Inbound, Outbound
The first submas fic I ever wrote! LOL I decided I needed one final thing for april fools so you get this fic from. about a month and a half ago! I think a lot has changed since I wrote this and I'd love to come back to the reuniting :3 maybe making it longer or what have you. but for now. here you go!
Sometimes when you wait for things, they come back to you. Sometimes they don't. Emmet continues life as normal as he can until the point in which the thing he's been waiting for the most finally does come back. Today just happens to be that day.
(6745 words)
Ingo comes back on a winter day that Emmet wouldâve otherwise forgotten.
Itâs a pervasive winter in Nimbasa this year, the sky a white-blue, grey where it touches the edges of the buildings high above his morning train into the city center. Today is just as slow as usual, fifteen stretching into thirty, stretching in to forty-five minutes as people crush their way into the train car number eleven, Emmetâs favorite car on the six-in-the-morning inbound to Nimbasa commercial district. This train doesnât go direct to Gear Stationâitâs about four blocks from the city center. Which means that the train car is filled with grey and black suits, small children, and people in coats too thin or too bright for the weather. Itâs his favorite car because if he looks over the few heads currently standing in front of him, he can see a poster with Elesa on it, advertising the Nimbasa Gym in bright, yellow and black letters. He doesnât mind the length of the ride, really, even with the extra twenty minutes of walking. It gives him enough time to think, whether that be better or worse.Â
Emmet sniffles, pushing the scarf further up his nose, trying to keep in the heat. He can feel his face starting to red with the cold, and the subpar heat of the train car isnât doing much help. He likes this carâhe likes the whole system, because it runs so efficiently even with the stops, but he would like it a bit more if it were properly heated. He once bore Elesa to sleep talking about the rail system near their apartment complex in the city suburbs and art district, and after that he kind of kept it to himself and the engineers on shift.
The train car is still cold, and his scarf slips down his nose again as he adjusts his grip on the handle above him. Scrunching his face, he burrows into the collar of his coat and shrinks his shoulders to make space, shutting his eyes. He moves with the train car, as he does every morning, and sighs into the fabric of his coat. He files the cold away in the back of his mind. The train ride becomes routine, which means it fades into the background of his life, where everything rests mutely.
He might be somewhat of a celebrity, but the 6am is too crowded and too tired to notice him, or Ingo, or Elesa, for that matter. Elesa could live in the city centerârunning a gym is a lucrative business, and her clothing line, her brand deal, the posters with her face on them, even here in this train, raked in enough money to more than sustain on. Instead, Elesa lives two streets down from him (them) in a large apartment and she holds the crook of his arm on the train to keep steady. She didnât this morning, though, which means Emmet has a little more stability where he stands, and a little less company. Not being recognized this morning means that he slips effortlessly from the train as the doors slide open, spilling out with other shoppers and business folk. He ducks through the exit as someone holds it open, and the smile on their face lingers a bit too long when they catch his eye. He thinks the words Iâm sorry for your loss might come and hit him across the face, but they only nod. Emmet moves through the crowd alone again.
He makes his way carefully up the steps and onto the sidewalks of inner-Nimbasa, stepping with purpose as he stares down at his shoes. Thereâs a fine layer of ice and slush on the ground, but no snow. Anything that did fall just added to the grey slush on the side of the sidewalk, crunching under his boots as he walked. The cold still bites at his face as he makes his way down the block and across the street. He can still feel his fingers, though, which is a good sign. A few more streets of cold and slushy snow and trying to block the wind with his coat and he would be in the relative warmth of Gear Station, all tan marble and smooth floors.Â
Winter. Of course the winter lingered. It was still winter when Emmet got off the train alone and it was still winter and cold and breezy and dark, now, as Emmet stood in his (their) office, watching the clock.Â
5:45pm. He realizes he hasnât eaten all day as a hard pang stabs through his stomach. Emmet takes a breath. Itâs easy to fall into routine when nothing else seems to fit. Itâs what he tells himself. He finds a way to make the day go faster, maybe looking for something at the end that wasnât just the next day. He never had this issue before, waiting for the day to pass only for it to bleed into the next, and the next, and the next, and for the weekend to stutter and pause that blissful continuing trend. Work, go home, sleep, repeat. It gave no time to think about anything elseâespecially not Ingo.
