer feels that the pup poses any danger. He warns against touching it too suddenly or too much all the same.
Despite being at an age during which he tries very hard to act like his stern father, Hanzo possesses the natural, sparkling curiosity of childhood that must be satisfied by the Petting of Adorable Things. He’s outdone, of course, by his little brother who reaches out immediately, failing to heed Goro’s earlier suggestion and is woefully unsuccessful, receiving nothing but the further withdrawing of a small head and a series of frightened little huffs delivered wetly into the rolls of a blubbery neck.
Hanzo, learning from Genji’s mistakes, carefully and patiently holds an open palm out and is eventually rewarded with a peeking pair of eyes. Hanzo leans forward another inch, taking great pains to remain steady. To his delight, the pup slowly stretches out its neck and takes a few cautious, tickly sniffs.
A small giggle escapes Hanzo at the sensation and he cuts it short in surprise. He hasn’t felt the need to smile — let alone laugh—in quite some time, and it makes him feel strange. His palm continues to be explored by a small damp nose and he welcomes it with an increasing giddiness.
“Good boy,” he whispers, partly out of habit, in the same gentle tones he uses with the ailing family Akita back home. Both Genji and Goro make sounds of wonder but Hanzo is too enchanted to notice.
By the time Tanaka returns with the bentō lunches the boys were unable to finish earlier in the day, Genji (having now learned by his older brother’s example to avoid sudden movements) is getting his own palm sniffed and looking extremely pleased with himself.
For close to an hour Hanzo picks out leftover fish from the bentō boxes, rinses it briefly in seawater per Goro’s instruction and hands half to Genji so that they can both toss small pieces to the pup, ravenous after the ordeal it was put through, even catching some of the tasty projectiles with its mouth before they hit the sand.
Hanzo is enjoying himself so thoroughly that he barely registers the setting sun or the ringing of Goro’s phone and it’s not until there’s a hand on his shoulder and a voice saying, “The kumichō wants you home now,” that he realises with growing dismay that the day is over. Genji comes to the same conclusion seconds after Hanzo does and initiates one of the worst tantrums he’s had to date.
As Goro carries a wailing Genji back to the beach, Hanzo spends a few minutes watching the seal pup, huddled close to the cove wall with piqued curiosity in its enormous eyes. I don’t want to leave you here alone , he thinks somewhat miserably, but out loud he uses the same imperious tone he’s heard his father dedicate to words of great importance, “I must go now. You are under the protection of Shimada and no harm will come to you.”
Dark eyes blink slowly back at him. Hanzo remembers to add, “And eat as much fish as you want when you grow up.”
Satisfied with the exchange, he turns and starts splashing after Goro but before getting any further he quickly scrambles up on a rock and scans the surrounding area for maybe a glimpse of the little boy he had encountered earlier ... except he sees nothing but a pup now brave enough to wriggle outside its shelter to stare at him.
Hanzo lets out a little sigh, resists his childish urge to wave goodbye and heads towards the beach with the weight of a young seal’s gaze at his back.
Genji’s creatures are returned to the rock pools, Hanzo’s sandals are collected, cleaned and placed back on his feet, and the two Shimadas — along with their six bodyguards — are packed into a pair of black sedans. Hanzo is forced to sit beside his screaming brother, who is determined to ride out the journey on the mat beneath their feet despite the strangling hold of his seatbelt and ends up uncomfortably stretched between seat and car floor. Hanzo ignores the noise and wild flailing in favour of watching the sea disappear from view, wondering if the seal will still be there tomorrow and whether or not he could convince his father to come with them to meet it.
Hanzo is successful and the following day they return. Their father spends an unprecedented two whole hours with them this time but the seal, unfortunately, is nowhere to be found.
Hanzo discreetly tugs down the left sleeve of his hoodie and attempts once more to get comfortable. There are only so many times he can peel the side of his face from the train window, apologise to the elderly ladies sitting across the table from him for the unsightly behaviour and find a different surface to rest his head against.
He supposes he should be grateful that he feels safe enough to doze in a carriage occupied—however sparsely—by strangers, despite his initial strategy being to feign sleep and interact only by necessity, careful to prioritise a perfunctory politeness over being a memorably rude stranger.
Oh, but he is so tired. He fights back another potentially jaw-cracking yawn, the same one that has dogged him since he arrived to Japan the day before. He has not slept in two days and in that time he has boarded four planes, gained a crick in his neck from trying to nap in places nowhere near accommodating enough for a man with his shoulder width, visited his abandoned ancestral home to pay respects to a father long-dead because he is a sentimental fool who grasps at tradition as if it were a lifeline, and then confronted there by the brother he had banished a decade ago because Hanzo is a predictable sentimental fool.
