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“Hanzo, are you sure you haven't been playing video games your whole life?”
The excitement and admiration were palpable in Hana's voice. Focused on the game - some new installment of a series about a small, purple dragon - as he was, Hanzo couldn't see her, but he could feel her bouncing in place on the couch. He suppressed a flinch when, in her enthusiasm, she placed her hand over his arm, almost making him press the wrong button on her pink controller. She didn’t seem to notice, but Hanzo eventually relaxed under her touch. She let go then to clap her hands together as quietly as possible.
“I am sure,” he said, eyes still fixed to the screen. He successfully avoided a nasty blow from the black dragon boss that he was fighting.
From behind them, Lúcio let out a long, admirative whistle. He’d died the first time he’d tried beating this level, while it seemed that if a cloth had been tied over Hanzo’s eyes, he still would have succeeded.
As Hanzo was cheered for, getting close to the end of the fight, Hanzo didn't notice the presence that had approached them until it slowly, in a clear attempt at not startling him, sat down in the empty spot next to him.
A cold, metallic elbow brushed his arm. When Hanzo applied a light press against it, acknowledging its presence, it moved again, and was placed along his upper back, over his shoulders. For a moment, a small smile turned the corners of Hanzo's mouth upwards.
The newcomer’s voice was joyful, and genuine in a way that set a now familiar warmth in the pit of Hanzo’s stomach. “Ain't you doin’ well!”
Hana and Lúcio agreed loudly.
McCree smelled of spices and gingerbread; he’d been helping Mei, Genji (Hanzo was surprised the kitchen hadn’t been set on fire yet), Lena and Emily with Christmas Eve dinner. “I'm not any good at these games. Can't play well for the life of me.” There was a pause, followed by a hum of mock sadness. “Someone gotta avenge me.”
Hana audibly snorted at, Hanzo guessed, whatever face McCree was making. He ignored it.
Hanzo’s lips set again, and his eyes took a brand new edge of determination.
He would not fail.
And fail, he did not.
Swiftly, he finished taking down the level’s boss, and watched the small purple dragon preen.
Hanzo glanced at the timer Hana had set with satisfaction. Exactly seventeen seconds over Hana's high score.
Lúcio and McCree whistled at the same time, while Hana clapped her hands. “New high score!” she exclaimed, impressed. Competitiveness sparked like a wildfire in her expression. “It'll be hard to beat that one. . . but I play to win.”
Hanzo smirked. “We'll see about that.”
“If I beat it, and I will, what do I get?”
Hanzo leaned back against McCree's side. Winning wouldn't be easy. If she did, she would indeed deserve a reward. Besides, it was. . . fun. “What would please you?”
Hana perked up.
“You join me on my Christmas stream tomorrow. Or—” She tapped her finger over her chin pensively, then nodded McCree's way, eyes full of mischief. She elbowed Lúcio, who continued, visibly holding back a laugh, “Or you could ban McCree from using hot sauce for. . . a week.”
“Hey, come on now,” McCree intervened, his hand clasping over his heart in dramatic shock so believable that, coupled with his nervous laugh, could have passed as genuine fear. “This ain’t ‘bout me!”
Hanzo let out a chuckle; Hana looked like she’d won a prize. “McCree’s right. I will accept your invitation,” he said, putting the controller away. “You have until three tomorrow.”
“Good luck, soldier,” McCree added, in a perfect impression of Morrison’s voice. They could all almost hear him glare from under his mask, from the other side of the room where he was reading a newspaper, Reinhardt drinking tea and reading along next to him.
“Now that that's settled, I need to borrow Hanzo for a moment.” McCree stood, winking Hanzo’s way. He stood as well, curious.
“Sure thing.” Hana set the timer at zero again, and grabbed the controller from the table, her tongue sticking out as she started the level. Lúcio took Hanzo’s seat on the couch, asking to have a second go at it next.
Following McCree out the door, Hanzo stopped him in the Christmas lights-filled hallway (Lena hadn’t downplayed it this year—not that Hanzo would know; he hadn't been there the previous year, hadn't even decided to join Overwatch yet), gripping his hand firmly. McCree turned on his heels to face him, silently questioning as he raised an eyebrow.
Hanzo took one good look at him.
McCree looked tired, even more so under the green and red lights which painted shadows across his face, but a smile reached his eyes in a way that was so deeply endearing that it could have made anyone forget his apparent exhaustion. Hanzo couldn't forget; earlier this week, a bad night had been rough for the both of them, and they had slept in well past noon. Hanzo would never have allowed himself such a thing before, but he had to admit, he'd needed it as much as McCree had.