It took longer the first year. Everything constantly pressed hard on the wound still open. He still remembers when everything shut down around him. It wasnât winter then. It was spring, where the air still twinged cool, but he wasnât kicking snow off his shoes before he entered the engineerâs office and ducked down the hall and to his and Ingoâs space. It was an almost instant halt, like throwing the emergency break. Emmetâs whole life screeched and threw up smoke.Â
He remembers the first time someone questioned him that wasnât the city police, staring up at him, mouth moving with words he didnât understand. He stuttered, unable to form an answer to what do you think happened? How was he supposed to know? How was he supposed to put pieces together when he felt like he had been smashed into star fragments?
The subway shut down for three months straight. He could barely pick himself out of bed, and when he did, he couldnât make it out of the door. He remembers lying in the dark for far too long, turning off his phone so no calls came through. The day bled into night and into the next day, with no routine, no operating procedure. Everything in his life revolved around Ingoâand now there was a distinctly Ingo shaped hole in his chest that he couldnât fill. He remembers crawling his way out of the comforters and making it to the threshold of his bedroom door, sinking to the ground and staying there. It was only when Elesa made her way in that he moved, coaxed onto the couch to drink a glass of water. There were days where neither of them spoke. Elesa would set a duffel in the corner of Emmetâs room and a toothbrush in his bathroom and wordlessly, the space became hers too. Half asleep one night, she mumbled, very quietly, that it had been days since sheâd had the energy to battle. The Nimbasa gym waitlist had grown to fifteen people. He said he was sorry. She laughed like she meant it. Tired. They were tired. Life moved on without them for a while. He held Elesaâs hand.
Every dark coat had been him, every set of stripes, every loud and hearty laugh. The space in their fridge, in their bathroom, on their couch, the spaces Elesa subconsciously left when she visited, all stayed like he might appear and fill them. At some point the spaces became memories, and the memories became a dull ache. The dull ache let him work, and the work became an ache instead. And then he started looking for answers. When he found none, he just kept looking.
He hangs up his white coat, noise from Gear Station trickling into the background. He puts his hat on the hook next to it.Â
He is Emmet. He feels okay today.
He combs his hair back with his fingers, stepping back to navigate around to his desk, shutting off the computer screen and moving through the familiar motions of packing away his day. Eelektross snuffs, sleeping curled around his chair, still nursing a singe from their last battle. The rest of his team are tucked away in pokeballs, neatly set into the bag still resting on the desk. He runs a hand over the scales on Eelektrossâ head, listening to the snort turn into a purr, long and rumbly. At least someoneâs enjoying themselves. He leans against his desk.Â
âExcellent job today, Eelektross,â he says. âToo good.â
Eelektross rumbles out an affirmative sound Emmetâs learned to recognize over the years. Tired and comfortable and thoroughly pleased. Heâll be sleeping under a huge eel weight tonight, most likely, which would be good for them both.
From the corner, Chandelure chirps. He glances up, watching her tilt lazily back and forth, flame flickering under the officeâs lamplight. He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head at her.
âAhââ he says. âI forgot, Chandelure. Is it time for the rounds, then?â
She chirps again, twirling in place. She nearly bumps the wall, moving out of the way as she remembers how much space she actually takes up. Emmet snorts, shaking his head. He rises from his leaning on the desk, shaking the feeling back into his right leg.
Gathering his coat and hat again, he pulls it over his shoulders, and opens the office door for Chandelure.
The two wander out into the filling-full train station. Itâs busy now that so many are leaving work, Gear Station echoing with his footsteps and the tired laughter and voices of patrons filing in and out of the turnstiles. As he steps out, the noise is almost instant. Ahâhe caught departing crowds at the wrong time, as the battle subway came to a close at the days end and people were busy reassigning themselves and marking their places for tomorrow. The energy in the station is bright and cheery. He lifts his hat, waving one hand, smiling with just his mouth. Chandelure spins, singing to herself. He offers a little bow as he departs, listening to cheers of his name until he manages to slip into the service stairs and away from the light and the noise.
He follows the familiar service corridor where it diverges from the central station, staring up into the rafters and eyes tracking across the windows high above him. Night trickles in, noise obscured by layers of stone and brick and marble. The stretch of granite towers above him, echoing the flicker of pride he feels swirling in his chest. Chandelure twirls ahead of him, leading him down to the closed lines as his eyes drag away from pidove in the rafters, cooing to themselves.
