Jesse McCree was the sun, and Hanzo Shimada was the moon.
Jesse was warm, and bright, and felt like home.
Hanzo was cool, and sometimes he shone as a bright beacon. Sometimes he was a distant, invisible ghost.
Their meetings were brief. Secret, shared moments. The moon and the sun in the same sky. Passionate embraces, whispered promises they knew neither could fulfill.
They worked together in tandem, needing no words, a fiery gunslinger and an icy archer. The dragons sought his warmth, curling around him with joyous purrs.
The sun was as much a wanted man as the moon. The noose tightens.
The sun must set, at the end of the day.
The moon cried, the dragons roared their rage, when the rope pulled the sun too far.
The moon unleashed his pain and cast darkness on the hangman from the bright agony of his arrows, raining with divine fury until the streets ran red with vengeance, red as the dying rays swallowed by the horizon.
The moon carried the sun through the night, wishing, praying for those promises.
The sky was dark. Not even a star lit its inky expanse.
The moon forgot, though, that morning came. It came in the form of an angel, an angel who saved the star that the moon had once killed.
And the sun rose.
The sun refused to let the moon leave his side, and through day and night they worked in harmony, gunslinger and archer, until their lights faded, soft and gray, beating impossible odds through years and years. And when the sun set for the last time, the moon was beside him, ready to follow him into the heavens.