Of all the people he had expected to face after almost ten years away from home, Genji had been the very last on a long list of scratched out names and he had been near-unrecognisable to Hanzo; older, more tempered—a completely different version of the brother he’d known in his youth. The confrontation had been brief, charged and overwhelming, a bombardment of emotion that broke Hanzo down into spending the last hours of the anniversary of his father’s death meeting Genji’s forgiveness and understanding with bitter tears of regret.
And so Hanzo, exhausted in body and spirit and using what miniscule amount of energy he has left to muster some irritation at his current circumstances, is enroute to a coastal town of his suggestion, popular enough among tourists and one that he and Genji had frequented in their childhood up until the death of their mother. Genji had looked at him strangely but agreed, making no mention of how conveniently close this town was to the private beach they’d enjoyed when they were younger.
Dealing with Shimada property was one of the few remaining tasks Hanzo had set himself during his own banishment. He’d coldly and methodically liquidated each and all of the Clan’s assets spanning the course of five years, leaving one secluded bit of coast for last—his father’s personal purchase, not the Clan’s—mainly out of nostalgia. With his brother now added to the mix, he would have to make some adjustments to his plans...as soon as he knew what it was that Genji wanted from him. And what I am prepared to give, Hanzo thinks.
Too tired to dedicate any more precious brainpower to the situation, Hanzo crosses his arms, careful to keep his tattoo hidden, and uses his shoulder as a headrest, determined to merely close his eyes for the remainder of the trip.
He ends up resignedly peeling his face from the window one final time as he nears his stop, quickly gathering his belongings as the train slows and stepping off onto an empty platform bathed in the crimson light of a fading sunset. Unwilling to make use of the seating area and potentially miss the connecting local train by nodding off, he finds a nice, flat bit of wall to lean against, dumping his duffel bag between his feet and settling in to wait.
It takes some conscious effort to quell the paranoia that creeps over him as the minutes trickle by. He has long grown accustomed to being on the move and looking over his shoulder at every turn, but he allows himself to lower his guard. Nobody really knows him where he’s going, and none would recognise him now even if he’d been careless or merciful enough to leave anyone alive with the means to. At thirty-eight years old, Hanzo is finally free.
Genji. Genji is here to recognise me, he reminds himself, frowning at the implications.
The low rumble of an inbound train interrupts his thoughts and he hoists his duffel bag up. Later, he decides, I will think about that later.
It’s evening when he arrives to his destination and he’s greeted by cool currents of air delivering salt and brine into his lungs. Hanzo adjusts the shoulder strap of his duffel bag and leaves the train station, setting off with a briskness of step to the nearest car rental, stopping only once at a convenience store, still open, to pick up some basic supplies.
Freshly caffeinated thanks to a pair of energy drinks that were so sweet he’s quite sure he just gave his descendants diabetes, Hanzo cruises past a dark, glittering ocean in his newly acquired (and melon-scented) rental, following the route he had taken many times during his childhood.
The car meanders to a stop in front of a gated property that was last maintained perhaps twenty years ago and it shows, slowly being claimed by nature and undoubtedly wildlife of the four to eight-legged variety. Hanzo switches off the ignition and sits for a few minutes, staring at the holiday home he now barely recognises under the creeping foliage. He sighs and gets out, slinging his bag across his torso.
As expected, the front gate’s security system is completely offline and he finds himself unable to input his entry code. He heaves another sigh, annoyed, and steps back to quickly map out a way inside. With a running jump he scales the surrounding stone wall easily, vaulting over the once-electrified fencing at the top. It amuses him that he should be infiltrating a place he owns in the same way he has previously the ostentatiously fortified homes of his marks, although he’s thankful that this time he’s more likely to encounter insects and rodents than heavily armed guards.
The interior of the house itself—which he reaches after he wades through the wildly overgrown garden and picks the lock of a side entrance—is stale and musty but not as bad as he thought for something as poorly maintained as this. Sealed off from the outside, the building has steadfastly withstood the elements and Hanzo is pleased that there will be less work for him to do. He turns on the power and starts up the plumbing shortly afterwards, letting all the taps run until the water becomes cool and clear. He makes a mental note to purchase light bulbs to replace the ones that failed to survive the long years of abandonment.
The hum of electricity is pleasant and it accompanies him as he checks each empty room, traipsing around in his shoes over the filthy tatami. Outdated domestic appliances, sparse furnishings that rest under layers of grime, dusty futons waiting in cupboards that haven’t been opened in several decades, are some of the results of his preliminary inspection.
