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Of all the things Emmet thought there'd need to be adjusting to after Ingo came back in a flurry of snow and tears, one of them wasn't- well. Not adjusting. At least, the gestalt of his walk hasn't found sufficient reason to change, posture be damned. Emmet can still pluck the familiar tune of his brother out of even a commute line's tinny nest, reliably, sighingly.
…Not that he'd need to, anymore. He's a mere feet free from the train, and already, the immutable swish from Ingo's coat is filling in behind him. The rustle within his messenger bag, and the all-important CLACK, CLACK of his uniform shoes. Ingo finds Emmet like a volcarona to a fluorescent, announcing itself in hardy buzzes and smacks.
A new sound, an old sound, kicks up a rugose solo in today's chorus- incredibly noisy huffs that, Emmet has since learned, is polite to not talk over. Even if he doesn't want to hear what's coming. (Especially if he doesn't want to hear it.)
"Hooo! Been a while since I've had to catch my breath," Ingo marvels, and what must be a fist tempers off some canorous thup-thups from his too broad ribs. "I must guess that I'm slacking." The 'Nimbasa transit spoils us' goes unsaid.
Literally- that's usually Emmet's line. For his part, he keeps his eyes trained on the ground like he's done this entire time, watching his own lunging boots stream over upturned grout, eye-catching earrings, and… hm, more than a few waxing twisters of slippery trash. It's Wednesday, right? Garbodor, sweet Garbodor. With Tangela taking over, he won't have to be rushed through his litter-loitering today!
He twinges when Ingo pervadingly makes this an 'us' problem. "Emmet, I know black leather is rather flashy, but do keep your eyes up," he attempts, intolerably kind. "It isn't wise in a place like Nimbasa's sidewalks."
Emmet's utter non-response should speak for itself, by all accounts.
"...Aaand I'm already wearing my conductor's coat! You know they'll start converging on us any minute." Polite as ever, Ingo speaks back to the silence. "I can already see a passenger in high heels, half-heartedly wondering if we're employees. She's squinting between us and her ticket. There's some backpackers looking pretty- no, wait- getting chewed out by Cloud! No wonder they seem lost. A customer's herdier is eyeing your bandolier with, er… lots of teeth and speckled gums. Aren't you carrying my Magnezone today?" he rushes out, voice notching up an octave.
Roughly enough time for meaningless sass that doesn't come goes by, before- thud, thud, rustle-rustle-SWISH!- Ingo takes it upon himself to walk side-by-side with Emmet, forcibly assuring a track nix debris and delay, as their combined strut sutures up a helplessly formidable force.
Too late, Emmet glances up. Their eyes meet awkwardly, and they look away terribly.
"Anyway," Ingo shoehorns on a gusty inhale, "did I accidentally wake you? Our team's antics last night more than warranted a reprimand! I remember when we first caught little Axew, I thought, 'This will be great. He won't be as sneaky as Litwick or Tynamo'."
Emmet can practically hear Ingo's lips warble, laminate and giddy. "So. It wasn't enough for him to get free roam outside of his pokeball. Not enough to peer pressure my sweet, responsible, good baby Glissy into escaping, either. He had to see if gnawing the couch in half would finally work if they just did it… together!"
Another missed beat passes. Emmet lets it, grimacing in all but his face.
"Guess that answers my question," Ingo muses belatedly.
Half a platform left.
The soundless plaster of subway rush is impossible to take comfort in now. He supposes all the morning talk they'd missed out on has to end up somewhere. Even Ingo's heatless, routine summary of whatever Emmet's dead faint had let him softly snore through utterly pierces the 9 o'clock roar.
Because Ingo had been groundedly silent from the moment he'd seen Emmet's face that morning, and all between the single 'ready?' he'd uttered at the door before they left, slinging his coat over his shoulder in a tight fist, then the bustling passenger line that had sweatily pried them several cars apart, until he's inadmissibly trying to have all of it… right now.
Emmet can see the logic behind it, as much as he wants to say it's negligible. Mornings are a weary convulse of experiences like frissions, of snuffling pokemon flocking him like the secret service and eternally woozy with mal de debarquement. Silence is often the most fricative communication that one of them just can't stomach much more at the moment, though chasing down his bitter fix of coffee with a creamy smooth train ride usually cures that right up.
Today is no different. Ingo abides in a practiced dance by the confines of lazy granite tile, and for it, Emmet gets to pull ahead. What he does is always the same.
And then Ingo says, "I had a dream-"
Oh, dragons. He's resorting to the inherent nonsensicality of dreams.
"-that I was trying to finish a puzzle. But you kept eating the pieces. Putting butter on them like toast, then- these horrible wooden crunches- and gone."
Eyes wrinkled and desperate, Emmet ducks into his shoulders, grinching the brim of his oversized cap until it snugly shadows his s… face.
