A/N: irezumi - the Japanese name for the traditional tattoos that Yakuza members get.

On the eve of Hanzo's seventeenth birthday, the clan's most esteemed irezumi artist, an elderly man most often referred to by the family name, Yamanaka, led him to a secluded and scantily furnished room on the fourth floor. Windows that stretched to the high, arced ceiling were boarded up, the walls were bare, and the only pieces of furniture, a cracked leather chair that smelled of mothballs, a stool, and the pathetically flimsy table standing beside it, were each placed in the dead center of the room.

Though Yamanaka had never been a large man, his many years of service to the Shimada Clan weighed on him, and so he walked with a hunch, one that was particularly noticeable when contrasted with the rigid posture of the young heir standing beside him as they strolled past the rotted, sagging doorframe.

It was abandoned, left uncared for and uninhabited, so that those forced to spend a moment within would feel as though they, too, had been left to rot and disintegrate with time.

Thinking back to when he'd once stood in the same room with Hanzo's father, who'd sported a similar distasteful scowl at the venue, if memory served, the old man fought back a nostalgic smile as he gestured to the seat. "Whenever you are ready, bocchan."

With a quiet sigh, the young man corrected him with as much patience as he could manage, "It is Hanzo-sama now, Yamanaka-san."

"Of course. How could I forget?"

While Hanzo settled himself into the seat, which he found to his increasing displeasure had deteriorated to a weak, spongy texture, Yamanaka arranged the vials of blue dye he'd placed on the tray, each varying in depth and brightness, from the swirling depths of the ocean floor to the wide open sky on a summer's day, and tested the sharpness of the bamboo needle by pressed a calloused finger against its point to ensure that it would pass easily through even the toughest patches of skin. The process would prove to be an unavoidably long and trying one, but Yamanaka had been perfecting his technique for decades now - he was confident that if he could not spare the young heir from the pain, then he could at least ensure that the procedure required only the bare minimum of sessions, and the healing process proceeded smoothly, so long as the boy did his part and resisted the urge to pick at the peeling, itching skin before it was ready.

There were stacks of rice wrapped in seaweed beneath the table and single bottle of sake to sustain them. Hanzo could tell that Yamanaka would have liked to pour himself a cup or two, but the first session would undoubtedly last for many hours, with the intricate outline alone taking a minimum of three, and thus he could not avoid to tire.

The long sessions and limited resources were quite obviously yet another test of the young heir's fortitude and endurance, which meant that any lapse in Hanzo's resolve could spell disaster if the elders caught wind of it. Yamanaka may not have been an elder, but that was of his own choosing, and should the safety of his family ever be threatened - though who would foolhardy enough to dare do such a thing to a close family friend of the current kumicho was a conundrum for another time - Hanzo was sure that Yamanaka would part with readily his secrets. He'd do what he had to to protect his family, as he had over and over in the past. Although he was rarely involved in the less savory aspects of the clan's business, it would not be hyperbole to say that their safety quite often depended on the quality of his work.

For this reason, Hanzo remained very still while the cool antiseptic was applied to the first patch of bare skin that would be pierced and dyed, and fully intended to maintain that stillness for the entirety of the grueling session, without any reprieve unless Yamanaka himself began showing signs of fatigue.

Test or no test, exhaustion would not dull the old man's skills. Hanzo would make sure of it.

The teen was startled out of his thoughts when the damp cloth on his arm withdrew, leaving the flesh feeling fresh and tingly, and Yamanaka, with the bamboo needle in his knarled wrinkled hand prepped and coated with ink, commented offhandedly, "Forgive me, but I could have sworn I'd heard my granddaughter refer to you as Ha-chan just the other day." The young heir felt his cheeks flush pink at the reminder of the girl who'd visited the manor with her grandfather several weeks ago to arrange for this very appointment. She'd tugged at his pants' leg until he'd softened enough to pick her up, after which she'd grabbed fistfuls of his long hair, and playfully attempted to arrange it into pigtails. Seeing the memory play out over Hanzo's once stoic features, the old man smiled wryly, "You know how feeble this old mind has grown with age."

Of course, if it was sympathy the aging artist was looking for, then he would have to look elsewhere. Hanzo, who carried no false notions regarding the keen sharpness of his mind, grumbled, "Regardless of what you may think of me, I am not so strict as to demand proper address from an infant."

"Come now," the old man tutted goodnaturedly, "little Yuki's been using the bathroom on her own for several months now. She's practically a lady." He rolled the sleeve of Hanzo's orange gi further up his arm, then fastened it with a short length of rope to ensure that it didn't get in the way while he worked.

"Well, if she's toilet-trained," Hanzo muttered, suppressing a wince at his first taste of the poking, piecing, burning sensation that started at his bicep and worked its way down, "then perhaps she should be offered a seat on council. She's certainly fulfilled the minimum requirements." Though he had little experience with the inking process, something told him it stung more than it should. It wouldn't have surprised him if, on top of the drafty, run-down surroundings and limited resources, the elders had demanded that Yamanaka make this process as painful as possible.

