Rico's mouth, half-curled up into a laugh, abruptly stops. He stays like that for a second, expression unchanging, mood soured by the reminder that something had happened he didn't want it to. He had forgotten for only a second, caught up in the whirlwind of great ideas and pounding hangovers, and the brief moment of terrible clarity shows through in his warm eyes. And he knows it, which is twice as infuriating. This is why he doesn't show his damn face.

At least Zenyatta offers an alternate topic, one that he latches onto. "I did," he says, recovering as his face changes into something more natural. It feels vaguely uncomfortable seeing the world without the tinted darkness of his visor - must be the hangover - and launches himself off the couch, tottering only slightly, to find his damn shades. The bag of candy he flings to the side as he nudges things to the side with his foot, keeping his face turned away from Zenyatta in the vague fear that he looks and finds something there. "I remember. Why, you saying you wanna dance?"