The crowd pulses and swells around them, eclipsing the way out in familiar taunting. Mouths shoot that flat smile like a high-noon standoff at Emmet. He pretends not to see them. People shuffle, visibly startled and murmuring, out of their wake. He pretends it wasn't their turn anyway. The sorriness would surely be paralytic, if he wasn't just that trifle closer to the stairwell breaking him off from the rest of bountiful Gear Station.
"And you said, 'ssch-ssk-orry!'. Like that, since you were chewing cardboard. But you're not sorry!" Full speed ahead, Ingo only seems to be getting louder, more frantic. "Because it wasn't even one of those dull, thoughtless blunders, right? You were trying to argue with me that 'if you just ate them in matching rows, the picture would still be mostly complete'."
They at last meet the congested staircase, a scending narrow where it's all feet and hands, and the musty needle of fresh-pressed clothes overtakes even the constant salty wick of human and pokemon. On his own, Emmet struggles to tempt his way in with grunts and winging elbows before the throng can even think of adopting him.
A misty mantra of the fizzling afternoons floats up on reflex- when mostly everyone has arrived safely at their jobs, battles are in progress, and the bone-deep itch like a pressure cooker inevitably thins out. It sounds suspiciously like Ingo. Like the faraway advice that never worked.
"B-but how could you know which ones would match? I hadn't completed it yet!!" Ingo flies up after him, stumbling and confused, but the smile never leaves his voice. He wonders which of them is more like a lilipup, at this rate- Ingo, who's hopeful waltz literally and startlingly clips at his heels? Or Emmet, bounding on ahead, always ahead?
Three more steps.
"C-c'mon! Not, ghhk, even a lah- laugh?" Ingo pants and barks out, somewhere far outside his muddy periphery. Two.
The central hub of below-ground Gear Station opens up like a mouth full with teeth. Like Eelektross's mouth, wet and red and stinky, mewling out from a yawning concord of whirled yellow nubs, and a bit cute despite it all.
One.
It's graceless, and it's mean, and if Ingo did the same thing, Emmet would probably cry long and gulpingly about it into Archeop's absorbant feathers later. As it is, Emmet takes a breath. Emmet surges forward. He loses himself into the crowd as soon as possible.
***
Ingo would think, after some 50 odd years, things would eventually settle down. Life would stop feeling like a test- He'd find his comfortable 9 to 5- Drink beer on Sunday's!- And constantly recount old stories with his brother.
And, well, he does HAVE all of that, (except the beer), but he can't stop feeling remarkably like the only kid still on question Number 2 of the quiz, five minutes until the bell. Rolling his pencil between his fingers, the words around his head in bunnelby dustclouds, his tongue over the gaps in his teeth.
Ingo picks a different tile to stand lifelessly on- leftward, and dirtier. What is it that Emmet likes to say, about changes of scenery? Surely such a drastic bend in the track will let him think more freely!
And… he sighs. Just sighs.
It had something to do with the bulletin board, always giving Emmet dread. Wage changes for the worse, seminar dates on weekends, safety recommendations marked 'closed' without a response. But, filtering it through Ingo before seeing the updates for himself lessens the stomach knot like a wonder. Everything his brother can do nothing about on one big, blaring board.
He's been standing here way too long, but it's an itch hot on his brain like soggy socks after a puddle, with the apartment already far behind him. What could be worth calling Emmet for? Maybe about the powers that may be (Nimbasa Transit Authority) reducing the minimum on-duty nap period from 90 minutes to 60? About the Conductor exams nearing a close? (Hah!) About flagmen being officially waged under track workers? (Tough luck, Furze.)
"INGO, hey!"
NCTA. Exams. Flagmen. Wheels scream against the burning pressure of a curve. Ugh- why does he think the few seconds until he can't pretend it was a passerby greeting would be any more enlightening than the past 17 minutes? …Corporate app, fatigue management plans, delay complaints-!
"Hey, Ingo!" Cameron spices it up, pedalled to him fairy-like on feet that go with speed AND haste. …What is it that Emmet says, about 'treating others how you want to be treated'?
She sighs happily when Ingo turns around, and engages her momentum in an impatient backward-bounce just as quick. "So! I'm getting off shift soon, but overtime means I'm not gonna be on call, so I should tell you- but the SD train was making this really? Horrible noise? And I thought it was something really awful and big. But it was just the air-con! And I'm really glad we're able to take care of those in the yard," a sooty thumb is jabbed over her shoulder, "because now I don't have to sign in for a battle shift!"
"That's great to know, Cameron. But, I don't run the SD." Through the professionality, he can't help a slight confused quirking of his brow. "Wouldn't it be more efficient, if safer, to let Emmet know?"
"I did tell Emmet! I'm good at my job. But, ah, he didn't seem very… receptive?" It hangs there, like she's asking for permission.