Itâs important to walk the lines at nightâmostly for the host of patrat and joltik and the occasional drilbur that liked to make the tunnels their home, but also to check that each car remained stationary, that light still flooded the dim tunnels, that someone wasnât trapped. It wasnât always his jobânot with so many that staffed Gear Station, both above and below him. Maintenance often fell to him when it was needed, where he lingered in the office long after his scheduled shift end, when the last outbound train returned.Â
The stairs down are quieter and darker than the rush of energy and light and cold air above him in Gear Station.Â
Emmet starts his way toward the platform. Whatever he couldnât find in the tunnels today, Eelektross would find later tomorrow morning, well before the first battle train. It was good he didnât have to worry about the main tracks as oftenânot for checks and not for maintenance. He would mourn his sleep schedule much more than he already did if that were the case. Walking those initial tunnels would take him hours, knowing how far the service platform stretched.
Emmet doesnât like this part of his job. It was always Ingoâs job. Everything seemed like it was Ingoâs job, now that it rested on his shoulders. When theyâd first pitched the idea of the subway to the head of Gear Station at the time, it had been a risk Ingo automatically assumed. When he ran the night shift, safety checks were his duty, as much as they were Emmetâs in the morning. Theyâd assist with repair and management of the rest of the station as needed, falling into step alongside fellow engineers. Thereâs a small group in this tunnel nowâvoices echoing down the small corridor as he travels its length, a drilbur perched on their feet, warily inspecting a section of track. He supposed he considered himself luckyâany scheduled repairs to the Battle Subway could be completed shortly after the subway retired for the day, meaning he could be present if anything went wrong. This bit of maintenance was purely preventativeâmaking sure nothing would be jostled loose by a rogue Earthquake.
Emmet ducks passed the group, nodding along as they toss bits of information his way, wishing him a good night.
Fetching the flashlight from his pocket, Emmet smacks it against his hand. The beam flickers to life, illuminating the tunnel in front of him far more than the stretch of yellow floodlights above his head. He sweeps the beam around the tunnel, listening for anything or anyone.
Emmet makes his way off the main platform and into the tunnel proper, along the service grate, eyes following the tracks. He stands at the edge of the platform for a moment, gazing into an empty car, light shining through. It reflects off the posters and signage inside, dull yellow where the lights inside donât shine. He shivers. The air feels cold and charged, like a stray joltik had crawled up his neck and now rested in the collar of his coat. He turns the collar out, sweeping with one hand. No joltik. Rolling his shoulders back, Emmet steps back from the car and continues onward. A few feet ahead of him, Chandelure twirls idly, like sheâs waiting for him to catch up. He waves the beam of the flashlight at her and she startles, chirring out, annoyed.Â
âYou can check on your own if you donât want to wait,â he tells her.Â
She warbles, waving her arms back and forth. He makes an affirmative noise.
âThatâs what I thought.â
The large loop stretches further on to his left, where he canât see, blocked by the stretch of railcar. He follows Chandelure through the space between the cars, ducking his head as they step onto the opposing platform, and continue their way back up. He pauses for a moment as they do, feeling his body go light as his head spins. He reaches out to the side wall, hand against the cold stone as he takes a long breath. Emmet blinks back spots for a moment, shaking his head gently. His stomach feels like its in knots, rolling over itself as he seems to settle from his moment of vertigo. No lunch will do that to you, he supposes.
Chandelure flickers. Theyâre almost done, which is good. It means heâll be able to sit down for a second before he has to run to the train. They wonât need to check the two-team tunnel tonightânot only has Emmet not been able to run it, he checked it two weeks ago. He lingered a very long time in there, didnât he? It had put a terrible ache in his chest enough to call Elesa to walk him home. Emmet frownsâChandelure flickers again, dimming, brightening, dimming, brightening again. Thereâs that rush of dizziness again. He breathes out. Heâs too far in his head, today, isn't he?
âChandelure,â he says, in a way that almost reminds him of Ingoâa little out of breath from walking, but mostly just curious. âIs something wrong?â
She chimes, wobbling in place, eyes narrowing. It feels hesitant. Emmet shudders. After a beat, he reaches up, placing a hand on the near-glass surface of Chandelureâs body. She moves back toward him, chiming again.
