One time Hiro's normal post-mission wind down didn't quite do the trick. (Quite literally how I do life in general, but that's not important.)
Hiro closed the door to the Lucky Cat and locked it. The jingling bell, normally a comforting sound, only made his budding headache worse. Glancing around at the darkened interior, Hiro ran through a mental checklist. Dishes done, swept, mopped, cleaned off all the tables… the cookies and brownies for tomorrow are already done, I mixed the lemonade in the afternoon, Cass did all the rest of the cooking for tomorrow… oh. Coffee beans. Hiro trailed a tired path through the maze of tables, guided by a small light still on in the kitchen. He was exhausted. But somehow it felt… nice. The day was over, everything was clean and dark, the house was warm and quiet, so quiet he could hear the white noise of Baymax's charger from upstairs. Every so often, a car would whizz down the narrow, angled street at their storefront. Those combined with the quiet whirring of the oven's built-in fans provided a peaceful ambience for the young hero.
Just get finished. Hiro reminded himself as his hands began to slow on the grinder. How long had he let his thoughts wander for? His shoulders dipped. It didn't really matter. Aunt Cass had come down with a cold, so he'd offered to take care of the cafè. That meant she could relax for once, and — the corners of his mouth pulled up just a little. He had full run of the house.
A long, long time ago, he would have immediately begun plotting some sort of new device or piece of tech to "help" Aunt Cass out tomorrow. Actually, not would have. He had done that exact thing. Many times. Had that really been so long ago? Hiro paused, one hand on the little rotating grinder, using the other to count on his fingers. The last time he'd done that had been almost six years ago now, before Tadashi had gone into college. They'd made a—
Hiro froze, instantly ripping the image from his mind. He didn't need to reminisce over mental images of a guy in khakis and a cardigan. He didn't need to see the baseball hats. Especially not the SFIT hat, because then he'd think about —
Now I've done it. Hiro let out a frustrated groan, pouring the fresh coffee grounds into the hopper. They sounded almost like a rainstick, scattering and tapping along the plastic until they settled in the bottom. This had always been his favorite kitchen chore when he was little.
Stop. It. Hiro resisted the urge to smack himself, carrying the little bag the coffee beans had been in to the trash. In it went. Yeah. Focus on getting stuff done. Stop thinking about then.
He glanced around the kitchen. Everything was clean, even the shelves he'd wiped that afternoon. Not by choice, if he was being completely honest. Nah, he'd been coming back from the mission that day and dripped blood all over the floor and the counter he'd washed his leg off on. It hadn't been a bad cut, just a little thing from where Baymax's wing cut through his armor when they took a tumble, but he didn't need Aunt Cass, or a customer, or heavens forbid an inspector to see the mess. No. Far better to set the cleaning bot after it, then wipe down all the shelves underneath it just in case. He didn't want to even think about the stuff he'd found under there.
I should help Aunt Cass more often. Hiro pushed open the back door. He'd gotten lost in his thoughts again. He was taking the trash out. Right. She does all this alone, every day. It's gotta be exhausting.
She's used to it. Hiro opened the lid to the dumpster, resisting the urge to pinch his nose. Black flies flew almost unnoticeable in the darkness around the mounds of stinking trash. Hiro threw the last bag of the day in and shut the lid, cringing when it creaked like an old tree in a thunderstorm. But she shouldn't have to be used to it. Hiro's feet took him unthinking back into the kitchen. He locked the deadbolt. What I do is important too! Saving the city, being a superhero…
That didn't quite block the twinges of guilt twisting into his gut, but it helped. Maybe, Hiro decided, finding a booth away from the front windows and pulling out his laptop. One day I'll find the time to make Aunt Cass a helper bot. There. That eased the little knot in his stomach. Hiro sighed as the glaring blue light from his device protruded into the homely scene. But for now… homework.
Hours later…
Hiro sat back, rubbing at his eyes. One hand went up to tangle in his thick black hair, still slightly sooty from the fight earlier. Seriously. How could I have messed up that bad in thirty minutes away from the café? He knew exactly where he'd gone wrong — he'd let Obake get in his head again. Like usual. Hiro let a little, frustrated grunt pass his lips. And how would that brother of yours react to knowing his kin is throwing his life away on a flying piece of metal?