"Receptive? Why ever not? What do you mean?"
He says the words just to say them. To feel normal. To be in a world where he doesn't already know.
She smiles sheepishly, as whatever she sees in his face seems to be all the confirmation she needed. Her gloves are loosened delicate and thoughtful, an elegant pinch by the tip of each finger. "Well- he isn't smiling, is he?"
Ingo's heart sinks, then takes root, hard and fast as a lileep. So he's even letting it show to passengers, now? If it's truly so affecting… All thoughts of the bulletin seem to swipe away in one awful, heavy-handed smudge, inky and futile.
"It's just, I know he talks to you," (ow) "like, all the time," (ooch) "so if he tells you something's wrong, you can help him." (Guhhh.) "Just-" startled out of her softness, the glove he'd watched fret and scootch back into place now flicks dismissively, "'If you hear a funny noise, I'm not on call, avoid the sixth car.' I just thought somebody else should know, in case he, um. Doesn't."
Cameron flees pointedly to her back foot, disjointed and silent. Ignoring how awkward it is to stop her when she's already spinned 180 away, Ingo pushes through his mild shock to say, "You should sign in for a small battle shift, though."
Her arms shrug to him, fierce utility-beige hijab unshifting. "Pokemon don't listen to me like my machines do. You would-" a pause, "would you understand that?" his engineer asks, with no room for answer behind it.
Ingo thinks to say, "We hired you because you're a talented trainer," but within the second, feels that it's much too comforting for how professionally she's cowed. Even if it's true! Then, "You're underleveled", which he unfailingly responds to with an internal "That's rude, Emmet." …Even if it's true.
He nods to her sagely, settled on a happy medium. "Many people have called the Battle Subway- particularly Emmet's lines- easy experience grinds. And winning is hardly never fun."
The shrug becomes a shimmer. Her gloves slip off with finality, whole-clutched and mindless like wringing a towel, and in clean dusky hands, her thumbnail kindly chips at a pokeball kept stashed in one of her endless pockets. "I suppose if Karrablast is going to help me work on the SD train, we might as well savour the fruits of our labor."
And because, once Cameron disappears in a flash, the only thing left for him here is to think of calling Emmet- a phantom sensation, like swallowing a chip too soon and going still as it cuts his throat- Ingo takes his leave.
***
Maybe it's that tug-of-war bend to the elastic behind his ear, of the unconscious haught to keep his chin snugly in the underjaw cuff. A casual precaution against the common cold, Emmet had put it on after Cameron came in chipper as usual, and left looking more defeated than... also usual. Maybe it's the customers then thinking he's sick, and choosing to stand even farther away (than what's normal of an arena with repeated attacks from literal fire and garbage and boulders), so he has to talk louder and-
Either way, the mask makes it even worse.
BZZT!
His downfall is at the sauntering refrains of what could be an accordion, or saxophone, or a really weird piano (Emmet lost track of instruments after the Moog synthesizer was invented). His mind flashes with uncomfortable clarity to blue-lit bedspread and a dopey smile at the 'gradually increase volume' setting, and, embarrassed beyond belief, he naturally takes twice as long to turn off his x-trans alarm than if he hadn't been.
Emmet's current challenger giggles with far too much dark omniscience for their squishy pre-teen cheeks. "Oops! Is that your lunch alarm? Sorry, I won't keep you much longer."
And they absolutely obliterate Magnezone. The pang of That's MY pokemon you've just hurt! is always secondary to the direly hilarious shock of GIGA DRAIN?!, his partner collapsing to the ground as a chunk of X-eyed metal after Whimsicott's charming whorl of gently melodious sparkles.
He's distantly glad that train-battle etiquette puts the exit behind him as he works his victory speech through unconsciously gritted teeth, meaning they have no choice but to listen to him all the way before he bows out of the aisle, and the trainer can sweep through the whooshing doors like they're already over it.
Meaning they also don't see Emmet's headshake when it's over, lugubrious and quietly unstopping as he stands there.
What he wouldn't give to swap with Ingo's low register, his timbre like a ground tremor. Drayden always did say he inherited it cutthroat from Mom, his darling in-law. Emmet, personally, gets a haunted thrill from right after his own laugh, when Drayden goes verrry still, and his eyes go white-ringed, and his beard stops ruffling with air. Emmet knows exactly what that is, and it's beautiful. It means he sounds ju-
Emmet's whole body startles. Then it startles again, as the subway car finishes blazing over its unexpected rumple in the track. Isn't that important meeting about rail fatigue upcoming soon? He should… it'd definitely be some genre of 'necessary' and 'eventually' to check the bulletin board.
The sound of something metallic roll-roll-rollicking across the ribbed floor absolutely doesn't help the unpleasant jolt of his stomach- the one time Cameron's off call, and something breaks?!- but he lets out a literal sigh of relief to see it's just Crustle's Rocky Helmet knocked off in the collateral, tipping to a stop at one of the long and robust plastic blue upholsteries.
