Chapter Text
At 5:30am sharp every morning, Ingo rises in sync with his brother. The two do not use an alarm; with the sense of time so deeply entwined in their systems. One rises with a smile, the other a frown, and they begin to prepare for this day like any other day. Wednesday. Every day, always the same.
Well, mostly the same. After having raided their pantry, Elesa had discovered several boxes of expired and forgotten cereal. Ever since, she had been forcing them to eat breakfast, going so far as to monitor their cereal levels.
Ingo paused in his step before they could retrieve their coat and hat. “Emmet, we must eat.”
Emmet’s smile twitched. “I am Emmet. I am not hungry.”
As much as Ingo agreed, Elesa knew them far too well for any lie or excuse to get past her. One shared look with his brother reminded him of this, and that they would never hear of the end of it from Elesa if they did not eat. Besides, he could begrudgingly agree that perhaps she had a point. Though coffee was strong enough to wake the two of them, he could not deny that his and Emmet’s morning performance was lacking in comparison to the afternoon and evening. This discrepancy could very easily be attributed to a lack of sustenance.
As such, Ingo attempted to make the experience easier on his brother, “It is unfortunate, but with food we should have more energy to conduct more exciting battles.” Though it was a petty excuse to make them eat, Ingo could not deny the thrill of excitement from the mere prospect of a more exciting battle.
Emmet sighed, though his smile remained strong. “That is verrrry annoying. I will get our coats and hats. You will get the cereal. Always on schedule!” He said.
“Bravo, Emmet!” Ingo congratulated his brother on being willing to adapt the schedule. Emmet never was good with change.
He went about his task, retrieving bowls, spoons, and milk. Begrudgingly, he removed Frosted Wheats from the pantry. He admitted that he did somewhat enjoy them, and yet the process of eating the little wheats made his jaw ache. He set the table and poured an even amount of each into the bowls. Task completed, he refused to sit until his brother returned.
Ingo glanced up to the hallway of their apartment. Grabbing the coats should have been a shorter task than preparing the breakfast. Surely, Emmet should be back by now? Ingo could not hear any movement, either. His frown deepening, Ingo called out, “Emmet?”
Silence.
Ingo felt his heart rate increasing as absurd situations rose into his mind, none of which possible because they would have made sound. He pushed them down, aware that the mind tended to focus on more fearful things than probable things. Emmet may have seen a triggering message on his Xtrans. He would be scared, but he would be okay.
Ingo opened the door to Emmet’s bedroom first, and then his own. Both were empty. Mild fear rose into panic. Why couldn’t he see his brother? “Emmet!” Ingo called out again, the shelves rumbling with his booming voice.
Again, only silence greeted him.
He ran to his own closet first, still standing in the doorway. His hat and coat were missing, but he hardly noticed, among the spares. He pushed through the clothes, maybe Emmet was hiding on the ground, huddled and shaking.
He wasn’t.
Ingo sprinted to his brother’s closet, but it was pristine. Unchanged, Emmet’s closet had not been touched since last night. Ingo’s hands dived through the fabric, and he winced as Emmet’s hat fell, knocking into him as it landed on the ground. He went completely still as he failed to find Emmet here, either.
Ingo sent a desperate message on his Xtrans and combed the rest of the apartment. He looked in every small place, anywhere that Emmet could be hiding, but he found nothing. Even their Pokémon found nothing, and Chandelure was strangely still. He sank to the ground in Emmet’s doorway, facing away from the room. Emmet’s white hat lay upside down next to the closet.
Emmet was nowhere to be found.
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It is cold. Verrrry cold.
The man holds his arms to his chest. He shivers, trying and failing to make sense of the world around him. He is surrounded by white, white, and more white. Snow? He was uncertain, but he thought it was not supposed to be snowing yet. Not for another few months. Maybe?
White, white, everything white, except for the swath of black in his arms. A black coat and a black hat. He knows this black coat, this black hat, he knows them so well, but why are they in his arms? They should be on someone else’s arms. But, somehow, it’s his coat too? He knows he wears a coat just like this. But what is the difference?
He can’t remember.
“I am—” he begins, speaking in an attempt to make sense of the world around him. But even that fails, as the final word is caught in his throat. He tries again, quieter, “I am—” what? Who?
“I am verrrry cold,” He speaks again, too quickly, a desperate need for the sentence to be completed. “I do not like cold.” That was the first thing he was absolutely certain of. He may not know how to end his own sentence, why this black coat is and isn’t his, why there was snow, but he knows that it is cold and that he does not like the cold.
He held the black coat and black hat in his hands. His clothes were verrrrry thin. He knew this coat, and that it was no winter coat. But it was something. He raised his hands to put on the black hat but hesitated as an uncomfortable feeling leapt in his stomach. This was not right; he should not be wearing this hat.
But a blustering gust bit his ears, and he hastily finished the action. He shivered violently as the wind cut through his thin shirt and pulled on the black coat before the rising discomfort could delay him any longer. He was able to define the feeling at least a little more—this was wrong. So verrrry wrong, and it shook him to his very core.
And yet, he was certain as he pulled the black sleeves to his quickly numbing fingers, that the black coat should be in his arms. Not on them, like it is now, but in them. He saw shadows and glimpses of another hand in this black sleeve, glimpses of that hand pulling him closer. He had been verrrry scared then, too. It made him feel safe, then.
It was cold. The man did not feel safe. But he felt better, just a little bit, to have this coat around him. Even if it was not his.
Maybe it wasn’t just his fingers that were numb. Maybe it was the rest of him too. He looks at the fingers that were too numb to be his, clutching the end of the black sleeve. Maybe the fingers are the right fingers, and they are hugging him. He just can’t feel it. The idea made him feel warm. Sleepy. Yes, he was verrrry sleepy.
He startled at a dark blur through the endless white. That couldn’t be right, the black is with him? He felt himself frown, but instantly rectified the expression. He became certain of one more thing at that moment, he controls his expressions carefully. Verrry carefully.
The dark blur came to a stop in front of him. The man blinked a few times, but it did not change. “You are a cat.”
That’s not right.
But the man did not have a chance to think of it anymore, as the “cat” picked him up and put him somewhere small. Small and dark. The man liked small spaces; nothing was too big to handle when he was in a small space. He huddled to himself. It was so small, only he could fit in the space. But the black coat fit too. He didn’t understand, but that was okay. He wasn’t sure what he would do without the black coat.
He was a little less cold, too. But he was still sleepy. He closed his eyes. It was time to sleep.