They were Shimadas

"I lost my stomach the first time too, all over my Father's shoes," he would murmur, or it would be something the sort. Hanzo could remember it clearly, how he'd try to hold himself higher and pretend whatever just happened didn't. However he had failed, he simply hadn't. Father certainly wouldn't mention it further. He wouldn't even look at Hanzo, not because he disdained him, but because he didn't want Hanzo to know pity... or at least Hanzo would pray for it to be so. 

Father would help him scrub off any blood, find him a change of clothes, and they'd go to his room where doubtlessly Genji was bothering Mother for another story. The warmth would return with one of Mother's gentle laughs, a knowing look in her eyes as she took in his paleness, the tremble of his hands. She'd slowly look at their Father who would bow his head, in shame or reverence Hanzo would never know.

But Mother would beckon Hanzo closer, so close that he couldn't help but grow warm. Who needed the sun when you had dawn incarnate reciting fables?

Mother's stories were very different from Father's. The brothers loved them both equally, but Father's stories always held lessons, weight; some sort of importance that Hanzo felt he had to study whether it be the Legend of the Dragon Brothers or the Journey of the Tenacious Sparrow. Mother's tales were... innocent, warmth incarnate, brightness far greater than anything the sun offered. She weaved tales of forest animals, magic, and myths that had no purpose except to entertain and awe. Genji fed off that warmth, gawking and beaming in a way that Hanzo couldn't bring himself to. He could smile, of course, and he did often when Mother was around, but he couldn't make her laugh as Genji could.

Every time she looked at him, Hanzo recognize a deep pain in her eyes. She'd run a comb through his hair as if she was apologizing. She'd watch him go off with Father in the dawn, watch him depart at dusk, and she would wait until he returned home whether it took hours or days. Sometimes, when she thought he was sleeping, she'd finish whatever lullaby she'd been humming and she'd sit next to him.

"I'm sorry, my son. This life is not kind to you... I'm sorry," she'd murmur musings and apologies of the like. Lamenting something that Hanzo did not yet understand.

She knew what life they lived, she had to. She navigated diplomacy just as well as Father, just quieter. She disliked parties, she disliked the probing questions of the elders, and she disliked it even less when they came for Genji or Hanzo...

Mostly Genji.

He... Hanzo hated that he was envious. It was natural; he was the First Born, he spent all his time with his Father, and he had duties and responsibilities, of course, he was more distant from his mother. It would be so even without her... sadness. Besides, Genji was just... just a child. He went crying to their Mother when he fell or scraped a knee or broke a toy. He snuggled and played and laughed... of course, Mother was more partial to him, more protective of him when the elders whispered. Genji was a child.

And Mother knew Hanzo could take it.

Still, something under Hanzo's skin would ripple as she swooped in like a guardian angel, sparing Genji and whisking him away to safety, leaving Hanzo to suffer it all... and Hanzo would hate himself for it. His mother didn't deserve such childish feelings, Genji didn't deserve them.

She didn't mean to leave him to his own defense against the monsters of their family. She only meant to spare Genji. How could he be angry? How dare he feel such rage.

He'd snap at a particularly rude crone and the family would avoid him for the rest of the evening and he could be left to his hatred in peace, the beast within him growling and writhing at his emotions. Eventually, he'd find it in himself to swallow it; he was the firstborn Shimada. He had a duty to this family and he would take it in stride. He would not gripe about such useless things.