Arriving at it, Emmet's hand finds the seat first, and he'd be verrry happy if he could lower himself with grace! But, giving up to gravity halfway through, his long legs kick a lost little flail as his behind joins the bench hard.
He blinks. This is good! This is efficient. The helmet is claimed without fanfare, and he's already sitting down for the main event, so all he needs is the star, his Crustle, who-
...Hasn't budged an inch its since its full-throttle pout brought it bursting from its pokeball before the PC could even finish its pleasant chiptune chime. The PC, all the way across the train cab.
He hopes it isn't because Crustle is feeling his age in a self-same way. They didn't warn Emmet about THIS at the beginning of his journey, that he one day wouldn't have the body to freely bend and kneel and fuss on the hard, joint-denting ground. Either Crustle comes here-cutie-pie-c'mon!, or he goes into the next battle without an item to clutch for protection.
And Crustle always wears his striped, studded Rocky Helmet.
Start off small and clear. He locks eyes with Crustle as temptingly as he can for lack of a- well, wearing a mask!- and scritches the plastic with fingers like a prey, twitchy and begging to be waddled toward and sniffed curiously. Turning into joyful drumming an uneventful minute later. Becoming repeated and rapid pats, doubled over with the force of it, something that would have Excadrill stealing his arms in milliseconds, but for the silent cab is a percussive tantrum.
Crustle doesn't react.
He moists his lips, then whistles singly. Pierces the air in kisses. Clicks his tongue off of his front teeth, and even does that 'pspspsps!' noise that had Ingo cracking up for days, and Iris getting a fond wash of nostalgia over her youthful countenance.
Crustle seems even more confused, if not deterred, than before, taking evolutionary advantage of his shelter to duck a significant portion of his slow-moving limbs beneath it.
It's a downright staring contest. The brilliant empathy of the pokemon he's raised- of most tamed pokemon- is often a genuine shock. But sometimes he thinks they're bitterly good at reminders that animals are just animals, and don't understand what a 'bad day' is, or why it means he 'just needs them to do things right'.
Not without being shown.
Finally, Emmet lays face down on the subway seat, inchworming his legs until he miserably fills out its berth, and cries.
The sniffles are easiest to fake, though they snag along a suspicious whiff of transit-sour. His disturbed breath hitches harder alongside it, shoulders leaping, and wow, he would do this for literally NO ONE ELSE, CRUSTLE!
CLLLACK. SCRUFUFU VVVRRRR TUP-TUP-TUP. "Cccrrr? Ssss?"
For good measure, he keeps his head down in his folded arms' darkness for a few more cough worths, and when he chances a peek between thin wrists, his vision is utterly filled with the familiar muted hues of Crustle's cake-slice rock, layers like drizzles and innumerable crackled edge-chips.
'Gotcha!' Emmet doesn't say, because every millisecond of effort is precious as he wrests and soothes the Rocky Helmet onto finicky, betrayed Crustle. A silent song-and-dance, until his partner reluctantly accepts the helm's precarious socketing onto that buggy head, and he backs off to find it much more unrewarding than he honestly thought it would be.
Emmet throws in a few genuine whines at the end, trying to fight the vaguely foreboding and unfair feeling of using Crustle's own concern against him, that boy-who-cried-zorua shame. Back-throat and keening, himself melted truly into the backrest, it isn't even hard.
There's an eager scuttling from the ground by his legs, and then, Crustle headbutts him with all the affection of that beautiful bond between trainer and Pokemon.
Emmet, with fondness, can already feel his shins sporting an indecent parade of rock-shaped bruises.
***
Ingo's resignation is a quiet admission. He stops holding the ticket up to the light after a respectable amount of time has passed, and Probopass instantly gets in the way. "Anville Town," he guesses, because that's usually what confuses people the most, and feels comfortable handing it back after Probopass's pleased grundle. The pokemon has a knack for spotting ticket discrepancies, even if, 90 percent of the time, sticking its nose in the business slows the transaction to an ostensible crawl.
Resisting the reflex to tip down his cap, Subway Boss Ingo sends the kind old woman on her doddering way with a wave and as cute of a head-tilt as he can manage. He hopes he told her something that was actually useful. No- that was actually information at all. He's been spacing out pretty spectacularly, to be honest.
Though. 'Space' implies there's any remaining room in his head.
Ingo champs his teeth down for a gurning squeeze, as if he can bite any functions of language dead and violently in half. This better not be, (in the way that he can already feel it is,) one of those issues that has to crackled over static and beeped and paused about, before the red signal's candy cast can finally ease up its sticky flickering behind his eye sockets.
