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Almost all cultures seem to share the same story about a far-off utopian land. No one seems to agree on its name, or its form, but they speak of a paradise, all the same. There’s the sunken city of Atlantis, the idle fields of Cockaigne, the Garden of Eden, the Peach Blossom Spring, the Big Rock Candy Mountains… The list goes on and on and on. The denizens of each mythical society enjoy the same luxuries—no one labors, and no one suffers. The coffers never go empty, the cup always runneth over. Life is simple, and is meant to be enjoyed. The people are always happy. Everyone smiles.
The people of Hisui speak of no such place.
Why would they? It serves no purpose, making up stories about some non-existent promised land. Best to keep your head screwed on tight, lowered, safely out of the clouds. Wanting for something that can never be will lead good men astray. A fantasy can never become reality.
Ingo sometimes catches himself fantasizing, anyways.
He tries not to. The second he feels himself doing it, he rushes to shut it down. It’s easier, after all, to cut off thoughts at their source. Every now and then, though, a daydream manages to slip through his defenses, and he finds himself getting carried away. He hates it when that happens. Pulling the brakes on a idea that’s managed to pick up speed is always an agonizing ordeal.
It feels good in the moment, unfortunately. More than good, even—there are times where his idle mind manages to conjure up images so beautiful it hurts. Wouldn’t it be lovely, a little voice in the back of his head asks, to live in a world where humans and pokemon could peacefully coexist? A world where we can all live together as one people, instead of arbitrarily dividing ourselves up into tribes? A world where everyone is understood, and everyone is taken care of, and no one has to be alone?
It’s so tempting to dream. But dreams are for those who are sleeping. Eventually, you wake up… and you are then quickly reminded of exactly what reality you live in.
It’s not a bad one, honestly. Hisui is not paradise, that much is certain, but it’s not bad. The people are good, and the land is beautiful, and there are enough reasons for him to keep waking up in the morning. Ingo may not have plenty, but he has enough to get by. Anything can appear lacking when compared to perfection. And, truthfully, things could be so much worse! Lady Sneasler didn’t have to choose him to be her warden. The Pearl Clan didn’t have to allow him a place within their ranks. Almighty Sinnoh, in all their wisdom, didn’t have to allow him safe passage to this station—he could have perished on the side of Mount Coronet, all those years ago. He’s lucky to be alive. They’re all lucky to be alive: it wasn’t so long ago that the world nearly ended! There’s something about watching the apocalypse pass you by that makes you reassess all that you have to be thankful for.
And really, at the end of the day, who is Ingo to ask for more?
But the traitorous little voice in his head isn’t satisfied. When Ingo really lets things spiral out of control, it even seems to take form. A man in white… one that looks so very much like him, but younger, friendler, happier, softer. Don’t you realize, the vision pleads, despite Ingo willing it to go away, that things could be so much better ? The things you lack for, the dreams you try to ignore, the empty space beside you—is it so crazy, to imagine all that you desire fulfilled? Don’t you think you deserve to be complete? Don’t you miss it, the man in white asks, his expression hopeful, his voice filled with sympathy. Don’t you miss me?
The figure is an illusion. The things it promises are illusions as well. Gentleness, and companionship, and warmth… these are all fleeting. It does Ingo no good to yearn for them, because he will simply not be getting them. Hisui is not at all welcoming to those who are soft.
No, Hisui is harsh—and that’s not a problem! Ingo likes to believe he is made of sterner stuff than most. Challenges, in his opinion, are made to be risen to. Whereas others shy away from the wild frontier, rampant with untold dangers and untamed pokemon, Ingo relishes it. After all, a battle isn’t fun unless it’s serious… isn’t that right?
Hisui is desolate—again, not a problem. Solitude can be freeing. No one to explain himself to, no questioning looks whenever he utters a strange phrase or makes an awkward motion. In many ways, it's easier to be alone than to try to fit in amongst others. There’s safety in maintaining proper distance.
Hisui is cold—well, that aspect of the region is a bit of a problem, he hates to admit. Ingo has no resistance against freezing temperatures, and the Alabaster Icelands, home of the Pearl Clan settlement, is colder than cold. Even after he earns the position of Warden and relocates his main base of operations to a slightly more temperate area of Hisui, he finds his situation only marginally improved. It may not be perpetually covered in ice, but the fierce winds that blow through the Highlands can still chill a man right down to his bones.