That insidious tone was probably why Hiro couldn't stop thinking of his brother. His lungs contracted under the strain of all that was swirling through his mind, sending a gust of air sputtering between his teeth. This is stupid. I have three more assignments due Friday. I have to at least start my therms project. Granville was creative, he'd give her that. Why he even had thermodynamics assigned to his class schedule he'd never know. It wasn't a required baseline class. But Granville had ordered it. Hiro paused. It must've been true, what his friends said, that late-night studying did beautiful things to your brain, because a sudden thought shifted his mind into a new light. "That's also the only class I have with Karmi."
Oh, that sneaky little professor. Hiro groaned, shoving down all the emotions swirling in his mind. Karmi was not a problem he needed to tackle at the moment. What he needed to tackle was the rest of his homework. But, try as he might, there was a strange tightness in his chest he couldn't shake. It made breathing deeply difficult, but not painful. Hiro stared down at his keyboard, struggling to shake the strange, but not unfamiliar sensation, willing words to appear on that blank page with its stupid blinking cursor. Hiro let out another, strangled breath, and this one didn't do much to quell his rising anger either. Why can't I just focus? Restlessness surged under his skin like some sort of wild animal, and try as he might, Hiro just couldn't force himself to sit still for even a minute longer. He rose, stretching out his legs to abate the tingling. Now what?
He found himself wandering through the ghost town-like main dining room, simply letting the darkness and quietness soothe him. But for some reason the quiet, the dark, the lack of sufficient distraction, only brought his fears to the surface with more vengeance. Hiro growled, tired, spinning mind unable to block or escape from the endless streams of images and thoughts that seemed to pop into existence out of nowhere. Almost all of them were what-ifs. If his friends had been hurt. If he'd been hurt. If Aunt Cass had seen him sneaking in the back door of the kitchen somehow. Sudden terror seized in his chest, making his breath catch. He'd hidden his armor, right?
He glanced towards the open front door, with its little bell and glass windows opening out onto the street. A light rain had started up at some point during his fruitless studying session, coating the street in a silvery sheen. The tap tap tap of the rain against the window pane had somewhat of a calming effect, and suddenly the prospect of freedom in the cool night air was too great to resist. His exhaustion almost tied him to his seat, but after a few long minutes of half-awake deliberation within his own mind, Hiro made his way toward the door. Years of practice, even before superheroing, lent him the ability to slip out without sending the little copper bell jingling. Silently, Hiro slipped out into the street, taking a deep, relieved breath of the cool bay air. It had a wonderful effect on his brain, and the restlessness eased, replaced with a small smile and the feeling of wild freedom and adrenaline that never really faded. San Fransokyo at night really was an amazing place to be, with its shining streets and looming fog. There were some times when life didn't feel real, and this was it. Hiro made his way to the garage, forcing himself not to dwell on the mythical aura his neighborhood at three in the morning almost always gave him. He really wanted to go for a run, but — his chest seized back up a little — he'd come out here to check on his and Baymax's armor. All the good vibes in the world wouldn't help him if his aunt found out what his hobby had been for the past two years.
Two years. Hiro unlocked the bay door to the garage, being careful to not let it creak as he slipped inside. It's been two years since —
Suits. His eyes scanned the surrounding room, cluttered with a dozen half-finished projects. His brother's motorbike sat in the back corner, long unusable and stripped for parts to fix Baymax. Another pang of guilt twisted in his stomach. It's what he would've wanted. Hiro wrenched his thoughts away from his brother with some force, knowing it was necessary if he wanted to sleep at all. That prospect was glowing dimmer and dimmer already. Focus. Hiro's brown gaze lit on a small cupboard in the corner where he kept their spare suits, the ones they'd used earlier… yesterday, he realized. That had been over eight hours ago.
So why were the events still replaying in the back of his mind? Exhaustion pulled the memories into strange, warped, nightmarish directions, but Hiro shoved them back. This was why he'd wanted to do homework. So he wouldn't think. Better to wake up with a cramped neck and a headache than to sit up all night and get nothing done. That realization had made him incredibly productive during the nighttime, if he was being honest with himself. But now was not the time for honesty. He wrenched his mind back to the task at hand, launching the SkyMax protocols on his much faster computer, used for coding and controlling the printers and rendering systems dotting the room. Time to fix whatever bug got into the system.