It's a favor that Ingo would love to return to Emmet. His brother rarely bothers to take it to heart when Ingo's in a mood, and it's only ever his passionate insistence of "What does it all mean? What did you mean? This can't happen again," that can make Emmet sneak away to sniffle bitterly.
2 years. For two years, he survived a world where Emmet was miles and centuries away. He can weather an afternoon without working so closely with his brother! Or talking to him. Or thinking about him at every damn turn. Yes, that's it! No more reminders, Ingo tells himself, tougher than a New Year's resolution. How often are siblings in perfect camaraderie, anyway?
Going back to his listless patrol. Pacing up and down in perfect pattern with the welcoming middle of glossy porcelain tiles. The sidelong acknowledgement that he couldn't give anything his 'every effort!' right now has him thoroughly glad there's no upcoming battle, while wishing dearly that at least one trainer would square up already and require him on the Singles.
"DAaAd!" a child shouts raspily (so, whispers) as they emerge in skips from Gear Station's dim roundabout. Ingo is all but ready to tune them out, the only real choice for accompanied children in public transit, when he's put in absolute standby-
"At's him! Tha's the train guy! Can I seeee him?" they yelp excitedly. Ingo doesn't make eye contact, not yet, and actually feels rather stealthy as he turns his better ear towards them. Probopass, facing North, doesn't turn.
"No, I don't think so," an older voice, the fabled Dad, mouths out his decision slowly. "I saw him donning a sick-mask earlier. On the other platform."
"What's 'donning' mean?"
"Another word for 'wearing'."
"Oh." A beat. "No you DIDN'T. That was his TWIN," their squeaky voice says, utterly exasperated. "That's their THING."
...That's their thing? Not the trains? Not the steel-typing? The bugs? Just... twins?
Geez. Maybe they ARE too codependent.
With his line of work that often includes battling against literal children, Ingo knows the 'not actually considering your demands' voice intimately. "Oh, they're twins? So it'd be easier to rent one apartment. He's probably carrying the same cold."
The child protests. "But that's ING-"
"Nnnot something I'm willing to catch during our vacation. Come on." There's no mistaking the parental firmness, and he listens to tiny footsteps patter away amongst suspiciously watery grumbles. He'd normally intervene, but that father has a rather distressed point, and Ingo imagines the kid will understand in time.
Oh Palkia. That Dad has a point.
When Ramses's announcement over the intercom sends Ingo on his Platform Controller (less politely, 'pusher') rounds- imposing flashlight in hands, Probopass nosing people dutifully out of the way, the unfortunate many who had happily schooled themselves onto the yellow line- it's with a pep, a bounce, a shedding in his step.
His brother must be sick! That explains it. Maybe Ingo will get sick too. Then they can have a sick day together! He has a movie he's been meaning to watch. It'll be so much fun.
Oh, and suddenly he's every plastic pacifier his first therapist used to say! "Don't assume the worst. Some people keep their X-transcievers on Do Not Disturb. How others choose to view you is a choice only they can make." No, wait, the last one was Cyllene. Agh, that unminced monument of a woman, he misses her. He imagines his bookshelf at home, the crinkle-spined Sinnoh history tome with a bookmark (never dog eared, scoff!) on a page that offers her washed out portrait.
Discordant screeches, like a car door being slowly nicked by the entire key ring, is what tips Ingo off, before even the baby-doll eyes headlights or polite but underwhelmingly rectangular 'parp! parp!' of electronic train horn. He lets himself toe the yellow line, just a teeny bit, entire body at the ready as Super Double's engine cab approaches.
As it always is in times of concentration, especially without his smile of cast-iron grit, Emmet becomes an impassive vessel for fulfilling his duty. He leans out of the window mildly, aligning his arm with the Zebstrika Board under mechanical precision. Ingo leaps with unnatural excitement on the chance to wave at Emmet, even though it violates NCTA Rules and Regulations part 9.01(j), as has been ritualistically trephined into his skull by his counterpart.
As the train slows, and the green shame of being a suck-up at the first sign of tension plumbs into his lungs, Ingo rushes all of his effort toward still waving. Those bright-eyed trainers seem to trail out of the battle cars as hopefully devastated as ever, thank goodness, but Emmet's just more exhausted. His eyes show it all, face gone into clear halves of implacable frown and placid facemask.
Ingo bounces up to him, and says with too much joy in his boom, "Emmet, are you sick?"
Very purposefully, Emmet rips off his mask. His hand spiders onto it, sticks, then drops like a stone that just happens to take the mask along.
He grits out a "No", solitary, and marches past Ingo without even looking at him.
The world hazes out. A motion sickness whip of animalistic, bleeding-heart cries. Turgid voices wolfing down every mote of echo space. Indignity is a fever-stricken aliveness under his skin and tries poorly to escape, getting stuck at his eyelashes and webbed into a blurry film between disbelieving blinks. And that's not good. He's supposed to be a conductor.
