A/N:
Daijoubu, otouto - It's okay, little brother
Boku wa itsumo soba ni iru yo - I'll always be by your side
Crease.
Fold.
Press.
Smooth.
The translucent colored paper has become a familiar comfort beneath Hanzo's fingertips as he repeats the motion with unwavering focus on each new sheet. He's sitting in an armchair with the fire lit, ignoring the hours as they pause and the sting of shallow cuts on his skin. At his side is a small mountain of perfect cranes, each of them vibrant, alive even in their stillness, as though they could dip their long, slender necks or take flight at any moment.
If he could make them perfect, make them beautiful, then maybe the spirits would be pleased, and Genji wouldn't have to stay in bed, anymore.
The doctors assured him that it was only a small fever, that he would be better in two to three days if he didn't try to sneak out of bed again, but Hanzo had never been sick before, not even as a baby. And if he never got sick, then Genji shouldn't either, right? So something had to be wrong.
Because he'd seen exactly one other sick person in his life and they never got better.
He'd torn out of a sparring lesson like there were hounds nipping at his heels so that he could race to Genji's bedside, only to discover that nothing had changed since his last visit. Genji's skin was still flushed with spots of pink on his cheeks, his palms clammy and cold to the touch. Careful not to wake him, Hanzo swept a lock of sweaty bangs to the side, conscious of the fiery heat emanating from his little brother's forehead.
When Genji whimpered in his sleep, sounding dazed and lost, Hanzo gently hushed him, and ran a palm over his head in a soothing, repetitive motion, "Daijoubu, otouto. Boku wa itsumo soba ni iru yo."
Gradually, the whimpers eased. Genji slipped further into restless sleep, and Hanzo set out to find every scrap of paper in Shimada Castle. Medicine and science alone weren't enough to cure sickness on their own, not without help.
And this time, Hanzo would make sure they got the help they needed.
It was that decision which led to him crafting origami late into the night, with his textbooks abandoned and gathering dust in his bedroom. The pile had grown so large that it spilled across the floor, but though his fingers ached and protested, he kept going. If he kept up his current pace, he was sure he would have a thousand ready by dawn.
So engrossed was he in the task, he didn't hear his father's approach, "What are you doing?" Hanzo jerked at the unexpected address, accidentally tearing the crane's wing he'd been flattening to a point. It wasn't a terrible loss, but the crane would have been beautiful. Even so, Hanzo resolved to finish it, if only because he knew Genji would rather keep the crane himself than see it thrown away for its broken wing.
Raising his head to reveal carefully shuttered features, a skill he'd picked up quickly in his required lessons, Hanzo met his father's gaze. In the swirling depths, he thought he might have seen surprise, but that sole emotion was quickly smothered, and Sojiro regarded his eldest with practiced stoicism. "You should be in bed."
Quickly averting his gaze, Hanzo pressed his lips into a thin stubborn line. It was patently obvious what he was doing, why he was doing it. Since he didn't trust himself to speak, he remained silent, but made no move to leave the chair.
Eventually, Sojiro sighed. Hanzo stiffened at the sound of paper rustling, but before he could do more than shout, his father had tossed an armful of the beautiful birds in the fireplace.
Flying from his seat, Hanzo darted past his father, dodging his arms to thrust his hands into the fire, to salvage as much as he could.
He managed to pluck out a dozen charred cranes before pain brought a cry spilling from his lips as the flames and embers licked his hands to a ruby redness that glistened, and the surface of his arms began to bubble and writhe.
A grip around his collar dragged him away from the fire. In a moment of madness, Hanzo glared up at the looming figure of his father with furious tears spilling down his cheeks as one by one the fire claimed the head and neck and wings of every crane he'd intended to give to his brother.
"A Shimada must rely on his own strength." Hanzo refused to speak, refused to give him the satisfaction. "If Genji were to die to this, it would only mean that he was too weak to survive."
With his palms pressed flat against the ground so they wouldn't curl into fists and his jaw aching from the pressure with which he forced the protests crowding behind his teeth to remain unspoken, Hanzo waited, until at last Sojiro said stiffly, "I will send for the doctor to tend to you in the morning," and climbed the staircase to return to his quarters for the night, before he climbed unsteadily to his feet, fiercely scrubbed the tears off his cheeks, and picked up what scattered cranes he could find. After placing them into a neat pile, he grabbed another sheet and resumed his folding, this time suppressing hisses where the paper pressed against rising blisters and shiny wet skin.
The next day, Genji's fever broke.