He sets his duffel bag down in the cleanest room he can find, one that’s bordered with floor-to-ceiling glass doors that face the ocean—or would have if the glass were cleaner and the tangled mess of invading shrubbery were not blocking what Hanzo remembers to be a spectacular view. He opens one of these doors with some difficulty; the passing of time and season has warped the sliding tracks and rusted the components, so a few minutes are spent heaving and muttering curses until the glass moves, screeching, to where he wants it to.
The breeze that enters feels exquisite and Hanzo can hear the sea beyond, providing a soothing background noise as he unpacks. He unrolls a sleeping bag and sets the items purchased earlier at the convenience store within reach. He wrinkles his nose at the Ozeki cup sake left in the plastic bag, forced to buy half a dozen of them when he’d been unable to find decent brand bottles. It’s better than nothing.
Still too restless from the caffeine and sugar combo to sleep, he pockets two sake cups and squeezes out through the space he left between the glass doors, briefly fighting past the shrubs until he reaches the edge of the property and the view his memories had promised. He inhales deeply, taking in the salty air, starlight and free open ocean, wishing he could be more deserving of it.
It’s a fifteen-minute walk to the beach along a path that is almost too overgrown for the human eye to distinguish and much less in the kind of darkness offered outside of urban spaces, but Hanzo could do it blindfolded and makes his way along it easily.
When he reaches the beach, he’s hit with a wave of nostalgia even though it’s quite different from what he remembers; poorly cared for, somehow smaller, less romanticised by the passing of time. He steps over strewn seaweed and driftwood, settling in the sand and opening a sake cup to take a long-overdue sip.
He feels himself gradually wind down, body slowing as fatigue and jet lag replace the fading effects of the energy drinks. He checks his phone for the hour and maybe a notification from Genji regarding when and where in town would be more convenient to meet. He’s relieved to find none.
Hanzo opens the second sake cup, intending to return to the house right after finishing it.
He thinks about facing his brother again. He thinks about the past ten years he’s spent running.
He drinks and wonders what he should do now that he’s stopped.
Hanzo awakens to the feel of grit in his eyes and the crunch of sand between his teeth. This in itself doesn’t rudely force him into consciousness, but the insistent flicking against his nose that he groggily attempts to bat away, does.
“High tide’s coming, you better nap someplace else.”
The voice is low, amused and in terribly accented Japanese.
Hanzo opens his eyes and immediately regrets it, blinded by searing light. Blinking aggressively, he encounters blurred expanses of bare, tanned skin that glistens with moisture and he squeezes his eyes shut, head pounding so intensely that he feels as if his brain has somehow procured a hammer and is beating itself to death. He struggles to make sense of his surroundings, cataloguing sensation as best he can.
He’s lying on a beach. There is sand in every crevice of his body. He’s an agonising combination of jetlagged and hungover. His phone should be on him but it is not. And there is a naked man beside him.
Hanzo groans and shields his eyes as they adjust to the light so that it can feel less like needles stabbing persistently at his eyeballs.
“This is private property, fool,” he croaks pathetically in his native tongue and it’s here, lying on his back in the sand, whining, that he’s forced to accept the loss of his dignity. He cannot hope to project the image of a man who has any sort of control over his life and he feels a dramatic urge to die right where he is.
All Hanzo receives in response is a soft chuckle and a brief pat on the shoulder, then the presence by his side withdraws into the misty haze that currently occupies his vision, leaving him quite alone with only the sound of the tide as company.
When Hanzo’s eyes eventually cooperate, he peers in the direction he believes the stranger went but he doesn’t have the luxury of dedicating time to investigation. He instead occupies himself with locating his phone, buried somewhere in the sand, before the sea rushes in to take it away—like it’s currently doing to the empty sake containers that he was too late in collecting. He retrieves his device after some scrabbling around and stands, wobbling as the world heaves and spins before his eyes. He would very much like to lie down again and perhaps even drown because he’s in That Sort of Mood but the sound of incoming water grows louder and he reconsiders, preferring to remain dry.
Just as the waves begin to creep at his heels, he reaches the reinforced stone barrier which he climbs and collapses onto. Lying flat on his back atop it, Hanzo pinches the bridge of his nose and releases an irritated sigh. His head pulses, his mouth feels like he dragged his tongue across the entire coastline and his discomfort takes priority over everything else.
After a few moments of listening to the rhythmic crashing of the tide, he squints at his phone screen and groans when he sees past the impressive accumulation of missed calls to find that it’s already noon.