He looked up to see the elder's thick, untamed brows furrowed to the point of almost touching, worry etching itself into the wrinkles around his mouth and squinted eyes like black paint highlighting the cracks and imperfections in a weathered stone. "I would be wary of what you say, Hanzo-sama. Even the walls have ears in places as old as this."

Which was another way of saying that the room was not nearly as isolated from the clan as Hanzo had been led to believe. Even at this important juncture of his life, he was still being manipulated, and not by his enemies, but by those he was meant to lead. Sure, they hadn't explicitly told him they would be alone while this procedure was underway, but the implication had been undeniable. Why else would he be locked in this drafty, damp chamber with a man who, as the minutes turned to hours, was forced to grip his hand by the wrist so that it would remain still despite the tremors wracking his form?

Hanzo had long accepted that his strength and mind would forever be tested, but Yamanaka had already lived a long and fruitful life. There was no need to drag him into the politics of the Shimada. Years of working with the family had gifted him with enough funds to support himself and his family any way he wished, yet he chose to spend his days in the parlor, where copies of the designs he was proudest of lined the walls, alongside rows of haphazardly pinned photos of his treasured children and grandchildren.

If Hanzo could have called this whole farce off and administered the ink himself, he would have. But he couldn't, and he knew well who would suffer if he tried.

With that in mind, though the intensity of Hanzo's discomfort only increased over time, as the inflamed, irritated skin was pierced over and over to perfectly capture the depth and majesty of each of the azure dragon's scales, his resolve merely hardened. He forced his lids to remain open until the wetness threatening to spill dried, and choked on the desperate plea for reprieve lodged in his throat.

He swiveled his head to meet eyes with Yamanaka, who he realized must have been reaching his limit, too. No longer shivering, he now sported beads of sweat across his forehead, moved stiffly when he bent to replenished the ink, and increasingly took the time to flex his stiff fingers with a grimace.

They had lapsed into a strained silent when Yamanaka asked if Hanzo would be interested in hearing a rather nonsensical thought he'd just had. And, well, since the floating dust motes were making for a rather poor distraction from the stabbing pain of the needle and the incessant burning in his flesh, Hanzo readily agreed.

After swiping impatiently at the perspiration dotting his forehead and readjusting himself on his stool, the old man muttered softly, never taking his eyes off the delicate scales and claws forming beneath his hands, "A man takes his dog out for a walk. After a short time, the dog turns right. And so, the man turns right, as well. Soon after, the dog turns left. Naturally, the man follows. By the time the walk has ended, the dog believes itself to be the master." The needle withdrew. Yamanaka set to work on cleaning the area of blood droplets and excess ink. He sounded almost distracted when he asked, "Would you agree?"

Immediately, Hanzo replied, "No."

And the old man leaned back, rubbing his grizzled jaw with an arced brow. "And why not?"

"It is the master who holds the leash." Too easy. There had to be a catch.

There always was.

"Well, Hanzo-sama? Would you say you hold a leash?"

After hearing that, Hanzo audibly ground his teeth.

Why? Why would Yamanaka wait until after he'd delivered a warning about the room's surveillance to say something that would not only be deemed impertinent by those listening in, but borderline treasonous? If the elders were looking for a reason to prosecute him, then the old man had practically handed it to them on a silver platter. They could take away his family, his business, even his life, and there would be nothing Hanzo could do to stop them-

Oh.

With the realization, came a humiliation that burned more fiercely than the ink itching beneath his skin."I was wrong about you, Yamanaka-san," the young heir bit out. "Old age has addled your mind."

"Is that so?" The old man said coolly, apparently unfazed. "Then I suppose you must inform the elders that I am no longer fit to complete such important tasks as this." The needle's relentless poking and prodding resumed once Yamanaka had finished testing the black ink's viscosity. It would still be quite a while before the several vials of blue were touched. "Certainly, they will have no trouble finding a younger man to replace me."

For once, Hanzo wanted to take a note from his brother's playbook and act impulsively. To let his emotions burst free from the cages he'd stuffed them into and run wild. He wanted to pull at his hair, throw his head back and scream his uncertainty and frustration to the sky.

But Hanzo couldn't pretend, not even for a moment, that he was anyone except the heir of a very old, very powerful organization. That was how good people got hurt. That was how good people died.

And so he seethed in silence, ignoring the cold spreading throughout the bottom of his stomach. Even if Hanzo held any desire whatsoever to disabuse the old man of the notion that he would be so petty as to condemn him for the slight, he didn't know how. He didn't have Genji's easy way with people, and he certainly didn't have his heart.

A murmuring through the door that sounded too high, too youthful to belong to either of the guards, distracted them both from the conversation, something for which Hanzo was unendingly grateful, though he would much rather wear a crown of molten lava upon his head than admit it.

