Rico's shoulder tenses when he feels Zenyatta's hand on his arm, but slowly - very slowly - relaxes. He feels - strange at the thought. Somewhere in the back of his head he's still tense, like he's jacked up on zziz, his thoughts vibrating hard in his skull. The anger so visceral he could feel it aching in his teeth. He focuses on the cool digits on his skin, letting it pull him out of his seething pit of emotion. But the worst of it was largely over, relegated to background noise. As it always was.

"Fine," he says tersely, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. He moves to shrug him off, but seems to stop last second. With a sharp exhale, he rolls himself up, guided by Zenyatta's hand. His jaws unclench, and his hands fall slack. "Whatever. Where are my shades? Everything's too damn bright in here."

There's an upturned couch not far from them, split open and spilling genuine down feathers everywhere like a man hit by the zoom-tube with his guts out (Rico's metaphors may be a little skewed). That wouldn't be a bad place for them to sit on, if nobody minds having an explosion of fluff sticking to them.