âRight,â he says. âItâs different, right? Somethingâs changed.â
Another chirp.
Something tugs at his mind. Wasnât there something he read about clairvoyance in pokemon? Future-telling, future-seeing, or whatever. But Chandelureâs behavior isnât indicative of anything. That would just be odd. He can feel for just a moment the way his heart thumps a little faster against the line of his jaw. It couldnât be that. Itâs just what Elesa always saidâhe was looking for something that wasnât there.
âYyyyep-yep,â he says, mostly under his breath, voice thick. âBut it should be fine, Chandelure. Letâs keep going, our track moves forward.â
She tilts back and forth, like a wave of a hand. Emmet snorts as they start forward.Â
âYou know Iâm always one for a battle,â he says plainly. She chirrs, moving around to his right side, putting herself between the train car and Emmet. He follows her movement only for a second as they walk up the tracks, eyes still fixed on the steps up to the station.Â
The city subway still rumbles through the ground and the walls around him, the noise soft and consistent as train cars move past. He pauses, listening in, shutting his eyes for a moment. It was late, now. He could feel a tired ache seeping into the creases of his elbows and right under his knees from standing all day. His head was starting to hurt, spinning as he stood completely still. He sighs roughly, squeezing his eyes tightly for just a moment. Heâs lucky the pain didnât extend to his feetâhe would have to do quite the jog to catch the outbound train toward home, unless Elesa happened to be staying late again and could walk him back.
They start together toward the entrance as Emmet does his final scan of the furthest-out platform, satisfied nothing is out of place. The same cold air of the train tunnels permeates even here, despite the warm wash of yellow light across the walls and marble pillars. Emmet breathes in, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders as he stretches over his head, screwing up his face as his back pulls. He nearly complainsâhe feels much too old for thisâbut he can feel the sharp poke of Ingoâs voice in his mindâwell, Iâm two minutes older, so you can imagine how I feelâand it stops him pretty quickly. Heâs not even thirty-five. What can he do but complain, right? Emmet fishes his keys from his pocket prematurely, ducking between the cars as he steps onto the loading platform.
Chandelure stops ahead of him. Her trill is quiet as Emmet reaches her side.
 There is a man standing on the platform.Â
Emmet is very good at telling cosplayers from the real thing. You would think that would be some sort of a joke, but they really like to be authentic. Ingo and him never sold any merchandise of their coats or hats for fear of, well, that. This. Whatever this person was doing, standing on the closed platform in a ruined coat that looked like Ingoâs.Â
Emmet swallows. Looks like and not is, right? Looks like and not. Not. Certainly not. Not when he turns and catches his eye. The breath lodges itself in Emmetâs throat, burning hot. Certainly not. Because he is very good at telling illusions from real life, and there are no dark types in the tunnels that can use copycat, and copycat canât extend the likeness of himself onto another person who looks. Like. Who looks like his brother. And isnât. Emmet tries to breathe. The breath is sharp on his teeth. His hands are shaking when his vision blurs, and he smears tears across his face.
Ingo looks frightened for a moment. When he looks into Emmetâs eyes, the grey looks washed out. Emmet breathes out, feeling it catch as he sighs, biting the inside of his cheek to keep grounded. Thereâs. Itâs like nothing moves behind his eyes. Not a faint light of understanding. Not a spark of clarity. Ingo places a foot behind him. The line of Emmetâs spine goes cold all at once.
He stands still as he watches a slow realization pass over his brotherâs face like a red flush, some flicker in his expression, before he sees his chest seize and breath stutter. Ingo blinks hard and fast, like it might be helping something, eyes flicking over Ingoâs face. He reaches forward, as if heâs expecting to push through Emmet and into air instead, and not the solid body he stands there with. Itâs like his body moves before he realizes whatâs actually happening. Emmet watches his movements, still calculated in the same way as theyâve always been. Emmet drags in a breath, sniffling hard.Â
The lines of Ingoâs face pull. Emmet reaches out to him, copying. Itâs what heâs always doneâwhat theyâve always done. He steps forward, lurching to meet him.