But apparently he's a good conductor, because Ingo grapples for Probopass's Pokeball to discover it's already heavy with the pokemon inside it, the rest of his team recalled from the train cab and packed neatly into his bag. It's kind of scary to think how he could have done that without remembering any of it, but he can't bring himself to chase down that seansel-scratch twinge of feeling. What's at the front of his mind is far scarier.
Because Emmet smiles all. The. Time. He smiles when he's sad- wryly, yes, but one nevertheless- when he's angry, rare and teeth baring- overfried nerves disguised by flavourings of confidence- a cheeky grin can make every distracted mutter feel like a conspiracy- and Ingo has more than a handful of photos of Emmet smiling cartoonishly bright even in his sleep, lips curled at the corners like an etiolated rose.
("Half scared me to death," Ingo had joked at the time. "It looked like rictus!")
More recusingly, he was so bubbly yesterday! Ingo doesn't understand it. Letting newborn joltiks scrabble and fling over every climbable inch on him, playing dangerous pounce-games of Bare Hands versus Sneaslets (and needing more than a few Pecha berries for it). What has happened since then?
The tepid afternoon wades around them, injured low-sun orange that swims down stairwells and stained glass, as Ingo shuffles up behind a ghostly white billow. Too suddenly, he's located Emmet. A volcarona orienting its flight path on born instinct- 'stay parallel to the light'.
"Ready to go home?" he asks to his shoes, softened by weakness.
"Yes." Trite and sharp. Couldn't you have guessed? All they do is go to work together, battle together, go home together, every day.
Oh.
Ingo's dry mouth gapes after Emmet of its own accord, earning him a delayed glare, and which only strengthens that final, dreaded blow.
A kindergartener could've figured it out. It started this morning, when Ingo was the only person around. And it's persisted until now, when Ingo is the only person Emmet is going home to.
Did I do something wrong?
On the train to said home, an Emmet who's this exhausted usually uses Ingo's bony shoulder as a headrest. (Probably the true selfish reason of wanting Ingo to fix his posture, is Emmet lamenting the unbowing propriety of his pillow.) But, this time, he will in fact rustle himself to curl completely away from Ingo. Head down. Mouth clamped. Arms pillowing him against the unforgiving wall.
***
Living in a non-carpeted Nimbasa apartment for as long as he has, Emmet's ears never tire of following the crisp sound of footsteps. A quirk which should make conversation notoriously hard, Ingo understands this, and on some unspoken level, respects it. The evening walk home is the part of the day when they usually joke and chatter and laugh the hardest, but past the atrium doors, it's a quiet reprieve between them. Utter silence from a sibling can sometimes be the best thing in the world.
Today seems to be the opposite.
In twisting halls of apartment pergo, a ground floor means barred-up windows. They'd read enough trainer forums to know the daily commute horror that arise when a pokemon grows up inside, and having to get them down the stairs. They swore they'd never be that dumb. They swore they'd never age a day.
('Laugh lines' is no longer an excuse. Even 'Glowstick joints' suggests an undue youth.)
Keeping just one step ahead, a trailing and sullen voice speaks over the hum of electric lights.
"We're too old for this, you know."
In lieu of reply, Emmet raises his eyebrows. A lazy prompt.
"F-for you to be giving me the silent treatment like this!"
Emmet raises his eyebrows, veritably.
"We have a job together that, very legally, requires us to be in perfect sync. We live in the same house. You're holding HALF my team. We can't afford this."
Chandelure is having an expected ghostly time catching up, levelly cinching the amount of beige hallway between her and her trainer, but slows down even more as they both catch sight of Ingo's fists balling up at his sides.
Emmet can't make himself stand implicitly for much more of this. Convincing himself gently that everything is normal and fine after all, despite the subconscious smushes done to his own face- cheeks, lips, even temples- his jaws pry apart with a promising emptiness, waiting for words, and…
"Ing- UGH!"
He snaps dead shut, and without turning an eyelash, bowls past Ingo to fly toward their approaching home.
Unlocking the door takes an excruciating stretch of record time. The key to crunch and grouch into the knob, deadbolt gulping to the right. Safety yawns open just on the other side of the door. Darkness instead of furniture, soft shadows. He recklessly abandons it for a combeeline to their stationary drawer.
"Is that any way to conduct yourself? Running away from me?!" Ingo appears at the doorway after not long at all, semi-shouting into the apartment. "How fair is that I have to act civil, while you- while ALL DAY, you-!"
Durant, whose spindly legs had been kneading an inadvertent massage into Emmet's neck, takes affront when Ingo latches onto his shoulder. The bug drops with clangour toward amplifying wooden floor, where about twenty of Galvantula's new brood manifest from the dark just to scuttle away like glass shards.
