Work Text:
Mal de Coucou:
N. A phenomenon in which you have an active social life but very few close friends—people who you can trust, who you can be yourself with, who can help flush out the weird psychological toxins that tend to accumulate over time—which is a form of acute social malnutrition in which even if you devour an entire buffet of chitchat, you’ll still feel pangs of hunger.
Lucio is sure there is something to say when the fanfare of his initiation to Overwatch ends and his spot on the team solidifies. Sure there is something to say when he retreats back to his room—to sleep, to eat, and get ready for the day— but when he’s not eager to come out again. There should be a word for when Hana goes back to South Korea for the New Year, wishing Lucio the best as she promises to beat him at Starcraft later.
There should be a phrase for when he sees Ana and Fareeha head to Egypt in early December to celebrate Moulid El Nabi. Even with the tumultuous air that sometimes runs between them, he can tell Pharah is glad to be flying off with her mother beside her, their leaving is a silent one. There should be a phrase for that too.
Maybe words come better to those alone, but Lucio reconsiders when he sees some members leave without an utterance. The holidays entirely inedible to those who still have memories of those lost, recall stuck on their gums like hard candy. Jack, Torbjorn, and McCree leave a week before Christmas.
Lucio has never had anything against the holiday season. Lights would cascade around the favela and made the streets safer to walk at night, a blessing to the vulnerable. On Christmas day, the aunties throughout the neighborhood would pass out pastéis and the whole city would be filled with light and good food. His hand instinctively goes to his stomach but there is no word for the hunger he feels.
It’s too dangerous to go back home. Not for him, but for his family and friends, they are safer without him there. He still sends them money and gifts so the holidays are still good for them, but he believes that they will be happiest the further away he is from Brazil. The words he writes on his cards to them might as well have been drafted with invisible ink.
There is nothing to say when Zarya and Mei snuggle up together in the living room, and even less to say when Reinhardt and Mercy try to create a holiday dinner of some sort. Maybe it had meant something back when they were in their prime, but now, the action is hollow—the bones of the gesture prick at his sides, and Lucio can’t bear to join them.
He sits outside of the Watchpoint on Gilbratar, the overlooking hill already covered with frost, the first real snow only days away. He sits and lets the chill numb him of his thoughts focusing in on the security drones whizzing above the compound skies.
He doesn’t hear Genji approach, but he does feel him when he sits down beside him, his arm brushing against his. His legs are crossed, and his body straight despite the strong winds that beat around the both of them.
Genji’s hand is warm as he takes Lucio’s in his.
“You should go inside,” Genji says, squeezing his hand.
“Just me?”
“You are wearing a tank top.”
“You never wear anything though.”
“That is untrue, I wore the scarf you crocheted for me.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“I see.”
Lucio sinks further into himself, his free hand wrapping around his prosthetics. “You’re right though, it’s cold here.”
Lucio knows Genji hears his true meaning, the tightening of his hand on his tells him that much.
“Lucio—” he removes his headgear, the hissing sound it normally makes drowned out by the wind as their eyes lock— “come inside.”
Genji has this way of telling more than he lets on, and Lucio hears a different sentence entirely: 'Let me take care of you'. The words unsaid but making sense in a way this whole week has not.
He lets Genji lift him up by his arm, his prosthetics already covered in cold dew and grass.
Lucio ducks underneath his arm as they walk back to the base.
“Rose is making plantains,” Genji says breaking the silence.
“Ugh, she never makes them the right way.”
“Shall we co-opt the kitchens?”
He looks up at Genji before kissing him on his headgear, the metal cold on his lips. “Sure.”
There might be something else to say besides that— a compendium of the way his hand feels in his, an onomatopoeia of his heart beat— but Lucio considers maybe nothing needs to be said at all.
His family is not a word or a phrase, at the moment it is the warmth between their fingertips.