Yet, the following days, McCree had kept going to bed late despite the need to catch up on lost sleep.
“Are you alright?”
“Tired, but very happy, don’t ya worry,” McCree replied, honesty dripping from every word as he squeezed back Hanzo’s fingers. His heart fluttered, just a bit. “Come.”
Hanzo watched McCree from the corner of his eyes, the warmth of his hand in McCree's a pleasant, grounding contact; one that he cherished and to this day, still doubted he deserved.
Getting past Hanzo's deep rooted feeling of unworthiness, McCree's of not belonging anywhere after all the places he'd ever called home turned to dust, and his belief of not being worth the risk of getting hurt or killed by getting too close to him, hadn’t been easy. It still wasn’t. But, they learned, bit by bit, and they held each other tight at night.
That had come the easiest to them. It’d been two months since their first kiss (a story for another time.) They’d fallen asleep on McCree’s bed that same night, and found they couldn’t sleep without the other since then. They switched rooms often, mixing belongings, to the point that Hanzo felt at home in McCree’s room as much as in his.
They stopped before a door.
McCree opened it. Stepping inside, he turned on the light, bathing a dim glow to a bedroom that wasn’t quite in order, but not quite messy, either. Hanzo had taken a glance at it, months ago when McCree and himself were just getting to know each other. It had been almost empty. McCree’s belongings were still in a travel bag, as though he expected to leave one day or another. However, slowly, day after day, the clothes had been transferred from the bag to the wardrobe. Decorations, gifts from other team members or found during missions, were placed on the desk, and the windows hill.
Now, one of Hanzo’s sweater pants was visible in the open wardrobe. A pair of socks poked from a slightly opened drawer. His spare quiver lay against the wall where he’d left it after returning from a long mission.
It felt lived in. It felt like a home.
“Hanzo,” came McCree’s voice from inside. Hanzo blinked, dissipating the thoughts and memories away.
Hanzo passed the door. He noticed then the string of white, glimmering lights along the walls. When had McCree put them up? And McCree. . . he was standing in the middle of the room, holding an average sized box wrapped in blue gift wrap close to his chest.
Hanzo froze in place, stare shifting from McCree’s face to the box in his hands.
Was this—
“I, uh—I asked Genji ‘bout how Christmas is celebrated in Japan, and he told me ‘bout this gift exchange that couples do on Christmas’ Eve, so I. . .” McCree took a step closer as he explained, then held the gift out. He looked unsure, and perhaps somewhat vulnerable, in a way that Hanzo hadn’t seen in him before. “This is for you.”
“For. . . me?”
McCree let out a laugh, one that was kind and ignited the soft warmth in Hanzo’s body all over again. “Who else, pumpkin?”
As if it was made from glass, Hanzo gingerly accepted the gift. It was of average weight. He had no idea what it could be. Hanzo didn’t feel like it mattered; he hadn’t opened it, and already a lump of emotion had formed in his throat at McCree’s mere intention.
McCree rambled as Hanzo carefully undid the wrapping, “We won’t have much time for ourselves later, with dinner and drinkin’ and all, so I figured I’d give it to you now. Wouldn’t trust myself not to drop it with a few glasses of wine down my belly.” He looked down, smiled a bit as Hanzo opened the box. “Would be a real shame.”
From inside it, Hanzo revealed two dragons the size of his hand, carved in wood. They curled around each other, and they looked. . . wise, gentle in their strength. The work was precise, with some small, irrecoverable missteps that nonetheless gave it its charm. “Been workin’ on it for a while,” McCree continued, voice quieter, like afraid to disturb Hanzo’s thoughts. He hadn’t said a word yet, turning the statuette between his hands.
It was painted in blue, silver, and gold. Hints of white. The paint was somewhat messier than the woodwork. McCree clearly had more practice with a carving knife than with a brush. But, it made it look. . . beautifully unique.
The silence stretched on as Hanzo couldn’t tear his eyes from the dragons. As Hanzo’s forefinger traced the golden line along one of the dragons’ back, McCree shifted on his feet, the sound just loud enough to make Hanzo realise how quiet the room was.
McCree's shoulders were slumped as Hanzo finally looked up from his close inspection of the statuette. “Huh. The paint ruined it, didn't it?”
“No,” said Hanzo quickly. No, no, it wasn’t what McCree was thinking, far from it. His heart pounded at the urge to either ease the fast building self-disappointment in McCree's eyes, or kiss him. He wasn't sure which to do first. “No, it's. . . I—”
He didn't know what to say.
“Give me a moment.”
Hanzo carefully put the statuette in McCree’s hands, and darted out of the room.