When Hanzo finally arrives at the restaurant Genji has chosen for their meeting place, he is over an hour late. He anticipates a complaint or perhaps a comment on his appearance (Hanzo is uncertain that he succeeded at not looking like he had spent the previous night and most of the morning passed out on a beach, but he is clean and freshly changed and this must count for something), however, all he receives is a vaguely unimpressed raising of eyebrows.
Hanzo gruffly apologises and sits across from his brother who has already started on drinks without him. Genji waves a hand dismissively.
“You’re here now,” he says, “When you didn’t answer my calls or texts I thought you’d given me a fake number or something. Wasn’t sure you’d come.”
Defensiveness prompts Hanzo to snap, “I said I would, I’m no coward.”
He nearly winces at his tone and opens his mouth to say something less idiotic but Genji merely shrugs a shoulder and raises his half-drunk mojito, lip quirked.
“I looked stood-up enough to get a free drink, so excuse me for thinking otherwise.”
Hanzo swallows another retort, irrationally angry at Genji but most of all at himself, and consults the bistro-style menu that Genji gestures to. This last movement unfortunately draws Hanzo’s attention to the missing digits of his brother’s left hand and he quells the automatic surge of guilt that results, busying himself with ordering something that he probably will not eat.
Genji signals for the server and they exchange pleasantries for a few minutes. By the self-conscious smile on her face and the charming grin on Genji’s, Hanzo just knows they’ll be exchanging numbers by closing time, which has him feeling an odd combination of irritated and relieved. He hasn’t changed that much.
The server leaves and Hanzo discreetly massages his dully throbbing temple. The silence that now blankets the both of them is tense and awkward and he’s at a loss for something to say. What is he supposed to talk about with the brother he had literally cried on a few days ago, after ten long years of nothing?
“Hey, we can do this another day if you’re not feeling too good, I’m staying for a week,” Genji says softly, noticing his discomfort.
This gentleness absolutely infuriates Hanzo and he refuses to be pitied. “I want to be done with this,” He says through clenched teeth, “I’m sure you want more from me than an apology.”
Genji releases a breath and leans back in his seat. “Damn, I forgot how stubborn you are,” he shakes his head, “first of all, chill the fuck out. I didn’t come here for my pound of flesh, Hanzo. What, did you have something more important to do?”
Hanzo glares but says nothing. Genji sighs, “I heard someone was picking off members of the Clan a while back and I figured it was you. It’s ironic because that had been my plan, you know? Back when I was scraping by, raging and plotting my revenge against you and the Family,” He takes a casual sip of his drink, and Hanzo is appalled at how nonchalant he seems, talking about their tumultuous past, “after a shitload of therapy and introspection I accepted the hand I was dealt and assumed you were just fine living it up as the Big Boss without me, so you can imagine my surprise when random uncles and cousins started dropping off the face of the earth—”
“You know nothing of what happened!” Hanzo hisses, unable to let him continue. How dare he pass judgement when he had no idea what it was like in that viper’s nest.
Genji falls silent. Hanzo is desperately wishing they’d had this meeting somewhere else and above all he wishes he’d been less of a fool to come here in the state he is currently.
When Genji speaks, his voice is low and thrumming with anger, “My own fucking brother gave me the order to slice my fingers off so I did . He told me to leave my home and my Clan, so I went. Anything that happened after that I had to figure out for myself. ”
“You know that you forced my hand.” Hanzo answers stiffly, “Negotiating leniency for you with the Clan was no simple feat and you gave them few reasons to allow it. You knew how they would interpret your actions.”
Genji slumps forward, “Hanzo...I don’t want to keep circling back to this fucking conversation—”
“Then why did you come—”
“Yeah, I was out of control,” Genji continues, ignoring Hanzo’s interruption, “and my loyalty to the Clan was in question. They wanted to curb me...and you as kumichō had the duty and burden to follow protocol. I put you in that position.”
“I’m well aware of what my duties were,” Hanzo snaps, “I could never understand your talent for blindly obeying me and somehow managing to rebel against the Elders in doing so. They needed fewer excuses to get rid of you and yet you continued to provoke them. ”
Genji lets out a humourless laugh, “The Elders didn’t want me gone because I was being disloyal to them, it was because I was being too loyal to you. Just imagine, Hanzo, how powerful we would have been together...it must have scared the shit out of them.”
For one wild, intoxicating moment Hanzo sees it: a mighty arm wielding an unruly blade. He fights against the chill threatening to run down his spine.