About twenty minutes later, Hiro gave up. Coding was going just about as well as typing up that formal lab report had been going. That tightness in his chest was back, slowly squeezing him in. Restlessness fought in his muscles, begging him to just stop sitting still. His fingers were jerky, almost shaky with the adrenaline that hadn't stopped pulsing through him since he'd first gone outside. Every movement made him jerk. Then freeze, heart pounding, hoping beyond hope that it wasn't Aunt Cass.
He glanced down at his keyboard again. His hands were shaking. Hiro vaguely felt his lungs squeeze, the breath catching in his throat again. He swallowed with some measure of difficulty. Suddenly the computer seemed farther away than it had been. His muscles seemed locked in place, even as the room began to tilt around him. Hiro lurched to his feet, grasping the back of his chair for balance. His gaze locked on his shoes, the same shoes that had once belonged to his brother. "Shit." He gasped, feeling a sliver of guilt even as the forbidden word slipped through his parted lips. What the heck is happening to me? Hiro gasped for air, memories flashing before his eyes in a torrent. A tsunami and fear and confusion. "Stop." He begged himself, making his way to the door with the same desperation a starving man would rush toward a meal. He had to get out of this room.
Somehow the open night air didn't help. Rain came down in torrents now, soaking and chilling him to the bone in moments. Ominous stormclouds thundered above him, making his heart pulse. Adrenaline raged through him, leaving him somehow both hot and cold and confused. The wild freedom from before had morphed into fear, feeding into the anxiety tying intricate knots in his chest. Hiro groaned, struggling to focus. I need help. He knew this, he'd known this for a long time, but as with all the other times, the cons outweighed the pros. I'm the leader. I can't look weak in front of my friends again. I can't tell Aunt Cass. That thought was somehow even more terrifying than the warped timelines passing in front of his vision. She'd find out he was a superhero, make him stop, refer him to a therapist… Hiro scowled, even past the whirling terror pulling at his face until he looked drawn and old. Nope. Not happening. He already had a therapist.
Relief tugged at his core for a moment. He could just go talk to Baymax. But the last time he'd done that, Baymax'd rushed right to his friends and exposed him for all the world to see. No. That wasn't happening.
There was one person he could talk to. Hiro made his mind with impressive speed, given the fact that he could barely breathe past the vicious monster squeezing his chest into oblivion, much less think clearly. He blindly stumbled out into the rain, avoiding a passing car. He knew who would let him stay the night.
—-
By the time he reached the imposing mansion he'd managed to regain some form of composure. Hiro made his way up the steps, gazing up at the massive marble pillars and the homely, welcoming warm light shining out into the dark street from the home's many windows. The alcove he was under sheltered him from the rain, although his shoes still squelched uncomfortably, leaving shimmering footprints on the concrete. Hiro smiled, suddenly struck by a memory. They'd been walking back, the first time they'd realized Fred lived in a mansion. It had taken Gogo a couple months to get over the fact that Fred was a freaking billionaire. But that memory, too, warped and spun and flashed blood and darkness all over his mind, and —
"Master Hiro?" The boy snapped out of his dizzying trance, giving the butler a grateful smile he was entirely sure the man wouldn't understand. "Heathcliff! I didn't think anyone would still be up. May I come inside?" In all truth, he had been expecting at least Fred to still be awake, since Wormhole had just dropped. But Hiro appreciated the familiar welcome all the same.
"Of course. Any friend of Master Fredericks is welcome in the Frederick family house. May I take your coat?"
Hiro glanced up in confusion, then back down at his soaked jacket. "Uh… I'm OK, thanks." He stepped gingerly onto the red carpet blanketing the first floor, grimacing at his shoes. "Where should I take my shoes off?"
"I will take them and have them cleaned."
"Oh." Hiro pursed his lips, then shrugged and reached down to untie his Converse. He handed them to the butler carefully, not wanting to get mud all over the fancy suit or anything else in this fancy house. "Thanks."
"But of course, Master Hiro. Frederick is in his 'man cave.' I imagine you have some idea of the activities he is indulging in at the moment." As usual, Hiro couldn't bite back a chuckle at the butler's obvious discomfort. "Thanks, Heathcliff."
The butler nodded, then paused, holding out one hand in a halting gesture. "If you would like to clean yourself, the bathroom to the left of us will be open for your convenience. I will have a warm towel and fresh clothes made ready for your disposal.
