Author's Notes: This is my first Big Hero 6 fic. This movie made me cry, and made me laugh, and it really deserves more fanfic. I thought I'd contribute; I hope you enjoy.

Goodbyes

Hiro's three years old on the day of the funeral, an unruly child with an unruly shock of thick, black hair.

His Aunt Cass has been up half the night with final arrangements – reservations and attendance, a thousand and one ordinary considerations in circumstances that are anything but ordinary. Hiro knows none of this. He knows only that when his Aunt helps him slip his arms into the sleeves of his new black jacket, his hair hasn't been brushed yet.

Most mornings, it's part of his mother's routine. She sits him down on her lap, and she smooths her fingers through it, and she laughs and says, "It's like a bird's nest," or "How on earth you get it this tangled in your sleep, I'll never know." She pulls the brush through slow and careful, so the knots don't snag.

Hiro loves his Aunt Cass. She's great fun, always full of energy – but she doesn't fix his hair the same way. Hiro hopes his mom will be back in time to do it this morning.

He knows that his parents are gone, of course. Aunt Cass told him. So did Tadashi.

But Hiro is a clever boy, for his age. He knows that his parents are never gone for more than a day or two when they dress up fancy and leave for what Tadashi calls "date nights." On those days, like now, he and Tadashi sleep over at Aunt Cass' place, in the spare room up the stairs in her café. They share a bed that's filled with air, but maybe they've come over often enough, because yesterday Aunt Cass was talking about getting them real beds.

Hiro doesn't see why they need real beds. He likes to bounce on the one that's filled with air, and it's been good enough till now.

When his jacket's on, Aunt Cass ties a slip of black cloth around Hiro's neck, beneath the collar, and she smiles at him, eyes watery. She says, "You're such brave boy, Hiro."

And Hiro says, "Uh huh. I went down the slide by myself last week." He grins a gap-toothed grin at her, half-anticipating an objection from Tadashi. He's not supposed to go down the slide by himself; his big brother says it's too dangerous. But no objection comes, and his Aunt Cass kisses him on the forehead and turns away. As soon as she does, small fingers are already reaching for the tie, working it loose.

The quiet chime of the doorbell comes, and Aunt Cass wipes at her eyes. She says, "Tadashi, keep an eye on your brother, please?" Then her footsteps are on the stairs, slow and steady, all the way down.

"C'mere, kiddo," Tadashi says. He's tall for an eight-year-old, long in the face. He looks very grown up in the slim, black lines of his suit, and his eyes are red and puffy. "Let's fix your hair."

Hiro throws himself down onto the air-bed – springs back up with the squishy buoyancy of the thing. Tadashi doesn't say a word about how Hiro's going to let all the air out, like he usually does.

Downstairs, the sound of Aunt Cass' voice comes in soft waves, too low to make out words.

"Who's here?" Hiro asks, as Tadashi wets his hair down with water. The prongs of the brush slip in and snag briefly, but his big brother works his fingers in down by the scalp to reduce the tug, just like mom does.

"Mom and dad's friends," Tadashi says, after a minute. "People who want to say bye."

The motion of the brush is smooth and steady, with only little hitches now and again as Tadashi undoes the tangles.

"I'm not gonna say bye," Hiro announces. "I don't want to."

Tadashi's hand stills. He rests the palm, warm and gentle, on the crown of Hiro's head.

"No one wants to, Hiro." There's a sound, like Tadashi's throat is working – like perhaps he means to say more. But nothing else comes, except for a strange, soft huff of air, like his brother's breathing funny. A few seconds later, the brush resumes its motion.

It keeps moving, even and careful, long after the resistance is all gone. It keeps moving as the doorbell rings downstairs, again and again, and Aunt Cass speaks in hushed tones that barely reach their ears.

It keeps moving until Tadashi says, "C'mon. We'd better get going."

When Hiro turns to climb down off the bed, the little boy that greets him in the mirror is pale and neat, with hair that's slick and tidy, combed back from his face.

He catches a glimpse of his brother, there beside him in the reflection, and sees that Tadashi has been crying.

Down the stairs, the world is full of people in black. They touch Hiro's shoulders or hold his hands, and they talk about how hard it must be. Hiro doesn't see what's supposed to be so hard.

He stands next to Tadashi as they lower two long, black boxes into the ground. Tadashi's fingers are clenched tight on his own, and they shake.

Much later, when Hiro's skin smells like soap from the bath and he's wearing his robot-print pajamas, Aunt Cass kisses them each on the cheek and pulls up the covers. "Good night, boys," she says, as her finger flips the light switch. "If you need me, I'm right down the hall."

Tadashi's arms wind around Hiro when she's gone, wiry but strong. His big brother bends his head to rest his forehead against the collar of Hiro's pajamas.

"I went with dad to pick these out," he says, voice muffled, into the tiny figures of the robots. "Last Christmas."

"They're neat," Hiro tells him. They're his favorites, actually; once they'd been in the wash at bedtime, and Hiro had cried his eyes out and refused to sleep without them. He runs his thumb over the soft fabric now, over the deep purple of the cloth and the intricate grey parts of the constructs in the foreground.

It's warm, here, in the spare room over the café. The blankets are close around him, and he can feel his brother's heartbeat, a steady, muffled rhythm. Tadashi's hair is smooth and clean, pressed against his cheek. They've both been allowed to stay up late, seeing out guests, and Hiro can already feel sleep starting to tug at him.

"Tadashi?" he mumbles.

His brother shifts a little, pulls back enough so that Hiro can see his expression in the dim lighting. "Yeah?" Through the cracks of the window's closed blinds, the lights of San Fransokyo filter in, splashes of white and color against Tadashi's face.

"When're mom and dad coming home?"

He doesn't know what he expects. It's certainly not to see his big brother, who always has the answers, fall apart like cereal sitting too long in milk.

Tadashi's face crumples, and he bites his lip. Then he starts to cry: long, ugly, wracking sobs that Hiro thinks will wake Aunt Cass for sure. The arms around Hiro are shaking.

"They're not," Tadashi gasps out. "They're not."

Hiro thinks of long, dark boxes going down into the earth. He thinks of Aunt Cass, red-eyed in her pretty black dress. He thinks of his mother's fingers in his hair, working out the snags oh-so-carefully.

Hiro closes small fingers on the back of Tadashi's pajamas, and he holds on as tight as he can. And he wishes, for the first time, that he'd said goodbye.