junmai daiginjo

Truth or Dare

If one were to judge from the wreckage strewn across the rec room, the party was a clear and absolute success. In one corner, the Christmas tree technically still stood, albeit listing in its base in a way that suggested the vibrations from one good footstep would send it toppling. It was altogether fortunate that the decorations were made entirely of extruded plastic in appropriately festive colors and glitter-painted craft foam because no one had wanted to risk destroying Reinhardt’s antique blown glass ornaments that he’d had shipped in from Germany. Two dozen strands of lights hung from the ceiling, some colored, some white, along with half a hundred snowflakes cut from white construction paper, all of them dangling from not particularly well disguised wads of industrial strength epoxy. Some of them were even still working, casting a gentle glow over the proceedings taking place below.

 

Angela had given the entire affair her tacit blessing by sighing heavily and absenting herself from the rec room with a pot of tea and the hardbound copy of The Collected Works of O. Henry that she found under the tree some hours earlier. Hana and Lucio were curled up together in a fort built out of all the furniture cushions and an assortment of blankets filched from stores; the action in the rec center’s holotank showed they were still awake but the relative silence suggested they had their headphones on. Lena and Emily had given up some time before and retired to their quarters, leaning heavily on one another in order to keep to their feet. Fawkes and Rutledge vanished at some point, with Mei and Zarya in tow, all four giggling drunkenly in a manner that boded perilous for some innocent piece of machinery somewhere in the Watchpoint. Reinhardt lay in the middle of the floor some feet away, half-buried in the detritus of orgiastic gift-opening, head pillowed on a stack of eye-searingly hideous sweaters, snoring thunderously under the influence of his failure at a succession of increasingly ridiculous dares. Genji and Zenyatta were off somewhere canoodling in a manner that everyone would politely mistake for meditation because absolutely no one, even in the heat of a cutthroat game of Truth or Dare or Drink, wanted to take the step of asking either of those two how they actually went about having sex.

 

The table was covered in empty or near-empty bottles: a ten year old bottle of whiskey Lena had brought with from London that would not live to see eleven, half the case of schwarzbier that Reinhardt imported from Germany, two bottles filched from Torbjorn’s not as hidden as it could be stash of brännvin, one each of kirschwasser, zwetschgenwasser, and marillenschnaps, some horrifying species of tequila fished out of a sealed storage compartment, and the cooking sherry, which no one had yet condescended to open. Hanzo flatly refused to sacrifice any of his junmai daiginjo-shu to the cause of getting the rest of the team, as Jesse presciently put it, “absolutely shitfaced plastered” though he did drink his own failures from his sakazuki once it was established to hold as much as a standard shot glass. Not for the first time, he wondered somewhat blearily, why a Watchpoint that had been largely abandoned for years had such an enormous collection of novelty shot glasses immediately on hand.

 

“….annnnd done.” Jesse flopped back into a chair in a fashion rather too coordinated for the amount of alcohol he had consumed thus far.

 

Also distinctly unfair: the fact that he had just successfully completed all three elements of a standard field sobriety test and Hanzo was, himself, sober enough to admit that fact. “That is so.” It took him a moment to remember how to properly formulate what he wanted to say in English. “I think that you must be cheating somehow.”

 

“Cheating?” It came out as a laugh, the sort of laugh that did more to warm Hanzo’s insides than all the potables he’d consumed thus far, his dark eyes shining in the lights from above and his smile the sort of thing he charge for by the hour. “How d’you come to that conclusion?”

 

“I think,” Hanzo replied, contemplatively, his words spaced in a manner that he knew betrayed the precise state of his inebriation, “that you have had your liver replaced with some sort of super-efficient cybernetic alcohol filtration system. Otherwise, you never would have managed that lift-and-turn maneuver without falling on your very fine ass.”

 

Had he said that aloud? Yes, yes he had, and elected to allow it to stand: the man had a ridiculously attractive ass, never more so than when he encased it in close-fitting jeans. Which was the case just now.

 

The corners of Jesse’s also very fine mouth curled back in a smile that could only be called wicked. Yes, entirely wicked. “There is another explanation for my ability to drink all y’all under the table. You wanna know what it is?”

 

“My curiosity is a searing fire. Do quench it.” When had his mouth gotten so dry? He poured the last of the kirschwasser into his cup and used it to lubricate his tongue for whatever came next. It was his turn, after all.

 

“I used to play this game with Morrison and Reyes, one of whom was a legit evil genius, and neither of whom could actually get drunk any more thanks to all the shit the SEP did to them back in the day. Did more to develop my tolerance for alcohol than anything else in the world.” The look in his eyes was, briefly, fond and wistful. “Your turn.”

 

“It is.” Hanzo acknowledged, nodding slowly. “Truth.” Because his dignity would absolutely not survive a dare and he doubted his own liver would forgive him another drink so soon after the last.

 

“Well, I gotta admit, I’ve had a question for you that I’ve been holdin’ on to for a while now.” That wicked, wicked smile had returned and now he leaned close, dark eyes glittering.

 

Hanzo found himself leaning into it, as well, undisturbed by the invasion of his personal space occasioned by Jesse’s hand on his knee, sliding slowly up his thigh, or the warm, whiskey-scented breath against his neck and cheek as Jesse murmured, close against his ear, “When was the last time you were fucked good and proper, darlin’?”


Hanzo pressed the last of the space from between their bodies, reached down and thumbed open that ridiculous belt buckle. “Hopefully tonight.”