"Thanks!" This time the smile was a bit more genuine. "I'd love that." Heathcliff merely nodded, pacing back toward the kitchen with his usual practiced strut, clenching the sopping shoes between two fingers. Hiro shook his head, a small smile gracing his lips, and made his way across to the living room, through which he could access Fred's comic room. He stepped into the dark space — and there it was again. Shoot. Hiro barely managed to censor himself, pinching his arm to keep himself alert. Nope. Not panicking. Not panicking. Not-
The little statues and decorations around him were already morphing. Hiro could feel his heart speeding up, mind spinning, eyes aching as exhaustion made the scene around him spin and twist. Shadowed villains took form out of old pillows, statues becoming machines, lasers blazing…
"Just get to the room." Hiro muttered, the sudden burst of clarity shooting like a ray of light through his twisted mind. He stared down at the blood-red carpet, socks digging into the plush thread. He reached for the corner of the thick darkwood tabletop in front of him, forcing his feet forward. One. Two. Three. Four. Hiro took a shaky breath, dragging it in past the tightening, claustrophobic feeling squeezing his chest. Shadows shifted and formed around him. Stop. Just stop. His outstretched hand bumped into something and he flinched violently, half-expecting a scar-faced man to be gleering down at him, sick eyes sparkling with malice. But it was nothing but the door he'd been so desperately looking for. Relief spun, forced up. This still wasn't right. Hiro paused, one hand on the silver knob. He couldn't even form a coherent thought past the swirling images invading his mind and leaving him shaking and weak. What horrors lay beyond that door? Fear gripped him tight, squeezing his lungs harder and harder while his vision tunneled. Everything was so confusing. A cacophony of noises were swelling around him, blocking out anything that was real. His hand hovered on the knob.
"Hiro?" And then the images were gone, pressed back into the corner of his mind by pure fear alone, and he whirled. There stood Fred, wrapped in a plush bathrobe, spindly arms full of bags of chips and cookies and things. "Hey, Fred." Hiro managed to choke out. His mind realized it was over, but apparently his body hadn't caught up yet. He felt almost as if he'd just thrown up — shaky, empty, faint. But better than he had been. "How a-are you?"
"I'm awesome, dude!" Fred practically bellowed. Hiro winced, but the suppressed motion went unnoticed. "Wormhole dropped today, remember?!"
"Yeah!" Hiro hoped beyond belief that the false joy wasn't so obvious. In his defense, it was extremely hard to care about video games in his current situation. Even if it was the one they'd been waiting for ever since they'd first heard of it months ago. Tinges of fear pressed into his mind, but he forced them aside. "You playing now?"
"Yeah!" Fred popped a cookie in his mouth, spraying crumbles everywhere. "Wanna join? You'll love it! Although, warning, major spoilers if you join me now."
"Meh. It's fine." Hiro shrugged. "It's not every day I get to beat the King of Comics."
Fred snorted. "Oh, it's on now! Like, so on it's off!"
"What does that even mean?" Hiro laughed, following his taller friend into the orange-and-blue couch and sitting down, ignoring the squelching sounds his soaked clothes made. Plenty worse things had come into the superhero room than a little water. "I have no idea!" Fred shot back, hitting play and chucking a controller at Hiro's head. "Let's go!"
See, this was why Hiro loved Fred. He didn't ask what Hiro was doing up at three in the morning, or fret over how wet he was, or remind him of his schoolwork (like he didn't stress about it enough already), or ask why on earth Hiro had been standing alone in a pitch-black room, or notice that his hands still shook slightly as he slammed his fingers into the controller's buttons.
And the shadows crowding around the edges of the television screen?
Those were his demons to face another day.
A/N: This is entirely not my original plan, but Hiro doesn't like to cooperate with me, so I'm happy with how it turned out. We're not gonna talk about the changed design of Fred's mansion, or Aunt Cass just not being in existence. Those are not important things. Focus on the stress.
My original plan was to show how proficient a fifteen year old can be at preventing panic attacks. He was supposed to sneak upstairs, realizing what was coming, and very rationally taking a shower, grabbing a banana and tea, putting music on and crawling under the covers. Like almost breaking was normal.
Shoot. This hits too close to home.
Whyyyyy are all my favorite characters tortured people who can't talk about their feelings… this feels like it should mean something…
MOVING ON- you guys tell me what you think? Thanks!
God Bless- Grace