The mirror image of himself, his brother, his Ingo, collides with him hard. Emmet feels him crumple into his arms as he drags him forward, arms locking around his ribcage. He squeezes Ingo tight to him. They buckle, Ingo leaning into him for support as his body is wracked with sobs. Emmet struggles to breathe as he sinks to his knees, smearing dirt and dark grime over his white pant-knees and boots.
Ingoâs hands fist in his coat as they fall. He squeezes Emmet in his arms, fighting for breath as he presses his face into his shoulder. Emmet laughs and it morphs into sobs. He turns his face into the tattered collar of Ingoâs coat and squeezes his eyes shut. Ingo. Ingo. Always Ingo. The bony joints of his elbows digging into his ribs as a kid, crushing him with his weight when he lost a pokemon battle, standing in his bedroom door at night when he had a nightmare. Cooking beside him, picking up his coffee, watching him tie Emmetâs tie around his own neck before passing it back to him. His brother Ingo, breathing too shallowly under his hands as he holds him, shaking with the effort of holding himself upright. He can feel the bones of his spine and shoulderblades, sharp and protruding even through several layers of fabric. His face looked so pale and thin. But Ingo holds him tightly, much tighter than he ever remembers, and itâs not just fear or relief or grief holding him to that strength, either. Emmet wheezes out, word unforming in his throat.
Itâs not a nightmare. It feels real and warm and solid, like Ingo, like the platform under his knees, like the cold breeze on the back of his neck. Ingo may look different, far too gaunt for Emmetâs liking (and he supposes, now, that it may be like looking in a mirror, and he wonders how many bones Ingo can feel under his coat) but itâs him. No illusion or actor would crumble like this. It couldnât be some sick jokeâright?
He manages out words, and the first thing he chokes out through tears, voice warbling hard, is:
âIngoââ
âEmmet,â Ingo grits out.Â
âI am Emmetââ Emmet says weakly. âYou are Ingo. You are real.â
âIââ Ingo chokes. âI am. Iâm real.â
Ingo certainly feels that way. The breath echoes in his lungs, damp and wobbly. Emmet can feel his heart slam against his ribcage. He feels so small in his arms but he shakes with the effort of keeping himself stable and with the effort of holding on. He can feel his shoulders move and the way his tears have started to soak through Emmetâs coat and shirt. Heâs real.Â
Emmet laughs weakly, equally as wet.
âYou are very strong,â he says softly, sniffling in, almost amused. âWhat happened to my brother?â
Ingo laughs. Emmet feels a new wave of tears bubble up in his chest and in his eyes. He presses his face into his shoulder a little more, like it were possible.
âToo much,â Ingo says, voice pitching. âMuch too much.â
Emmet sighs into his shoulder, a sound he doesnât think Ingoâs ever heard before. Ingoâs seen him cry a few times, especially when they were kids, but Ingo was always the more emotional of the two. This sound is such an odd mix of relief and grief and exhaustion pulled from his chest, like all the energy had trickled out of him.
Emmet holds tight to his brother in front of him, words not surfacing like they should. He only manages the weak sobs pressed into the collar of his coat. He screws his eyes shut again, clinging onto Ingoâs coat. The tile is cold and unyielding under his knees. Burning starts to prickle through his shins. Real feelings. Real sensations. Something to tether himself to. Ingo sniffles, coughing damply. He lets his body deflate a touch. Emmetâs chest twists and squeezes tight enough around his heart he feels it shove its way into his voice-box and beat there, pattering away.
âItâs you,â Emmet finally shudders out, voice breaking, sounding much more fragile than he wants to allow. Ingo burrows closer like it may do something. Emmet squeezes him. âGo-Go, please tell me this is real.â
âI promise,â Ingo manages. âI swear it.â
âYou do?â
âYou are Emmet,â he says slowly, sniffling. âI am your brother. I am real.â
âGoodââ Emmet shudders. âGood.â
Ingo makes a pained noise, sighing out to his shoulder.
âIâm so sorry,â he says. Emmet shakes his head, stilted from where he rests it.
âDonât be sorry. Justââ he trails off. Just. Donât leave again. Yeah.
Ingo nods slowly. After a moment he says:
âYou are real,â in a half questioning tone. Emmet nods.
âI am. I am not a dream,â he says, huffing out a wet laugh. âYou can pinch me.â
Ingo snorts.