He’d been so preoccupied with striking a balance between keeping Genji out of trouble while simultaneously pleasing the Elders and providing a solid leadership of the Clan that it hadn’t even occurred to him to seek more power than he already had, and the responsibility that came with it. How incredibly naive of him to have believed that every decision he’d made under the guidance of the Elders was for the good of the Clan...it was no small wonder that he’d allowed himself to be manipulated for as long as he was.
As though reading Hanzo’s mind, Genji adds, “I had a lot of time to figure shit out, while I was gone. Banishment really boosts objectivity and I have you to thank for that. No, Hanzo, I mean it,” he says just as Hanzo starts to shake his head and open his mouth to argue, “you gave me an out I didn’t even know I needed. And I’m...I’m glad to know which side you’re on.”
Genji stares at the melting ice in his glass. “I was a real piece of shit. I didn’t understand the pressure you were under, what the Elders were capable of,” he meets Hanzo’s gaze. “I have regrets too.”
Hanzo releases a shaky breath. His head is pounding. “That still does not mean my decisions were justified.”
Genji frowns. “I told you I forgave you for what they made you do.”
Hanzo grits his teeth, willing Genji to understand that forgiveness is more difficult for him to bear than any punishment. “You are my brother. I should have found another way. ”
Genji leans forward earnestly. “You did.”
And Hanzo wonders just how much he actually knows.
Their food arrives and he feels hungry enough to eat some of it.
They form a tentative truce during their meal, allowing them a space with the potential for brotherly banter, which Hanzo participates in with some unease (Genji does so much more smoothly, picking up where they’d left off ten years prior). Still, they wordlessly agree to refrain from speaking any more of the Clan.
Genji reveals that he spent a few years in Nepal ‘finding himself’ and is now working for a non-profit organisation that provides relief for victims of displacement from natural disasters, operating out of Hong Kong where he spends most of his time. Hanzo snorts in disbelief before he can help himself because his brother, a humanitarian ? He dryly inquires whether the two-hundred thousand dollar watch currently wrapped around his wrist was a generous donation, forcing Genji to admit that he does indeed hustle on the side, exclaiming with mock indignation, “Who do you think I am, some kind of law-abiding citizen?” when Hanzo raises a judgemental eyebrow at him.
Hanzo has very little he wants to share with his brother, and Genji doesn’t ask (he always liked to talk about himself and had a decade’s worth of content to get through), besides, he’s not quite ready to move forward as quickly as he’s certain Genji expects.
In the meantime, he’s perfectly willing to let Genji monopolise the conversation—which he does—and it trickles naturally into a contemplative silence as they stroll through the town centre after the restaurant closes (and after Genji and their server exchange numbers, as Hanzo predicted). Hanzo’s headache is gone.
“I’m staying at a hotel a few minutes from Matsumae castle, by the way,” Genji says and Hanzo grunts in acknowledgement.
“And where are you staying?” Genji prods, and Hanzo isn’t ashamed, exactly, of the place he’s chosen for accommodation, but he knows Genji bears little love for their family’s holiday home and everything it represented...the last thing he wants is to explain himself for a second time today. Unfortunately, Genji’s eyes narrow and Hanzo remembers that his brother is as adept at reading people as he is. Perhaps more.
“No. Not that dump,” he starts, but Hanzo is tired and wants to nap and it must show in his face that he’s actually a cranky old man who has made a Decision and is sticking with it because Genji, thankfully, leaves him be with a long-suffering sigh.
They amble on for a few quiet minutes in the late afternoon sun before Genji suggests they venture down to the Cape together, something they hadn’t done since they were boys. Hanzo is unable to adapt to the pace his brother is setting for this part of their relationship, nor does he have the energy for more than face-planting onto the next available horizontal surface, so he firmly declines. Genji, visibly disappointed, murmurs, “Next time, then.”
After an awkward goodbye, they go their separate ways.
Hanzo picks up a few supplies in town before heading off and considers punishing himself with the arduous task of cleaning the entire house with the free time he has to avoid thinking about Genji and rehashing today’s conversations over and over in his head until he makes himself sick, but he only gets as far as a sparkling bathroom and halfway decent kitchen, collapsing onto his unzipped sleeping bag with the beginnings of another headache.
It’s when he’s drifting off that he remembers the naked man on the beach and makes a mental note to discreetly hire someone to keep nudists—no matter how helpful—off his property for as long as the season lasts.
“So, where were you before coming back to Japan?” Genji asks thickly, around a mouthful of mint ice cream.
