Hellfire danced along his skin, licking at his fingertips and down his arms, embers burning just below the surface. Hanzo clenched his hands into fists, extinguishing the flames. There was a time when it hadn’t come to him so easy.
His long hair hung like a curtain over his shoulders, pulled lose of its tie and falling in tangled snarls. For all his refusal to cut it, Hanzo hated keeping up with it, but luckily for him, there was nothing that Kenshi liked doing more. Something about the action was calming for him, twisting fingers through the inches of his hair, telepathically picking out knots. It was soothing, gentle, domestic in a way Hanzo never thought he would get to experience.
Considerate of Kenshi, sprawled and sightless in the bedroom, Hanzo made more noise than he usually would as he crossed the room, making his way into their shared quarters. At the feeling of his presence, Kenshi sat up on his elbows, soft and vulnerable in his thin shirt and mussed hair, filtering rays of moonlight catching on the silvery strands. Hanzo took a moment to admire the broad slope of Kenshi’s shoulders, the strength of his arms, the definition in the thighs exposed by his loose boxers, taking comfort in knowing that Kenshi couldn’t see him stare.
“Are you coming to bed?” Kenshi asked, voice low, eyes glowing dimly. His scarlet blindfold was folded carefully on the table beside him. It was rare that Hanzo was tired enough to sleep, exhausted enough to be willing to relive his experience as a revenant in his dreams, but it was even rarer for him to deny Kenshi something he asked for so plainly. Hanzo slid under the covers.
Immediately, Kenshi sought him out, breath warm and gentle against his neck. It was nice, quiet, a stolen moment amongst the chaos.
Hanzo cleared his throat, turning his nose against Kenshi’s forehead. “My hair,” he said, unwilling to put the words together to solidify a weakness Kenshi was already more than aware of. The tilt of Kenshi’s smile was detectable against his throat, and Kenshi nudged them both upright, combing Hanzo’s hair with his hands.
“Are you sure you don’t want to cut it?” Kenshi plucked at a particularly nasty tangle, roaming fingers finding them by touch alone and unknotting them with the tender precision of his telepathy. Hanzo made a face.
“You don’t like it long?”
Something about his question made Kenshi laugh, warm air puffing against the back of his neck, a familiar heat that was infinitely more preferable than his Hellfire. “I do, but you don’t seem to like the upkeep.”
Hanzo hummed, one hand coming to rest on the calf Kenshi stretched out, rubbing his thumb in circles over a scar carved there. “That’s what you’re for,” he teased, hissing out a laugh when Kenshi tugged on a strand of his hair in response. “Hey!” Hanzo pinched the skin on the inside of Kenshi’s knee.
Kenshi gasped, the blue of his eyes bright with laughter. “I cannot believe you would attack a blind man.” Hanzo didn’t deign to respond to that, instead choosing to settle back down, tracing his way down Kenshi’s exposed legs, searching for more scars. They were very easy to find. Kenshi resumed his hair-care.
A gnarled, twisted stretch of scar tissue split through the center of Kenshi’s shin, and Hanzo felt the difference in texture, running a finger across it carefully. “Where did this one come from?” Hanzo asked, hesitantly; some of Kenshi’s scars were ones he preferred not to speak of, painful in memory and reminders of the man he once was. Kenshi paused, cocking his head as he felt the scar for himself, following Hanzo’s arm to where the fingers caressed it.
“Oh, that one. One of the many souvenirs gifted to me by Mavado. It’s hardly the worst of them.” Kenshi’s voice betrayed no bitterness, no anger at the marks the Red Dragon had left behind. For a moment, Hanzo is overcome with jealousy at his lovers endless wells of patience, and anger on his behalf. If Cassandra Cage and Jacqui Briggs hadn’t killed Mavado with the swords that had shredded Kenshi, Hanzo would’ve done it himself.
Hanzo said nothing, thinking about the terrible scars that cut across Kenshi’s back and ribs, left during the same encounter. He was trying to work on his anger, but the sight of so many marks left on Kenshi, so many wounds Hanzo hadn’t saved him from, made his skin burn.
He didn’t dare think of the scars Scorpion had left, many years ago.
Concerned, Kenshi’s fingers twisted with Hanzo’s, pulsing blue energy spreading across their joined hands and soothing the flames Hanzo hadn’t realized were starting to ignite. “He’s dead, Hanzo. I’m not.”
“No, you’re not.” Hanzo agreed, bowing his head towards his lap. His anger left him in a rush, leaving him feeling more solidly human, Kenshi’s body a comforting weight against him. Searching fingers found Hanzo’s face, Kenshi rising on his knees to shift in front of Hanzo, cool hands cupping his jaw.
Sightless eyes flicked across Hanzo’s face, the delicate tendrils of scarring around them twitching with the movements. “Are you with me?” Kenshi’s breath gusted gently into Hanzo’s face.
Hanzo nodded, knowing Kenshi could feel it with his hands positioned like they were. “Always.” Kenshi’s face split into a smile, one so small and earnest it made Hanzo’s chest tighten. Sometimes, Kenshi was so unconsciously endearing, and it pained Hanzo to know he would never see himself do it. Hanzo cradled the image in his mind, projecting it the way Kenshi taught him to until Kenshi received it, head tilting to the left as his brow furrowed.
“My nose is just as crooked as Johnny Cage says.” Kenshi said, grinning cheekily. Hanzo narrowed his eyes.
Kenshi cut Hanzo off with a hand at the base of his neck, pulling him in close enough that their foreheads met. “I’m not concerned with what Johnny thinks of my nose, and neither should you.”
Hanzo huffed, leaning in for a kiss that Kenshi deftly avoided, pulling away fractionally with a coy smile. “Don’t tease.”
The lines at the corners of Kenshi’s eyes crinkled, and he slid his hands to the collar of Hanzo’s shirt. “Fine, get over here.” Kenshi pulled Hanzo closer, allowing their lips to press, soft, something much kinder than Hanzo deserved.
When they parted, he raised a brow, noting the self satisfied look on Kenshi’s face. “Is that not my line?”
“Perhaps,” Kenshi said, kissing Hanzo again, just shy of his mouth, and again near the corner of his eye. He did that, sometimes, planting them randomly just to feel Hanzo’s skin below his lips, mapping out his features with a careful finger. Hanzo always let him.
It was a small price to pay to feel human again.