âThatâs not how that works,â He argues, own voice damp and amused. Emmet thumps his back between his shoulderblades.
âGo-Go,â he complains. Ingo wheezes. This feels so familiar it hurts.
âSorry,â Ingo says, but the tone that leaks into his voice sounds like heâs very much not sorry. âIâm sorry.â
Emmet huffs again, soft and brittle.
âIngo, I missed you,â he manages. âI missed you so much. So very much.â
âI know,â Ingo says softly, relaxing his hands, splaying them out over Emmetâs coat. âAnd yet you kept the subway running in my absenceââ he huffs, amused. âBravo.â
Emmet laughs once, just a small little sound, before it turns back into sobs, muffled against Ingoâs tattered coat. He leans his weight back as much as he can, trying to pull Ingo further into his arms, as if it were possible. Light cascades around them as Chandelure floats over, chiming softly to herself. Ingo pats Emmetâs back, running a little line over his shoulderblades as they sit together. He feels Ingo shift, as if heâs turned his head toward his Chandelure. Warmth blossoms in his chest.Â
Ingo mumbles out something Emmet almost hears.Â
âShe took your absence very hard,â Emmet says, trying to add to a conversation he hadnât heard.
Ingo sighs, short and soft. Theyâre less holding on and more leaning, now.Â
âOh,â he says softly. Itâs all he says before he turns his head back into his shoulder. Emmet pats his back. He feels like someoneâs taken toothpicks to his nerves. Why does it hurt? Why does Ingo sound so lost?
He leans back from Ingo, but he doesnât let go. His hands find his shoulders, pulling away enough to see him properly. Emmetâs eyes scan his face. Theyâre the same grey as heâs always known them, but so much more tired, now, deep lines and dark circles around the bottom. Heâs frowning, just a little, eyes still red-rimmed from crying, tears still falling haphazardly. Ingo sniffles. His hair lies the same, despite being unkept, and heâs got a terrible facial hair situation going on, like heâd forgotten how to use a razor. When Emmet studies him, Ingoâs face goes soft. He opens his mouth like he wants to speak, but shuts it when Emmet frowns.Â
âIngo,â Emmet says, frown deepening, eyebrows furrowing. He sniffles. He prods at the hollow of his cheek, looking perplexed. âYou look horrible, like someoneâs shaken twenty pounds off you.â
âAh,â Ingo says, looking away.
âYou may be much stronger than you were, but you look like you may fall over if I let you go.â
Ingo swallows. His expression morphs a few times, until he shuts his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows.
âI might.â
âAh!â Emmet says, holding to his shoulders a bit tighter. Ingo smiles, just the sides of his mouth lifting. It feels right. âDonât.â
Ingo snorts.
âIâll try.â
Emmet nods, mouth a fine line. Ingoâs eyes flick over his face, this time. Emmet feels like pokemon under a magnifying glass being scrutinized. Ingo watches as Emmet blinks tears away, watches them track over his face, and watches as he reaches up to wipe them. Emmet shakes his head.
âIâm sorry,â he says, voice softening at the end unexpectedly. He swallows down a wave of cold guilt. Ingoâs hands clasp around his biceps.
âEmmetââ he starts.
âItâs okay,â Emmet manages out, expression cracking. He sniffles in, pulling in a fast breath as he does. He hears it catch, feels the shudder than comes with it. âYouâitâs you.â
âThatâs right,â Ingo says meekly, loosening his grip. Emmetâs wobbly smile falters, just for a moment.
âThatâs good,â Emmet sighs. He blinks a few times, sniffs again, wipes at his face. Ingoâs hands fall away from his arms and into his own lap.
The frown lingers on Ingoâs face long after heâs dropped his hands. Emmet rises to a slow, shaky stand. Stuffing his gloves in his pocket, he wipes at his face with the back of his hand, giving Ingo a watery smile. When Ingo looks up at him, Emmet feels something click into his chest, warm, full, and settling. He smiles wider, enough to feel his eyes start to squint shut, enough to watch Ingo copy him, and the smile looks so natural on his face. Itâs good. This is good. This. Feels. Good. It feels good.
âI donât think you should sit on the floor anymore, Ingo,â Emmet says. He extends his hand.