Not to worry: Ingo eventually finds a solution to this issue, as well.
Exposed to the cold for long enough, one eventually grows numb.
He is still numb when he comes to in a strange white bed, in a strange white room, with a man in a strange white coat hovering over him, flipping through some kind of document. When he looks up and finds Ingo blinking at him, he begins asking questions. Ingo can’t make out what he’s saying. He dips back into unconsciousness soon after.
He continues to drift in and out for what feels like days. Eventually, he manages to stay awake for long enough to realize that he feels terrible : his head is pounding, and his throat is burning, and his whole body aches. He must have fallen ill and collapsed. In that case, the place he’s being held must be… an infirmary, of some sort?
Ingo closes his eyes, hissing a sigh.
Not again.
He was hoping to never be back in this situation—stuck in an unfamiliar bed, helpless and weak, at the complete mercy of random strangers he has no way of communicating with. He’d gotten lucky the first time this had happened to him. Too lucky. That the Pearl Clan didn’t leave him to fend for himself was a complete quirk of fate. He highly doubts that whoever’s custody he’s found himself in this time will be quite as compassionate with an out of commission outsider.
But he’s in no shape to flee. So, for now, he waits quietly in his provided room and tries not to attract any attention. Perhaps if he proves himself to not be a burden, his benefactors—whoever they are—will allow him to stay until he can manage on his own again.
A woman in a monochrome outfit is the second person to attempt talking to him. Thankfully, she speaks slowly enough to allow Ingo to realize that he can more or less make out what she’s saying. Her accent is thick and bizarre to his ears, but a few things manage to make their way across the language barrier. He tells her his name, his title, the last place he can remember being before waking up here. She tells him the name of the hospital he’s in, where he was found, the current date. They can more or less understand each other, but both parties seem to be confused by what the other is trying to say.
The woman leaves, distraught. Time passes, and then the woman comes back. Only now, she looks excited. Good news: they found his brother, she explains. He’ll be here soon.
Ingo stares blankly at her.
“Your brother,” she repeats, slower this time; maybe Ingo didn’t hear her properly. “Your brother? Emmet?”
He understands the words. But he has no idea what they mean. He doesn’t recognize the name. He doesn’t remember having a brother. He doesn’t remember having anyone.
Except he does. He does remember. Not at first, given his state of perpetual confusion, but once he gets a good look Ingo thinks right, right, it’s him. The man in white, the ghost that refused to ever leave… that was his brother! No wonder he could never rid himself of that voice, of that figure. He’s so thankful that he failed, that he’s finally found something in this strange world of stark white that feels even the tiniest bit familiar. His brother’s memory, hazy as it was, remained with him all along.
The phantom who once only existed on the periphery of his psyche is now directly before Ingo. He is flesh and blood and smiling and loud and crying and laughing and real. He pulls a chair up to the side of Ingo’s bed and he beams at him, patiently listening to Ingo haltingly talk about whatever he feels like, whatever comes to mind. It’s so strange… suddenly, he no longer feels like he needs to worry, now that the man in whi-Emmet, his brother Emmet, is here. As he listens he nods patiently, engaged, delighted. He doesn’t interrupt much but to reiterate, over and over, how he is so, so, so, so happy to see Ingo again.
Ingo should be happy too. He is happy, he thinks. It’s hard to put into words what he’s feeling. He spent so long trying to shut the man in white down, to chase him away, pretending he didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Now, he is here, like he stepped out of his dreams, and it suddenly feels like everything is going to be okay. Like, somehow, this person will be able to take care of everything. Ingo doesn’t know how, but. It’s just a feeling. He… trusts him, he realizes.
Slowly, Ingo comes to realize something else: Emmet is a complete mystery to him. It’s strange, because he’s been with him for so long—in a way, he is the only thing that Ingo never lost. And yet… he does not know the first thing about him.
Well, actually, that’s not true. He does know one thing about him; one singular piece of information that he holds more certain than anything else he has ever known.
And that is as follows: Ingo loves him.
Once again, he finds himself grasping the words, but not the meaning. How can he possibly love someone he knows nothing about? Love doesn’t work like that, does it? Is he just confusing it with the relief of finally recognizing someone, something, in the midst of this disorienting ordeal?