Hanzo ends up accepting Genji’s offer to go to Shirakami-misaki after all. He had cleaned the house as much as he could, leaving large repairs, restorations and landscaping for another time (and perhaps local, expert help). Plus, he was running out of excuses to refuse his brother’s insistent pleas to continue their re-connection.
“Trondheim,” Hanzo replies.
“What the fuck were you doing in Norway? ”
Resting. Hiding. Trying to drown myself in aquavit. “I found work there,” he says instead. It was the truth, in any case.
Genji hums in response, licking an errant glob of melted ice cream from his thumb. Hanzo adjusts his sunglasses and looks out towards the ocean.
The Cape is peaceful at this hour, despite it being close to lunch time. Only a handful of tourists are present, and even so they are more excited about the experience of seeing lounging seals along the nearby rocky shoreline than the actual view from the Cape itself.
Genji finishes his ice cream, sighing. The crashing of waves punctures the silence for a while before he speaks again, sombre and serious.
“I found out about the hits. Fucking bastards couldn’t even kill you themselves,” his expression turns dark, “I’m glad you showed them how to properly deal with traitors.”
A visceral surge of guilt and rage assaults Hanzo as he’s thrown back into those times of plotting, running, hating, removing from the face of the earth those who shared his bloodline and who out of greed had disgraced it.
“Dispatching them must have been...difficult for you. I’m sorry.” Genji finishes quietly, and Hanzo attempts to collect himself with a few steadying breaths, unable to utter a reply.
After a considerable pause Genji clears his throat, “So, what will you do now?”
“What I’ve been doing for the past few years.”
“Killer for hire?” Genji snorts, “Hanzo—”
“I excel at it.”
“Yeah, but you always hated it. You used to think yourself better than that,” he says with a hint of bitterness and an implied ‘better than me’ that Hanzo automatically bristles at, a bit of their past that still needs to be unpacked, preferably at a much later date.
Vengeance had Hanzo killing at first, with survival (as good a reason as any) propelling him later on, the rare satisfaction of watching life drain from his victim’s eyes occurring with much less frequency until it simply became a job he was good at and had the skill set for. He’d never hated it, exactly...but he’d certainly held a strong distaste for his brother’s methods and the distinct enjoyment he’d gained from killing, carrying out the kumichō ’s orders—his orders—with disturbing relish.
When Hanzo himself killed, it was clean, careful and planned. Practical. Necessary.
“It pays well,” he finally answers.
“Yeah, I hear the pension plan is pretty great.”
Hanzo’s lip quirks at the sarcasm. A beat of silence passes and he feels Genji watch him. Trying to psychoanalyse me. Hanzo contains a sigh and waits.
“You got so quiet,” Genji eventually says, “back then, you had so many opinions. You were”—he gestures vaguely, searching for the appropriate adjectives—“kind of an arrogant, overbearing asshole. Now you’re just…”
“A tired asshole.”
“I was going to say sad. Trust me, I get it. But you just seem so...sad.”
Leaning against the railing, Hanzo takes off his sunglasses and lets his gaze linger on the biggest and fattest of the seals enjoying some sun on a slab of rock.
“Sad,” Hanzo repeats.
And he wants to argue, he really does, because he has fought his whole life to prove himself capable and competent but he can’t do much more now than recognise the misery within himself. He no longer has a drive, a home or a purpose...he is a king without a kingdom. However, he’s not in the mood to be scrutinised so closely by his younger brother who is clearly provoking him into sharing his feelings, so he snorts and changes the subject.
“Father left the beach property to me—to us,” he amends, “so I am obligated to consult with you on any decisions that—”
Genji interrupts with an exasperated noise, “Sell it, live in it, burn it to the ground for all I care. I don’t know why you’re so attached to that place.”
Because it was there that we were as free from the Clan as we could get, Hanzo silently counters, but says out loud, “I could not let the Clan claim it. It didn’t belong to them. It was ours.”
Genji stares at him, scoffs...and surprisingly lets it go with a shake of his head.
The large seal slides into the water and Hanzo decides that it’s time for lunch.
Saying goodbye is an awkward affair, standing on the platform of the town’s only train station and unsure of whether to bow, embrace or rest a fraternal hand on a shoulder, but Genji must leave for Tokyo where he has business (and that seems like a private little joke by the universe, Genji shouldering responsibility while Hanzo is free to roam, unburdened), then off to Brazil to oversee the logistics of some enormous housing project or other.
He extends an open invitation to his home in Hong Kong, as if expecting his older brother to simply show up there sometime in the near future. To match him, Hanzo sends over a second security code via text for the beach house. Genji lifts a sceptical eyebrow but doesn’t bother raising any objections, clearly not intending to use it any time soon.
