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“You look like shit,” GoGo says, rubbing sleep out of her eyes and gently ushering Wasabi into the apartment. Wasabi, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket and shoulders slightly hunched, follows her inside.
“Sorry I didn’t text,” Wasabi apologizes hoarsely. He stands awkwardly, a wave of guilt sweeping him up and pulling him neck-deep. Not only is he imposing on his best friend at four in the morning, but he also left his partner, abruptly, with little explanation.
And knowing Leo, he won’t be going back to sleep.
“I can…go home,” Wasabi says slowly, staring at nothing while GoGo turns on the kitchen light. Somehow, Honey Lemon is still asleep in her little nook under the stairs, snoring softly, her hair a mess befitting of a mad scientist.
GoGo ignores his suggestion and gestures for him to sit at the dining table. He sits stiffly and watches while she rummages in a cupboard.
“Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?” She asks, pulling out a tub of instant coffee.
Wasabi wrinkles his nose. “You still drink that stuff?”
GoGo snorts. “Coffee is coffee. Sorry I can’t pick up on the fruity notes of the aroma or whatever,” she says.
“What kind of tea do you have?” Wasabi asks. He refuses to drink the horrid flavorless powder that grocery stores try to pass off as coffee. It’s an insult, and he will die on that hill.
GoGo pulls a basket of teabags out of the cupboard and sets it on the table in front of him. She turns on the electric kettle and goes to grab two mugs as Wasabi rummages through the tea selection.
From her nook under the stairs, Honey stirs, and says through the sleepy gunk in her throat: “Give him his mug.”
Despite himself, Wasabi smiles, just slightly.
Wasabi’s mug is placed in front of him. It’s a piece Honey made in her ceramics class, and she always insists on him using it when he visits. The bottom half is his favorite sage green, the top half the bright teal of his armor, and on one side there’s a stylized, but detailed, painting of a wasabi plant.
Everyone else also has one, including Baymax, who can’t eat or drink. But of all the people who visit Honey and GoGo’s apartment, Wasabi uses his the most.
Wasabi picks out a black tea blend, by far the most caffeinated thing in the basket, plopping two teabags into the mug. GoGo raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment.
In her nook, Honey sits up, stretches, and rubs at her eyes.
Wasabi feels a little dizzy. The room feels smaller, somehow.
He’s being so disruptive. He’s extremely lucky to have Honey and GoGo as friends, who are tolerant of his neuroticism—sometimes to the point of their own detriment. It’s hard to feel like he’s doing anything other than taking advantage of them.
It was just a nightmare. Get ahold of yourself.
GoGo pours boiling water over his tea. A few drops spill over the edge. She does the same to her own mug, the instant coffee powder turning to mud.
She sits across from him.
She stares.
Her eyes are like needles.
“Why are you here?” She says sharply, but not unkindly. Once you learn GoGo’s communication style, she’s actually one of the warmest people you’ll ever meet. If you’re special enough to get that close to her to begin with.
Honey says she’s ‘demiplatonic’. GoGo just calls it an appropriate amount of caution.
Wasabi sighs, his shoulders nearly up to his ears with tension. He looks down at his steeping tea. “I…had a nightmare,” he admits under his breath.
Honey, slowly taming her unruly hair by combing through it with her fingers, inquires: “You didn’t want to talk to Leo about it?”
“No,” Wasabi says firmly. “I didn’t.”
The room slips into anticipatory silence. GoGo takes a slurp of her mud-coffee, staring at him over the rim of her mug the entire time.
They’re both expecting him to elaborate. But it’s so hard to talk about. Getting his vocal cords to cooperate—especially without stuttering, choking, or Gods help him, bursting into tears—might as well be like asking him to herd cats.
Herd cats into a lake. A place they really, really don’t want to go.
Because Wasabi doesn’t actually want to talk about this.
He tries anyway, his throat feeling like sandpaper. “Leo doesn’t…he can’t…I mean, I’ve tried before. To talk to him about it. Because it’s…recurring. Less frequent than it used to be, though.” Wasabi begins. He fidgets with the tags of his tea bags. “It’s not easy to talk to him about it. He doesn’t get it. And he won’t ever get it. Not like you guys do. Because you’ve both had the same nightmares.”
Wasabi feels like his chest has been carved into. Some kind of huge cavity left behind for vultures to pick at.
Breathe, he reminds himself. The images from his nightmare flash behind his eyes, and he does his best impression of a Buckingham Palace guardsman to ward them off.
“Oh, sweetie,” Honey breathes, abandoning her efforts with her hair. She pads across the room to occupy the chair next to him.
Her hand is on his shoulder. Her nails are painted pale pink with little bright yellow dots clustered to look like flowers. The polish is flaking off in a couple places.
“Which one was it?” GoGo asks, her voice notably quieter. Softer.
She pulls her knees to her chest, sitting awkwardly with her shins against the edge of the table. Wasabi can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it either, but they both know it’s ultimately helpful to air it out.
“The kind where you’re in the showcase hall with him,” Wasabi murmurs, so quiet that he’s not sure either of them can properly hear him. “You’re trying to pull him out. You can’t. You have to watch him die.”
How does his brain know what Tadashi’s screams of agony would sound like?
“You’ve gotta tell yourself the smoke inhalation got to him first,” GoGo says bluntly, lingering anger seeping through her voice. She sips at her coffee again. “It’s a better death.”
“GoGo.” Honey says scoldingly. Wasabi’s not sure what she’s scolding her for.
“Or, you can hope that it was hot enough for his nerves to burn off before he felt it too much,” GoGo continues.
“GOGO!” Honey exclaims.
Wasabi rubs at his eyes. Holds his head in his hands.
It’s okay. Breathe.
Breathe, because he can’t.
“I can’t be the only one who looked it up!” GoGo exclaims. She huffs. “I’m sorry. It’s gruesome. And not very comforting. But telling myself it didn’t have to be torture, like our dreams tell us, is better than nothing.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I raised my voice,” Honey apologizes. “In my defense I just woke up.”
Wasabi’s whole face feels like a dam about to burst—painfully tense, uncomfortably warm, wetness behind his eyes, a lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry,” he chokes. He puts a hand over his mouth and tries to keep speaking anyway. “I made you both think about it, I barged into your apartment, I’m too much of a wimp to talk to my partner about it—“
“Shh, shh, shh,” Honey shushes gently. She squeezes his shoulder, her nails leaving little crescents in the polyester of his jacket. “It’s okay to ask us for support. We’re always willing to give it to you, just like you give us support. Right, GoGo?”
“Well, I’d like it if you shot me a text before waking me up with the buzzer next time,” GoGo says, but she’s smirking, and reaches a leg under the table to playfully kick Wasabi’s shin. Somehow, he already feels lighter. “But yeah. What Honey said.”
Wasabi takes a shuddering breath.
And lets himself cry.