No—Ingo’s confused, alright, but not about this. The more he thinks it over, the surer he feels about it. There’s no point in trying to deny it. It’s the only thing that makes any sense right now. He loves Emmet. Loves him! He doesn’t understand how that can be possible, isn’t able to fully wrap his mind around it, but it remains a fact all the same.
Ingo wants desperately to understand as soon as possible. But he is exhausted. Emmet motions for him to lie back down, promises that he’ll still be here when he wakes up. Which is good. He doesn’t want him to go anywhere until he sorts this whole mystery out. He passes out still turning the idea over in his head, trying to crack it like it’s some kind of secret code… but the three words remain as unfathomable as they are indisputable—Ingo loves him. Ingo loves him? Ingo loves him…!
Ingo loves him.
Over the next few days, he discovers that Emmet seems to know Ingo better than Ingo even knows himself.
This would normally be alarming. And a bit annoying, he supposes. Ingo doesn’t think he needs anyone else to tell him who he is—he can speak for himself, thank you. But… this is Emmet. And, as previously established, Ingo loves him. So… he supposes he can allow himself to believe that he has Ingo’s best interests at heart.
Huh. What a novel concept. Intentionally lowering his defenses… he can’t remember ever actually doing such a thing on purpose.
But Emmet does not make Ingo regret it. He automatically knows what kind of food Ingo will like before he even tries it, and he knows that shutting off the overhead lights will assist in alleviating his aching head. He knows exactly when Ingo is becoming overwhelmed without him even having to say anything, and knows when it’s time to allow their perpetually ongoing conversation to lapse naturally into silence. At one point, he pulls aside an orderly and asks them to bring more blankets, saying that his brother is cold—Ingo hadn’t even realized that he was shivering.
He is perfect, is what Ingo is trying to say.
Too perfect. He’s doing too much. Ingo still considers himself lucky, when he thinks about the first time he woke up in bandages with a healer peering down at him—the Pearl Clan didn’t have to do what they did. He understood innately that he could never hope to settle that debt, yet spent years striving to repay it with interest anyway. And now this … this is ridiculous. It’s one thing to be rescued from otherwise certain death. It’s quite another thing to have someone take up vigil at his bedside and attend to his every need, around the clock. More than his every need, even! Emmet seems dead set on ensuring that Ingo is as comfortable as humanly possible. Mostly, it winds up making him feel oddly guilty.
He tries to tell his brother that he doesn’t have to do this. He surely has other important things that also require his attention! But Emmet is immovable; he states, with no room for argument, that he will not be departing from Ingo’s side until the two of them are cleared to return home.
Home. The word gives Ingo pause. Home! To think that Ingo had one waiting for him, all along. To think that it’s now within reach. He wonders what it looks like, what it will feel like to be there. What if he doesn’t recognize it? What if it doesn’t feel right? What if it’s worse than Hisui?
What if… and he suddenly remembers his brother’s words, back when he was still just a nameless figment of Ingo’s imagination: what if it’s better?
There is so much to be afraid of.
“You are here, so there is no reason why I should be anywhere else,” Emmet tells him. And hearing that scares him—no one has ever treated him with such importance, no one has ever regarded him with such casual reverence. His brother mentioned his role acting as the head of a facility, thus making him a key member of his community. He is a figure that others must surely rely on. He has responsibilities. And yet, here he is, placing Ingo above the untold amount of people he has a previous obligation to. What if he’s making the wrong call? Will he return to his station and realize that Ingo was not worth the detour?
“Nothing was fun without you,” Emmet tells him. And hearing that scares him—does he expect Ingo to make everything fun again? If he is, he’s bound to be disappointed. Ingo is not especially entertaining. He’s been called a stick in the mud on more than one occasion. The past five years have taught him to grow accustomed to loneliness and silence; in the face of Emmet’s enthusiasm, Ingo feels hollowed out, a mere shell of a person. Will his brother grow bored of him once he gets a better view of the emptiness?
“I missed you,” Emmet tells him, over and over, day after day, relentlessly. And hearing that scares him—because what if Ingo’s different now? What if the person that came back isn’t the same as the person he lost five years ago?
“I am Emmet,” Emmet tells him. It is a simple statement of fact. The self-evident truth.
