McGenji Week: Day 1: Touch
The first time McCree holds Genji, he is drunk.
It is the day of the cowboy’s return from an extended mission in Guatemala, and as always his only desire for celebration is to head to Dalia’s to drink and tell stories. None of them were exactly true; truths would go down in reports, to be read by only one or two men and then locked away to be forgotten. But entertaining tales surface and Genji listens to them gamely, commenting, exchanging banter, or just bathing in a quiet envy as the bar’s other patrons lap it all up.
Afterward, McCree smokes outside the bar, and drags Genji to him with an arm around his neck like it is the most natural thing in the world.
Genji freezes, blames it on his friend’s inebriation, and tells his body to pull away.
But he cannot quite manage it. Instead he inhales on the alcohol and sweat and cigarillo smoke entrenched in McCree’s clothing after a night of drinking. He realizes, with a dull ache, that the touch feels so foreign and so nostalgic because it has been years since anyone casually tugged him into a drunken embrace.
He tries to crack a joke, to diffuse the warm tension simmering in his chest, to tug away and save some kind of face.
He expects McCree to crack a joke, laugh, push him away after a moment, anything to blow a cool breeze on the rising heat between them.
But neither happens.
Later, he does not know if McCree even remembers it.
But Genji thinks on it regularly, at odd intervals. Finds himself yearning for the cozy crook of the cowboy’s arm, held with a casual warmth his cybernetic body had never experienced.