"I'm afraid we can't do that," one of the guards told the new arrival, put-upon patience saturating the words. In his mind's eye, Hanzo could see the guard's slight, grudging bow. "Our orders are to-" He wasn't surprised when the same youthful voice, this time ringing with authority, cut him off.

"My orders are from my father." There was a moment where neither of the guard's spoke, but Hanzo had to assume that their expressions spoke volumes, because Genji's next words were a flat, "You don't believe me."

"Two roads lie before you, gentlemen," he continued. "The first is you go to my father, interrupting his very busy schedule to call his son a liar, and the second is you let me pass without a fuss, I bring poor old Yamanaka-san a blanket, as well as this steaming cup of hot chocolate, made with my own special recipe, and everyone walks away with a smile." With what was sure to be a cheeky wink, the teen added with the flair and flourish of a natural-born showman, "Play your cards right here, and there might even be some sweet hot chocolate in it for you, too."

"Just," and though the guard pinching the bridge of his nose in exhaustion wouldn't have made a sound, Hanzo nonetheless had a perfect mental image of the act, and suddenly found himself sympathizing with the man, "get in there." Genji certainly didn't need to be told twice. He was already opening the door when the guard snapped, "And you better not let anyone catch you."

After hearing that, Hanzo realized that not even the guards had been made aware of the audio surveillance the elders had installed within the room. On the one hand, it meant that the intrusion was not a secret kept solely from him, but on the other, it was worrying how isolated the council was proving to be in both its decisions and its actions. If they could break tradition to spy, with only a select few the wiser, then what else could they be capable of accomplishing from the shadows?

Once Genji was inside, a grey blanket thrown over his shoulder and two mugs of hot chocolate steaming in his hands, the second guard said to the first, "You're too soft on that boy."

"Yeah? I didn't hear you saying no."

Though they couldn't see him, Genji turned back towards the exasperated pair with a grin.

He looked like a delinquent. For his thirteenth birthday, their father had allowed him to pierce the upper cartilage of his left ear with a silver hoop. As for his outfit, the school uniform he'd been wearing when he left that morning was conveniently missing, replaced by a ripped vest with frayed sleeves, bleached jeans, and glaringly white sneakers.

The coup de grace was the seaweed green bandanna tied around his head. Hanzo didn't know what to make of it, but he doubted it served a purpose, besides making his little brother look even more patently ridiculous than usual.

A draconic growl boiled past Hanzo's clenched teeth at the boy's approach. "Why are you here? You know you should be at school."

And for a moment, Genji hesitated, thrown off by the potency of the anger and disapproval directed at him, but he visibly shrugged it off, after which he continued his approach with a renewed lightness in his step and an easy grin. "Someone had to make sure you had a hand to hold during this torture fest." Since there was no extra chair available for him to sit in, he opted to stand beside Yamanaka. He held the blanket draped over his forearm within the older man's reach, and the artist accepted it gratefully, throwing it over his lap so that the fabric did not interfere with his movement. Then Genji handed him a mug of rich hot chocolate, made with steamed milk and a hint of cinnamon to give it just a hint of a kick, and the old man blew out an amused huff that buffeted the black and silver whiskers around his mouth and on his chin like a breeze sweeping through a forest.

Though the sight brought with it a wave of approval and – dare he say it? – pride for his younger brother's thoughtfulness, the comparison he'd made previously had him struggling not to roll his eyes... and failing. Despite his training and dedication, Hanzo's self-control had its limits. "It's supposed to be unpleasant, Genji. It's tradition." Despite what he'd said, though, Hanzo accepted the mug of hot chocolate Genji placed in his hand. There was roughly enough space on the small table holding the tools to set it down, so Hanzo let it rest there for the time being, reluctant as he was to move too much when a twitch or sneeze could end with truly dire consequences.

Canting his spiked head to the side, Genji batted his lashes, asking innocently, "What? You don't think I can be unpleasant?"

With a tone that could only be described as bone-dry, Hanzo replied, "Are you, perhaps, suggesting that there are times when you are anything but? Because I would very much like to see them." And at their side, Yamanaka snorted, though he did his best to disguise the sound by pausing in his work long enough to indulge in a rather unconvincing fit of coughing.

After a quick roll of his eyes, Genji crossed his arms, regarding his brother with a half-hearted scowl, "Shut up and drink your hot chocolate, anija."

Begrudgingly, Hanzo did he was told, if only to hide the traitorous curl at the corners of his lips in the sweetness and foam.

A/N: Since the tattoo peels like a bad sunburn when it's healing, there must have been a few weeks where Hanzo left blue skin flakes everywhere. Knowing that, I'm now imagining Genji complaining about Hanzo's shedding like he's some kind of grumpy blue cat.

I have one more update in mind before I get to work on the 2nd half of the Overwatch au, so until then, thank you for reading, and have a great day!