Is Ingo… Ingo? He doesn’t know. He must have been, once. He had no reason to believe he wasn’t still… not until recently. For a long time, his name was the only piece of his identity he’d managed to hold onto. But there are so many things he is unsure about, now. He hopes he can be the Ingo that Emmet remembers… that’s why he’s here, isn’t it? That’s the reason for his devotion: Emmet missed his brother. He’s been waiting all this time for him to come home again. Ingo wants to make that dream come true for him, he really does, more than anything. The last thing he would ever do is intentionally break his brother’s heart.
Honestly, Ingo thinks, closing his eyes as his headache threatens to return. Who knew that love could be such a daunting experience?
Going home is nerve-wracking. Ingo is consumed by anxiety over the mere thought of it. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many things that do go wrong, at least on the trip back. They move through the sprawling complex that Emmet referred to as the ‘airport’ slowly, with Ingo constantly on the verge of over-stimulation from the veritable sea of people surrounding them on all sides.
“It is okay. Just focus on me,” Emmet tells him, patiently, so patiently. Ingo doesn’t know how he’s putting up with him. Anyone else would view the situation as burdensome. But Emmet is cheery, unbothered. His ever-present smile doesn’t budge an inch. “We’ll be there soon. You’ll see. I promise it will all be worth it!”
His brother is correct. The moment he flicks the switch on the wall of their apartment, a part of Ingo’s brain lights up as well. He remembers this. He remembers the feeling of unlocking the front door after a long day, knowing there was someone on the other side waiting to greet him. He remembers being able to relax here, remembers being happy here. Home... he remembers it, just as he remembers his place within it. He belongs here, doesn’t he?
Emmet drifts behind him as he floats from room to room, taking it all in. It feels like a waking dream. His brother follows his lead, occasionally stepping in to explain what he’s looking at. Here’s the dial on the wall that somehow keeps the place the same temperature year-round. These are the machines you place clothing into to make them look and smell brand new. If you turn this knob to the right, a stream of cool water starts flowing, and if you turn it to the left, the water magically becomes warm. Over there is the kitchen, with about a dozen more mysterious, ominous appliances—”no need to worry about that,” Emmet assures. “Just tell me if you’re hungry. I will take care of it.”
Everything is perfect, and clean, and automated, and convenient. Every bit of labor that is associated with maintaining a home has been dulled down to almost nothing; it’s like the concept of domesticity itself has been tamed. No need to gather materials for a fire, no need to fetch water from the river, no fear of outside elements invading in the middle of the night. This place is intended for leisure, and comfort, and enjoyment… and quite literally nothing else.
And Ingo belongs here, amongst all that. Even though he does not match his surroundings at all—it’s all rounded corners and muted colors and soft lighting and he’s… ragged. And torn, and rough around the edges. But it doesn’t matter: he belongs here. His faithfully upkept bedroom, the photos of him on the mantle, the elated pokemon that swarm him upon their release… his brother, eternally smiling in his direction, all the while. These things are all proof that his position was not simply marked as vacant. It was held in reserve. He can have it all back now, if he likes. He just has to claim it.
Could it truly be that easy?
When he yawns for the third time in as many minutes, Emmet gently suggests that they each head to bed. He must see Ingo waver (he shouldn’t be tired, all he did was sit on a plane all day), because he then tells him, unprompted, that there’s no need to push himself. “It’s been a long day,” his brother says, yawning himself. “And nothing is going anywhere. We can pick up where we left off tomorrow.”
His brother is right, he concedes. They’re already trying to pick back up from where they left off five years ago… adding another night to the counter shouldn’t hurt. Ingo yawns again and nods in agreement, wondering distantly to himself how quickly trusting his brother’s judgment has become second nature. It’s so easy. Maybe he should be worried about just how easy it is… but he is tired, and is currently being told that it’s time to rest. Hard to argue with that.
He is opening his bedroom door, nearly asleep standing up, when he hears his brother’s voice coming from behind him. It takes him a split second to process what he said, but no, he heard that correctly: Emmet just said “I love you.” Casually. There was nothing dramatic about the declaration. He’d said it in the way one might say, “good morning!” or “how do you do?”
Ingo blinks, and turns around to say… something. Once again, he knows the words, how could he not, they’ve been bouncing around in his brain for days: Ingo loves him, too! But how do you say it? Emmet had just put it out there, let the words fall as they may. Should Ingo do the same thing? It feels like he should do more. Like he should put force behind it, or shout it, or… or something. His brother has done so much for him, just in bringing him home… how could simply parroting his words back possibly be enough?
