devotion is full of arrows

we out here unlearning shame...

[her-arrow]

Hey there. I'm around for a good time, not a long time!

Just here to write with my friend :) I go by he/him. I'm an adult.

This blog will be an archive for my writing and headcanons (maybe a little art, too) focused on Hanzo Shimada, with miscellaneous content featuring some other characters from Overwatch as well. (Ramattra, Genji, Cassidy)

Send me some asks or requests if you're feeling friendly— I swear I don't bite.

[her-arrow]

winter memories

An exchange written by my friend and I from our AU (that I have normal feelings about <- lying) where Hanzo and Ramattra meet and travel together as close companions before the formation of Null Sector and Overwatch's recall. Another thank you to my dear friend @victorygrasped for not only Ramattra's part, but also for encouraging me and holding my hand about posting my writing.

Characters: Hanzo, Ramattra, mentions of Genji Pairings: can be interpreted platonically, or as Ramzo / Bowstaff Word count: 693

A private conversation in the dead of winter. Ramattra asks Hanzo about the brother he never speaks of, and the other allows himself a chance to reminisce.

"Tell me," he spoke suddenly, breaking the silence with as much decorum as throwing a hammer through glass, "About your brother." It was a bold question, he knew, and yet Ramattra did not falter, turning to stare directly at the archer, "I do not mean whatever... might have occurred between the two of you," there was a pause, his tone softening for a brief moment, "That shall always be your decision to make."

He caught himself, letting out a small sigh of static as he ignored the implications of his comfort and carried on.

“No, I mean something…. Day-to-day,” it was a practice that Mondatta had imparted with him, as bitter as the thought was now, to find beauty within the past so that he may learn to respect it. At the time, it'd been one of the few lessons he'd struggled to understand the true purpose of, and yet, there he was. Repeating it now, “A... habit, he had. Or a memory where you were both amused. Something inconsequential, whatever comes to mind first."

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.)

He wonders, distantly, if it too is snowing over Hanamura.