âI think Iâm a bit too old for it,â Ingo tells him. Ingo takes it. He holds his warm hand, half palm and half wrist. Emotion tumbles in his chest, painfully tight, as he leads Ingo toward the tunnel entrance.Â
Thereâs something Ingo isnât saying. Emmet knows itâs important. Itâs not important enough to say now, that is, but he can feel it in the air of Ingo next to him as they duck into the empty station, back to the office, away from eyes that might say something before Emmet is ready to let the world know who showed up at his doorstep. Itâs fine if Ingo doesnât remember his pokemon, or the layout of Gear Station, or how he should feel, or where heâs been. He canât ask him to. Not when there was a moment where Ingo couldnât remember him, no matter how brief. He pushes fear deep into his chest and refuses to let it rise up.
He wonât let them diverge. He wonât let Ingo derail.
Whatever happens next, heâs not letting go of him.
The night comes easier than most.
It starts with Emmet sending a textâitâs last minute, which he despises, but he informs the head of the station that he isnât feeling well and wonât be in at work for the next few days. He receives a spaced, but enthusiastic reply, and a reminder to use his sick time before he loses it. Probably better that heâs taking more days rather than less. Emmet feeds their pokemon, moving around the kitchen as he hears the shower running in the room across from his own. Busying himself with routine means he worries a little less about the question tugging at his mind, or the rush of anxiety and energy as he remembers everything, replaying it over and over again in his head. What if it isnât Ingo that steps from the room? What if he looks completely different? What ifâ
Galvantula bumps his hand, nibbling at his sleeve. Heâs still holding the bowl of food. He sets it on the floor as instructed, briefly pulled away from his thought.
Now, situated in the living room, a takeout bag rests on the coffee table, where Emmet is sitting next to the table, pulling out foil wrapped sandwiches and bags of chips and a too-shaken can of soda. Heâs been watching Ingoâs face for a good part of the evening, seeing as lines come and go, how the sharp shape worsens when he frowns. Now, in a thick, high collared sweater and pajamas, grime scrubbed away with a hot shower, Ingo looks very small, and very alive, and very cold. Emmet pokes him with a socked foot as Ingo takes another ravenous bite of his egg and cheese sandwich. He has egg yolk all over his hands and down his chin. Â
âI am Emmet,â he says, an awed smile lingering on his face. âAnd I am certain you are going to choke if you eat that fast.â
Ingo blinks, still chewing. Maybe two sandwiches was the right move after all. Emmet hasnât touched the one he bought for himself yet. Heâs been too busy making sure Ingo drinks a glass of water. Ingo flushes, though, as he realizes heâs made an runny-egg mess of the plate balanced on his knee. He looks sheepishly away, searching for something to wipe his hands with. When he canât find anything, he sets the sandwich down, and wanders back to the kitchen.
âItâs like you havenât eaten in weeks,â Emmet remarks. His stomach flips a bit at the implication, wondering when the last time Ingo actually had a warm meal in his body. He realizes he doesnât even know where heâs been. What could be wrong with him. What heâd seen. He seems dazed, a bit lost, a bit spacey. It had taken him a good thirty seconds to recognize Emmet on that platformâthough, if Emmetâs honest with himself, and he often tries to be, he isnât much better. Heâd swallowed down confusion just as fast as he could, and that was only a moment before heâd thrown himself at his brother. Ingoâs shoulders are a tense line.
âIâve eaten,â Ingo says.
âGood.â
When Ingo wanders back over, sitting in his same spot, Emmet pushes the glass of water toward him. Ingo nods, smiling a little as he picks it up and takes a long drink. After heâs finished and set the glass down, Emmet starts on his sandwich. Between his first bite of hashbrown and egg and the next, he says:
âIngo,â followed by. âThereâs something youâre not telling me.â
The two go quiet, even with the sound of foil and sandwiches. Ingo swallows, staring into his patterned plate. Emmet watches his face as much as he did prior. He can tell when a pause is calculated for drama, for intrigue, for embellishment, but this one is full of Ingoâs mind scrambling. Emmet canât see it in action, but he can certainly imagine a million Ingoâs running around in his brain space, trying to compose an answer for Emmet that would satisfy him. Ingo takes another bite in the meantime.
Emmet stares into bits of potato in the foil on his lap. Theyâre not very interesting.