Emmet whirls around to make him let go. Ingo backs up, perhaps realizing his haste, but before the distance can form once again, Emmet has presented him with a sticky note written in his swift, curly, bane-of-the-memo-board scrawl.
Face hurts alot- that one's scratched out, corrected- a lot :). Ow!
"Why are you… oh… seriously…?" Reading it, his eyes well up with a- to be frank- delicious pity. "Do you know what caused it?"
Emmet shakes his head 'no'. It could be a million things. It could be the tiny but numerous and firey joltik shocks he absorbed like a sponge, or drowsy aftereffects of playing with the Poison-type sneaslets. Lots of people grit their teeth subconsciously. The inherent fakeness of customer service grins might finally be taking its toll. Maybe he just can't bounce back like he used to!
(He thinks about the cursory Google symptom hunt he'd done that morning. Iris had taught him some neat mind trick about ironic curiosity, which helps him feel less bad about his genuine curiosity. He doesn't think about the bolded, keyworded results he'd seen. "Unused muscles.")
(He was so happy yesterday.)
"Why didn't you tell me?" Then, angrier, "I could've covered for you. Cameron thought you were angry. I'm sure some customers mistook you for feeling under the weather."
He usually takes small glee whenever in the act of needing to write on a sticky note. The sound it makes coming apart from the adhesive is absurdly satisfying. This time, dread flows to his fingertips. The ink gets darker.
People do not relish, Emmet's note says, hearing about things that they cannot fix.
"That's not-"
Emmet rips the note back, interrupting his brother's reflexive retort.
'People, they' crossed out in trenches. I, I stampede above them.
Ingo and Emmet stare at each other, long and hard. Ingo leisures in backing up until his hip hits the kitchen isle, and finds a comfortable lean. Emmet glowers like a gourgeist over his drawered domain of dried up pens and loose screws to something important, probably.
All miscalculations considered? He still has room enough to feel a little daring! Ingo can't tell him that it isn't noble, to treat others how he would want to be treated. A big part of the reason his battles are so serious and fun is that same clutch- or else for better or worse, his instincts would likely have him babying every trainer that comes through the battle subway. Dragons, especially the little ones. Kids always remember a friendly stranger's sacrifice.
"...Well, you HAVE to tell me at some point!" Ingo manages after a rather bested spell. To his credit, it deeply sounds like he wanted to help.
Emmet's deadpan asks exactly one question.
"YES, you do! It's like," he growls minutely, "its like when the subway goes down for repairs! Our ridership don't like it one bit, but what do we do? We've still kept them apprised of ongoing construction. To tread with caution, or not arrive at all."
"I, ah… believe it's also our duty as conductors to set up warning lanterns for any arriving groundcrew?" Hands claim each other behind his hunched back, pretending he doesn't totally enjoy the picked up steam. "As per the latest Notice of Exams?"
"It's the same way," Ingo catches his stare, and suddenly, Emmet wishes he HAD just found a nice dark place to hide, "you have to look at the bulletin board eventually.
His mouth shotguns far open, not sure if he'd believe whatever argument he was about to make, or even what he'd say. Then immediately cringes shut. A palm claps to its thin corner in detested and painful surprise.
"It wouldn't be safe, otherwise," Ingo chides at that exact moment. His eyes gleam with hinting. Emmet furies at it, and darts to the sticky note, pen in hand.
He hasn't even gotten a letter down, but Ingo's already been able to say a full sentence, "It wouldn't be efficient."
Emmet stills.
"...And it could end up hurting people you don't mean to."
Frowning and angry at the whole juvenile pretext of having been lectured, Emmet looks up at him. At those eyes veiled under their own lashes. Then he's frowning and confused. And it's at this point he would say Ingo's name just for the sake of saying it (a habit that- well, can't really be considered 'new' anymore-) but he can't even say that much.
Emmet spins around the post-it, folds the sunflower yellow in on itself, and traces the curves of one last note.
I had not considered, it says, that you did not sense my displeasure.
"Oh, I did, certainly. And had about a hundred different guesses lined up before… something that wasn't my fault." The sour undertone isn't lost on Emmet. "I get enough of that from playing 'semi-sapient charades' with our team. I… I really like when I can get a break with you. Okay?"
Emmet likes it too. Oh, he misses it terribly. Ingo would understand. Would have understood, all day. Could have been called aboard the Doubles and cooed that simple command to Crustle. Could have praised Cameron like she deserved. Could have crowed loud enough for the both of them, a culmination of their best "Full speed ahead!", to those strong trainers.
He summons the brightest 'okay' he's nodded in several hours, and it isn't even hard.
The mood shifts instantly to one of said understanding, brotherly and companionable. A held breath unleashed, some popping limbs, and he can practically feel Ingo grasping the other end of that fragile thread in the air. They're suckers for being on good terms.