His brother awaits no such reciprocation. Emmet’s bedroom door clicks shut a moment later.
Ingo failed at something, just now. He knows he did.
He was supposed to react faster, wasn’t he? So much has happened so quickly; it feels like his head is always spinning, and he can’t keep up. The rules keep changing without him noticing, the ground shifts under his feet, and the strangest part… is that things keep getting better! Everything is wonderful, everything is perfect, and somehow things just keep improving. And he knows this is ridiculous, but his immediate reaction is to recoil in fear. Moving at high speeds is exhilarating, but it’s also dangerous. It is unsafe. Part of him is jubilant, watching the steam pick up. Another part of him is desperate for someone to pull the breaks.
It has been barely two weeks, and yet already he feels so distant from the wastelands of Hisui. He internalized so much, living in that place. Softness is weakness. Vulnerability is liability. Suffering builds character. A desire today is a disappointment tomorrow. He had no reason to ever doubt those lessons, before coming here. They kept him alive, they kept him safe. Those words were useful, at one point in time.
They are useless, here and now. He should abandon them. When in Unova, one should do as the Unovans, yes? But an object in motion remains in motion—Ingo can hardly be expected to turn on a dime. He wishes he could, though. He wishes he were better. Emmet, at the very least, deserves as much.
Ingo thinks about all of this as he lays down on his old bed… or sinks into it, more like. It’s a far cry from the futon in his old abode. The thick mattress is soft—so much softer than what he’s used to.
It may even be too soft. The following morning, he awakes to find that his back aches.
The thing about Nimbasa City, Ingo quickly learns, is that it is filled to the brim with wonders. Filled to the point of overflowing; he can’t walk two feet without stumbling over another small miracle.
And no one seems to bat an eye.
Across from their apartment, there’s a park where the wild pokemon are not only docile, but will come up to you and eat out of your hand. A block down from there stands a grocery store, stocked with a greater variety of food in it than Ingo knew existed. Walk a little further, and there’s a business called a ‘salon’—a place where trainers can pay a fee for their pokemon to be pampered, despite the service granting zero advantage in battle. Finally, in the very heart of Nimbasa, lies the crown jewel: a strange assortment of huge creaking machines that Emmet referred to as an Amusement Park. None of them serve any actual purpose beyond what is advertised in the name: amusement. People go there to unwind and have fun, or to simply pass the time. Imagine: all the money and technology and labor that must have been employed to create something people visit just for the hell of it!
Gear Station, however, blows all of these marvels out of the water.
Just like everything else he has experienced since he left Hisui, it is better than Ingo could have possibly imagined. Even in his wildest dreams he couldn’t have thought up of a place as amazing as this. There is a sea of people coming and going every which way; each traveler representing a different story, each passenger on a journey with a destination unique to themselves. The station itself is a destination, too—it’s huge, with a grand, magnificently designed atrium, and numerous tunnels branching off in all directions. It’s amazing. Ingo wants to see it all.
“Well,” Emmet sighs, relieved. “Thankfully it is not too crowded today.” There is still plenty of foot traffic, but, for whatever reason, it doesn’t bother Ingo the way the airport did. This place is just… better. There’s happy memories waiting to be made here, he can tell. Here’s one now: Emmet smiles affectionately over at him and asks: “What do you think? Happy to be back?”
‘Happy’ doesn’t even come close to capturing Ingo’s feelings right now. He’s… elated! This place is… it’s so… “You actually get to work here?” Ingo asks, in response.
“Yup!” Emmet’s smile grows brighter still. Each time Ingo thinks he’s seen the limit of that grin, he somehow manages to surpass it. His brother is incredible. “Cool, right? You want to know the best part?” He leans towards Ingo a bit, like he’s speaking in confidence, “I get to work here with you.”
It turns out, Hisui is not the only place where Ingo earned himself a title. He had one in Unova as well. He is—was?—a Subway Master, as Emmet had so excitedly informed him. It is a very important position, he’d insisted, a distinction shared with only one other person, none other than Emmet himself. The two of them weren’t satisfied with only becoming conductors, or simply mastering pokemon battling. No, they had to outdo themselves, had to go and find some ridiculous way to combine the two professions, thus spawning the other major attraction of Nimbasa City. It was a truly crazy idea, one that could only be pulled off through their combined effort. A two-car train, Emmet had said. That’s what they formed.