He rushed to his own bedroom, keeping a fast walking pace, and wasted no time pressing the numbers on the code pad. His door slid open. Hanzo found what he’d come for easily—he took a moment to look at it, breathed in deep, and shook himself off.
Knowing McCree, it’d be better not to keep him waiting. He simply wanted to do this right.
When Hanzo came back, he found McCree sitting on the edge of his bed. Elbows over his knees, he was holding the statuette, caressing his thumb over one of the dragons’ muzzle. He seemed heartachingly sad—disappointed, rather.
Quietly, Hanzo closed the door behind him. Perhaps he should have kissed him first. A pang of guilt hit him hard, lodging itself in his chest.
“McCree?”
McCree started, like he'd been so busy in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard him come in.
In his place, what would McCree do?
Hanzo crouched in front of him, finding his eyes closed. He took the dragons from McCree’s hands and held them over his own knees, before replacing them with a small pot to which a strange lamp was attached. Under the light of the lamp, was a young cactus with a red button that seemed about the bloom at the top. He’d found it two weeks ago on a mission near Santa Fe; the city where McCree had grown up.
“Jesse.”
The use of his first name made McCree open his eyes. Relief washed over Hanzo as seeing that he was back ignited a spark of joy in McCree’s expression, devoid of any resentment, despite its lingering doubt.
“I apologize.” Hanzo paused, searching the right words. Apologies weren’t something he was good at. “For. . . upsetting you. It wasn’t my intention.”
McCree shook his head with a short, “’s fine,” waving the apology away. McCree wasn’t insecure, not really—but he feared wronging Hanzo as much as Hanzo feared wronging him, one way or another.
“Christmas Eve is an exchange of gifts; I wanted to do this right,” Hanzo insisted. With that, he nodded to the pot.
McCree looked down at the cactus, taking a first proper look at it.
“This—this is for me?” He gave a lopsided smile. Much like Hanzo had the dragons a few minutes ago, McCree stared at the gift, looking dangerously emotional.
“Yes,” Hanzo said, and he hated how for a second, his voice wavered. “Yes, it is.”
Hanzo had never exchanged gifts on Christmas’ Eve. Hadn’t been gifted anything genuine by anyone in years, really. He hadn’t thought of giving McCree his gift this way; he’d thought he’d give it to him on Christmas morning, like everyone else, and share his strawberry cake then. Instead, McCree had surprised him.
And now, here he was, surprising McCree as well. He wasn’t the only one who had lived in loneliness for too long. Gifting and being gifted something—neither of them had experienced that in a long time. Gifts that came from the heart had power—and tonight, if they had ever doubted it, the proof lay within themselves.
“I asked Winston to make it this lamp,” Hanzo explained, more as a way to escape giving in to the lump in his throat, the swirl of emotions that threatened to make a fool out of him, spilling tears down his cheeks. “It’ll give it the warmth and everything that it needs. It’ll keep you company when I’m away, and remind you of home.”
McCree looked like he wanted to say something, but he closed his mouth before any words could escape. Hanzo could almost hear them as they hung in the air, though; perhaps they had found a home in each other, but perhaps it was also too early to say it aloud.
“I love it, Han. That's a mighty nice gift you found there,” McCree said instead, his voice soft as he brushed the future flower from the tip of a finger. “I'll take good care of it.”
Relief washed over Hanzo once more; part of him hadn't been able not to worry that McCree wouldn't like it. He wasn't an expert in gifts—nor was he in making people happy. The honest smiles on McCree's face. . . it wasn't always easy to realize, accept that he could be the one to put them there.
Hanzo held the statuette at chest level, between the both of them. With his other hand he took hold of McCree's flesh one.
“This—it means a lot.” Hanzo took a deep breath, and smiled as he admired the dragons once more; the little details in the wood, those in the paint that McCree had tried to add, even if the attempt hadn’t always been entirely successful. “You might have thought that it wouldn’t be perfect enough for me. . . but—it is. You're full of surprises, Jesse McCree.”
A moment of comfortable, relieved silence, to marvel at how much good such little things could do.
Suddenly, McCree bent down, freed his hand to have it come up and gently frame the side of Hanzo’s face, and then. . .
McCree kissed him, teeth knocking as they grinned through it.
When they parted, McCree’s eyes were bright, corners wrinkled.
“Look at us,” he laughed, casting his eyes down. Hanzo missed the sight instantly. “We ain't good at this, are we?”
“We're not.” Hanzo realized then, that the lump in his throat was more of a bubble of hope, one that settled in his chest, and grew. Placing his finger under McCree’s chin, Hanzo made McCree look up, with more gentleness than he knew himself capable of. “But we will learn.”