"Has it at least let you eat, today?" his brother understands too much, it seems. The note disappears into playful rolls of crumple between the recipient's wrinkled fingers. "The pain? If you can't even smile…"
Conveniently enough, Chandelure chooses right then to finally wrap up her dutiful navigation of the complex. (They had taught her not to phase through too many walls, here, for sake of the neighbor's cardiac health.) Her firelights precede her, alien patches heartbeating high and alluring on the beige wall before her body's even there. Her face emerges first, deceivingly doe-eyed, the haunting moan of "Chaaaan…" going from muffled to crystal clear as she sluggishly transcends the drywall.
Chandelure has never had trouble choosing between her trainers. Even during the terrible tinnitus-inciting brawls of their teens, (of which both parties haven't stopped feeling guilty about) forgetting to stow away their roaming and spoiled aces in the heat of the moment, it was always Ingo, Ingo, Ingo.
Today, Chandelure floats towards Emmet. He opens his arms into a basketball hoop for her to settle down in, locking fingers. She claims him lordly, without even needing to move her chalkish wrought-iron branches.
He watches her all the way with what would be a smile. He's been through a lot that should admittedly make him blanch at the whole concept of death, but it's kind of funny if Chandelure thinks he's already dying after one skipped meal.
Ingo sternly doesn't. "Ibuprofen. Now. Then dinner."
Stunted from gesturing by Chandelure, Emmet hitches a shoulder in the vague direction of his room's bed-wall-corner, layout wise. He can just sleep it off, like any and every other bad thing on this planet Earth.
"If you lay in bed with three separate pokemon fighting for territory over your entire face and pillow like they do, can you honestly tell me that you're going to be able to fall asleep?"
He blinks. Hugs Chandelure tighter.
"I'd have thought so." Ingo's critical gaze betrays some major calculations for a sighing moment. "…Take the first shower while it kicks in. If you don't mind shelf-stable ingredients, we may have what I'd need for homemade soup. Always better than the cans…"
Emmet nearly smiles, a wonderous look that asks a clear question.
"Yes, water heater privileges," he answers. "Now go. Before I change my mind and serve you up some jerky instead."
***
The spoon goes to war with Emmet's mouth on every bite, quivering and scraping and losing most of its contents until he can at last dump the cooling broth somewhere past his teeth. He stops with flushing cheeks whenever Ingo finds a pause in dishwashing to look over, but then Ingo just insists "Eat," and he's started to think maybe Sisyphus has it easy. At least that dude's facial muscles don't feel both stuffed with cotton and taut as a bowstring at once.
The rushing faucet turns off. Emmet only notices because the wailord-like groans of distant pipes ceases making everything a bit worse, somehow. Ingo's refusal to turn around makes it all the more obvious when he keeps looking over. Pointedly, and over his shoulder.
"I've been... nervous, perhaps." Ingo eventually takes advantage of Emmet's quiet to speak up. "Our communication styles used to mesh so well. But… I mean, two years, Emmet! Grief, and a stint of cosmic amnesia?" He shifts tunelessly on the balls of his feet. "I know it's not strange for sib- for people to grow apart, except. Ah. I've been discovering, more often, that I don't know what to say. Are we too different now? Is it always inevitable?"
That's when he says it.
At dinner, with droplets from Emmet's airdrying muttonchops warring gently with the smooth bronze oil of canned soup- Ingo stifling crispy bowls and cups to the brim by a dishrag like a well meaning child- and a sneaslet grooming its spine DISGUSTINGLY loud in the same goddamn room... It really doesn't seem like it.
He somewhat regrets having to nestle the spoon back into its noodle bath, emanating love and care and that irreplicable aluminum tang of canned meats. (It's probably the Unovan in him talking, to say he actually prefers it over the fresh stuff.) He cricks his palm's heel, and massages clinical smears down his jawline, dropping abrupt at a chin that tapers off the exact same sharp way as Ingo's.
In the grand scheme of things, it hasn't helped anything. More likely he's aggravated the tender spots. But the dishrag has been cast aside, and Ingo's worry-hunched back is looking less like a tirtouga shell, and that's all the encouragement Emmet needs.
"I don't worry." Contractions make it easier, but muddier. Emmet's jaw is grateful. "Af'er all, it's jst like you to be open ab't your fears. Only when I can't quell thm so easy."
It's so hugely nice to be able to sound cheeky again. Ingo relaxes into Emmet's voice, affording a heavy-lidded nod that makes him wonder if he was also simply all the encouragement Ingo needed. But it doesn't last long.
"Oh my f- why did you do that?" The dishrag is strangled back up. There are no more dishes left. "You've probably just undone all of our progress". Does he look shorter? "You know, and I gave you water heater privileges?!"
When Emmet sighs this time, it's through his nose. Ingo is an older brother, before he is a twin. Maybe he's not all that right, but maybe he's not all that wrong.