“And for fuck’s sake, you’re free now. Act like it—live your life. Summer’s almost here, get a new tattoo, fuck someone, I don’t know,” Genji says, ignoring Hanzo’s drawn-out eye-rolling, “it’ll be great not needing to look over your damn shoulder every five seconds.”
When the train—now containing Genji—rumbles off into the distance, Hanzo has to convince himself that he’s not feeling the loss of his brother’s presence at all. Genji is always exhausting to be around and he still talks entirely too much, he silently grumbles, but this doesn’t stop him from remaining on the platform until the very last carriage completely vanishes from sight.
Before making his way home, Hanzo pauses before a tattoo and piercing studio, deciding for the first time in his adult life to follow Genji’s advice.
Summer arrives with a vengeance and Hanzo lies flat on his back in nothing but a pair of blue boxer briefs and a puddle of his own sweat. Thanks to a consistently unreliable AC that he hasn’t gotten around to replacing, the heat is absolutely unbearable and all he has been able to accomplish in it is melt angrily.
Loathe to even turn his head, he reaches out and blindly gropes at a popsicle, half-soft, from a small cooler he had the forethought to prepare and set close by— the result of an attempt at movement economy and an unwillingness to slog the distance to his windowless kitchen.
He eats the popsicle without sitting up and emits a strangled yelp as he’s immediately punished for it when a large glob of artificially flavoured ice breaks off and falls into the hollow of his throat. He lets his arm plop to the floor with an annoyed growl; clearly deciding to wear the popsicle in favour of eating it and now holding nothing but the stick it had half-heartedly clung to.
After a few minutes of cursing, he heaves himself up, wrinkles his nose at the melting ice sliding between his pectorals and resolves to shower for a second time. And after that, he vows, I will go out for a damn drink.
Hanzo is sweating in his long-sleeved shirt by the time he gets into town. The desire to keep cool wars with preventing the public exposure of his tattoo and the life he has renounced, but he refuses to be gawked at by tourists or evaded by the locals he’s carefully cultivated relationships with, so the sleeves remain unrolled.
And if anyone insisted on staring, he would rather they see a thirty-eight-year-old man with an undercut and a handful of semi-healed piercings and harmlessly think, ‘mid-life crisis’ instead of, ‘ex-yakuza boss’.
The bar Hanzo chooses is neatly ensconced between two restaurants serving local delicacies, but he’s too hot to feel hungry and single mindedly forgoes the savoury wafts in favour of the bar’s air conditioning. Hanzo takes a seat and orders his first drink of the night, almost weeping when the bartender hands him an ice-cold beer.
Sipping leisurely from the bottle, Hanzo surveys the dim little interior and catches sight of a familiar face further down the bar. Frowning as his memory fails to provide more clues, he gradually realises that he does not know this person at all. He’s foreign; a large man with dark, tousled hair that brushes at broad shoulders and a beard just a tad too untamed for Hanzo’s tastes. Rugged, he thinks regardless, and struggles to recall which setting they may have met in previously.
He lets out a quiet snort and pours himself some freshly ordered sake. It does not matter. He knocks back the chilled liquid and chases the burn with a mouthful of beer, intent on focusing his attention elsewhere. His willpower lasts all of five seconds before he is subtly watching the foreigner again out of the corner of his eye.
As though aware he is being ogled, the man suddenly turns his head in Hanzo’s direction and catches him. They make eye contact. A slow grin spreads across his face and Hanzo’s next inhale is sharper than he means it to be. Handsome.
Before Hanzo even has time to recover and feign disinterest, the man rises from his stool and casually approaches, sliding his own drink along the bartop. He moves unhurriedly and this not only gives Hanzo time to prepare himself for an inevitable interaction, it also allows his attention to be drawn momentarily to the left sleeve of the red plaid button-down the man wears, rolled up to his elbow and displaying a forearm that does not exist. Hanzo arranges his facial expression into something neutral; he is now quite certain he has never met this man before. He firmly puts his thoughts on the subject to rest just as he finds himself gazing up at a broad, scruffy and wholly pleasing face.
The stranger tilts his head. “English?”
Hanzo nods.
“Great,” he says, relieved, “My Japanese ain’t too bad but it could be better an’ I don’t want to offend.”
His voice is deep, rich and smooth. Hanzo cannot pinpoint an accent more specific than ‘American’ just yet but whatever it is, he likes it a great deal and this in particular troubles him. The foreigner settles himself comfortably on the vacant stool beside him, perhaps a little too close but Hanzo would be lying if he claimed displeasure at the brief press of a warm thigh against his own.