His brother is, yet again, absolutely correct: the best part about Gear Station that the two of them get to be together. He wants to get back to that, post-haste. When Emmet suggests they actually take a ride on a train, instead of just standing around gawking, Ingo takes off like a bullet. There’s no time to lose! He has a life to reclaim! He has a station to return to! Nevermind that his brother is currently trailing after him—Emmet spent so much time waiting for him! Full steam ahead!
Ingo then nearly trips in his haste. Embarrassing. He, of all people, should know that safety comes first. His brother will surely think him a fool.
He doesn’t. Instead, Emmet grabs Ingo’s hand just in time to pull him upright, and suddenly whatever was happening before doesn’t matter. Even once Ingo regains his footing, his brother keeps his hand right where it is, firmly in place, as though it is exactly where it belongs. And that’s because it is exactly where it belongs. This is how it always used to be.
They say you cannot know what it is you have until it’s gone. But they don’t tell you that the reverse is true, as well: you cannot know how much you truly missed something until it’s been returned to you. And Ingo had no idea he was missing this. No clue. He never would have thought to reach out on his own. Gentleness, and companionship, and warmth… it’s all there, suddenly, all neatly bundled and presented to him in the form of a single gesture.
Ingo is struck dumb by how simple it all is. He had this, once; had it, and never thought twice about it. It was such a steady constant that he took it completely for granted. And so, he lost it. But now, he’s back, and they can-
Ingo blinks, and Emmet’s hand is gone.
Right. Well, of course. It only makes sense. These things come, and—just as quickly—they go. Comfort is fleeting. If you expect it to last forever, if you grow too attached, you only set yourself up for pain when you are inevitably parted from it. When Emmet had reached out and made contact, he’d been struck with the sudden understanding that this is what he wanted. And just as quickly as that realization hit, so had the touch been yanked back and away again. Oh well. So it goes.
There is no disruption of service: Ingo proceeds to ask Emmet some inane question, which causes his brother to launch into a long, spiraling explanation of things that he surely once knew, and Ingo nods along politely to the sound of his voice. Distractedly, he flexes his fingers. Huh. When did his hand go numb?
No matter. It’s fine. He is not bothered, and he is not disappointed. In fact, in a way, Ingo received exactly what he’d been waiting for: someone finally, finally pulled the brakes.
Ingo sets his sights on going back to work as soon as humanly possible. Work is good—a goal he can wrap his mind around, something to keep him on track. Everyone knows what they say about idle hands.
…Also, Ingo might be feeling just a little (a lot) guilty after learning that Emmet had taken on the task of filling in for Ingo while he was absent. That is certainly a factor. He hates the idea of his brother being forced to pull twice his weight. All because of him. And Ingo is supposedly the older one! Emmet should be able to lean on him, not the other way around.
And yet, five years of overtime is apparently not enough for him. He insists on personally helping Ingo get back up to speed with work. So now he’s working double time and having to train someone else on the job. Ingo is frustrated he has to waste time teaching him at all—if only Ingo could just slip back into his uniform and automatically know what to do. But it takes time for a train to accelerate from stationary position to full speed. And so it will take time for Ingo, too. He dedicates himself to absorbing as much information as quickly as possible, in an effort to cut down on the adjustment period. He’s already lost so much time. His brother has already had to wait too long, to do too much.
“Hey,” Emmet says, airily, one morning. “You should take the day off, today.”
“The day off?” Ingo doesn’t get it. “Off what?”
“Off,” Emmet says, which clarifies nothing. “You know. From work!” At Ingo’s uncomprehending stare, he continues, “A day off is when you don’t have to go down to the station and you get to stay home and do whatever you want, instead.”
The concept is silly. There’s work to be done. Obviously, he should be doing it. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I said so, duh,” Emmet replies. Not a very helpful explanation. “Also, because I’m technically your boss at the moment.” Hardly! Just because he’s in training does not make him his subordinate! “Also also, because you are working too hard.”
Ingo sighs. “Emmet. You are the one who has been overworking himself for the past however many years.”
“And guess who I learned it from,” he counters, sticking his tongue out. He can be so childishly stubborn, sometimes. Emmet pulls his coat on and opens the front door, having declared himself the victor of this argument. “Your assignment for today,” he says, turning his Subway Boss voice on and pointing dramatically at Ingo, “is to practice self-care!” He lowers his finger. “Just try to relax for once, okay?”