âWhat happened?â he asks softly, not looking up at him. He hears Ingo sigh, and sees him put the plate down in his peripheral.
âIââ Ingo starts, and the stutter of his voice is indicative of something very clear to Emmet.
âIngo,â he says, looking up suddenly. âDonât.â
Ingo swallows. His throat bobs. Emmet doesnât even have to finish his sentence.
âIâve forgotten everything,â Ingo says, in a way that is so un-Ingo-like. âAlmost everything. Itâs justâthere. Right out of reach. Right out of my reach.â
The television casts color across Ingoâs face, obscuring his expression. Emmet fights to keep his expression cool and neutral, despite the way his heart begs to jump into his throat and throw a party. He has a sandwich to eat, not a heart. Silly heart. Silly Emmet. He supposes now thatâs why Ingoâs reaction to Chandelure was so stunted. Or the way he skirted away from the station like it may reach out and pinch him like a dwebble. He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly.
âI donât know why,â Ingo continues, picking at the seeds on top of his bagel. âI donât know how, either. And I donât think I can stomach the where and what, yet. I feel sick when I think too hard. Dizzy and sick.â
Emmet swallows roughly.
âItâs okay,â he says. Ingo shakes his head, shutting his eyes. Emmet watches his face warp, faltering as he holds back whatever emotionâs just bubbled up in his chest. He screws his eyes shut, new tears dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. âGo, listenââ
Emmet reaches. He brushes Ingoâs hand, and Ingo jerks back on instinct, recoiling. He looks at Emmet, expression blank, nervous, then cracking all at once. Emmetâs own face falters as they meet eyes. Emmet holds his hand over Ingoâs, waiting, still crouching in front of him. He tries for a smile, even as Ingo goes blurry.
âIâm glad you remembered me,â he warbles out. âWe can keep going from there. Our tracks move forward.â
âI donât believe my car in this two car train is very safe, Em,â Ingo sniffles. He takes Emmetâs hand, though, and Emmet curls his fingers over his, both hands around his one hand. He squeezes ever so.
âWeâre known for our safety checks, brother,â Emmet says gently. âItâs just our standard operating procedure.â
Ingo laughs softly. The sound is damp, but real. Trying to be something positive. Itâs all he can ask of him.
âUnderstood,â Ingo says. He nods, setting his face, despite the way tears still cloud his eyes, and his mouth still wobbles as he sniffles in. âWe shall depart then.â
âWe will!â Emmet says, squeezing his hands again. He drops them, then, patting Ingoâs knees like he were beating on the table. Ingo huffs out a laugh, shooing him away.
It doesnât hurt any less, knowing how much might be absent. But it soothes it a bit to watch Ingo smile.
Later, sitting on the couch together, Ingo rests against Emmet, sandwiches eaten, chips picked through, water drank. His face has regained a touch of color, hands no longer shaking with exertion. He breathes slowly and softly as Emmet flips through television mindlessly, looking for anything. To his left, Eelektross snores, head resting on his knee. He runs a hand absently along the scales at the top of his head, listening to the drone of purr and the chatter of late night television.
âBrother,â Emmet says softly. âIngo.â
Ingo makes no sound. His breath stays even and slow. Emmet snorts. Right. He supposes itâs paybackâhe canât remember the amount of times heâd fallen asleep during movie night with Elesa.Â
Elesa.Â
Emmet startles.
Reaching for his phone, he hastily manages a message to Elesa. Something like: Come over ASAP. Good news. Very good. About Ingo.
 But his message reads in all lowercase like a run-on sentence, so he hopes in the morning Elesa will decipher it.
Emmet leans back, Ingoâs sleeping weight falling to Emmetâs side as he lies down on the couch cushions. His brother only partially adjusts in his sleep, better tucking into one side, head on his shoulder. Warm with sleep and food, Emmet lets his eyes unfocus. Thereâs too much static resting right under his skin to let him sleep.Â
This is good, though. A moment of reprieve for him, and desperately needed for Ingo. Maybe in the morning theyâll talk about getting rid of that ridiculous beard of his.
Emmet hums softly to himself. He listens to the drone of the television for a moment, blissfully tired. Thereâs a moment of quiet just long enough to feel sleep tug at him.
Someone pounds on his door.
Ah. Well.
Miscalculation on his part, then.
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