With an ease that has Hanzo suspecting this is something he has done before, the foreigner introduces himself simply as, “Cole.” Hanzo replies in kind with his first name.
The man, Cole, gazes at him expectantly. Hanzo has not been in a situation like this in quite some time, and he wonders if he has missed some sort of social cue but Cole speaks up first.
“Shit, here I was thinking you’d help me out.” He laughs, scratching his head, “‘Cause I swear we’ve met before but all that sounds like is a bad pick-up-line.”
Hanzo raises an eyebrow at that. “It does indeed.”
I would remember someone like you, he muses to himself, but out loud he admits, “You do seem familiar.”
Cole looks him up and down appraisingly. Boldly. “We must have those kinds of faces.”
Usually, Hanzo would be mustering the energy and distaste necessary for a powerful glare, but he’s weak tonight and this stranger is much too charming...Hanzo has been bearing the weight of loneliness for so long that he can’t think to deny himself. He sips his drink and rakes his own gaze over Cole with a hum of agreement. The thigh beside his presses in a little more in response.
They converse, drink and navigate around personal questions, each of them clearly unwilling to share details about themselves. Eventually, Cole leans in close, puts his lips to Hanzo’s ear and whispers a burning request. Aided by the warm buzz of alcohol and the heated promise of intimacy, Hanzo accepts.
The tide is low but the pier isn’t frequented as much by those currently out enjoying the local nightlife, making it a perfect place for a brief liaison. Hanzo leads Cole into the dark space beneath the boardwalk, choosing a sturdy column to put his back to. They grind against each other for a few breathless moments, hard and ready. Cole begins to slide down to his knees but Hanzo pulls him back up by the collar of his shirt; he’s not in the mood for that. Cole tilts his head questioningly, eyes searching, but Hanzo finds it difficult to communicate what he wants through the haze of drink and years of solitude, turning his head away as Cole tries to kiss him because he’s not in the mood for that either. Cole plants searing kisses against the side of his neck instead, breath hot against skin when he murmurs, “How’re we doin’ this, sugar?”
Cole has a couple of inches on Hanzo (who is by no means lacking in height), which arouses more than annoys. He’s seldom matched or exceeded in mass and strength by his sexual partners and he’s confronted with the urgent desire to be crushed by a larger, warmer body. That, apparently, is what he seems to be in the mood for.
With one hand grasping Cole’s collar and holding him in place, Hanzo unzips him with the other, plunging down the front of his pants and into his boxers to grip him firmly. Cole releases a little sigh, breath fanning over Hanzo’s crown and lightly thrusts into his fist. He unzips Hanzo in turn, and brings their weeping cocks together, wrapping his hand around Hanzo’s and jerking them hard and fast, occasionally sweeping a thumb over their slits. It’s hot and sticky and the humid air has perspiration dripping from their skin, Cole is pressing in so close and panting in Hanzo’s ear and it’s been far, far too long for him so he comes all too soon with a hiss, spilling over their entangled fingers, Cole following immediately afterwards with a hoarse, “Fuck. ”
They catch their breath, Cole presses his sweaty forehead against Hanzo’s shoulder and Hanzo allows it because he likes how Cole smells.
Hanzo refrains from helping his companion clean up, unsure how to offer without offending, but he sees that Cole can manage quite well on his own with just the one hand, tucking himself in, zipping up and briefly rinsing the come off his fingers in seawater. He does this often, Hanzo thinks and tries not to care overmuch.
“Well, it was real nice meeting you.” Cole says, smile crooked and eyes sparkling in the moonlight.
Hanzo nods, zipping his own pants up, “Likewise.”
“I’m, uh, gonna walk the beach and cool down before I drop,” A beat of hesitation, “You can come too if you want.”
Hanzo has the vague impression that this invitation was extended out of pure courtesy and so he declines, partly out of pride and partly out of the growing need to return home and shower as soon as possible.
Cole gives him a roguish wink, “See you around, then.”
And he strolls lazily away into the night before Hanzo can reply.
Hanzo arrives to the beach house feeling sweaty and disgusting, yet decidedly mellower than he has been in possibly years. There’s a pleasing tingle beneath his skin that’s owed to more than just the alcohol he consumed and it’s as if his body is whispering, tantalising him with the lingering sensation of another man’s warmth before it fades away.
When taking his third and final shower in preparation for bed, Hanzo daydreams of playful smiles, straining plaid shirts and dark-eyed strangers who smell of ocean mist.
He sleeps well.