The door closes, and Ingo is alone.
Which is fine. He can surely handle being left to his own devices for half a day. Ingo spent five years on his own, fending for himself, building a life out of scratch. He can surely find a way to—as Emmet had called it—practice ‘self-care’. Relaxing, doing whatever you want… it seems to come easily for the rest of the denizens of Unova. Ingo should have no trouble mastering it as well. He will embark towards his destination right away!
Just as soon as he figures out where to even begin.
Ingo has been sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, for hours.
“Whatever you want,” Emmet had said. As if it could be so easy.
It certainly seems to be easy for everyone else. Sometimes, Ingo wonders if he didn’t wake up in some kind of world where everything works in reverse: where pokemon have to be protected from people, and work is meant to be fun, and wants are considered just as important as needs.
But they’re not. They’re clearly not! Deprived of a need, a man dies. Deprived of a want, a man… carries on. It becomes second nature, after a while. You convince yourself that the thing you wanted never existed in the first place. This—the desire, the yearning, all the complicated, messy emotions that follow—never happened. You would not believe how easy it is to convince yourself that it never happened.
Ingo is not in the practice of entertaining his wants in general. It just wasn’t relevant to his previous way of life. His concerns revolved around keeping himself fed, keeping himself unharmed, keeping himself in the good graces of those who were thoughtful enough to provide him with clothing and shelter and a station to tether himself to. All of these things could disappear if he so much as faltered in his duties or rested a second too long on his laurels. All of these things were provided with conditions—and that made sense to Ingo.
There’s the crux of the issue: this strange new world has made absolutely no sense to him from the very beginning. He woke up in a hospital, was nursed back to health, and then discharged with only well wishes and instructions to keep himself out of trouble. A home and a job and a community were handed to him in exchange for nothing. People on the street sometimes wave at him for no reason, and don’t appear offended when he blankly stares back. Emmet smiles at him constantly, non-stop, even when he hasn’t done anything. Especially when he hasn’t done anything, it seems. Like he is rewarding him for just standing there.
It makes no sense. This is not how it works. He can’t… can’t fathom it. He wants to, but he can’t. How do people live like this? Do they not get tired, doing things selflessly for each other all the time, never expecting anything in return? Do they not feel aimless, with everything they could ever want right at their fingertips? Do they not feel the same fear he does, deep in his bones, that this will all eventually be ripped away with no explanation, just as suddenly as it had been thrust onto him? He’s constantly assured that he doesn’t need to worry about any disconnect, that it’s to be expected, it takes time to adjust. But is that really the right thing to do? To just sit back, accept it, and submit? It doesn’t feel right. But it does feel right. Ingo isn’t sure what it is he’s feeling.
Distantly, Ingo thinks, huh. He can successfully identify one feeling, at least: he is hungry.
The realization is a relief. There—a need! Something Ingo can work with. He knows how to handle those. He slinks into the kitchen and eyes the fridge. He probably shouldn’t mess with any of the appliances that involve heat without supervision, but surely he can locate something readily edible without too much trouble…
The first thing he spots when he yanks open the door is a brightly colored container. There’s a note on it. It reads, in what can only be his brother’s nearly illegible scrawl, “made u a sandwich just in case :)”.
It’s nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things. But the note hits him with the force of… well, the force of a runaway train, all the same. He can’t take two steps in any direction without running into some kind of reminder of the space his brother had held for him, with no indication that Ingo would ever return. He’d held it, knowing full well that the act might be pointless… but he’d done it anyway. Just because he wanted to. And Emmet is still holding it for him, as a matter of fact. “I accepted that you were gone, after a while,” he had told him, eventually, “but I never gave up wishing I could see you again.” And he’d meant it, Ingo could tell, as impossible as that seems. Sinnoh knows why. How his brother managed to find the strength to keep that hope from morphing into resentment, he doesn’t know. Maybe one day he will. One day in the very far-flung future.
Idly, Ingo wonders what kind of day his brother’s having, left to his own devices. He wishes he could do something, anything, for him, too… not that his brother needs it. He’s demonstrated that he can more than take care of himself, better than Ingo can at the moment, in any case. He’s probably also sitting down for lunch, right about now. Oh, right… today is wednesday. So he’ll be going out to eat with Elesa, then. She’s a friend, a close one—she’d been overjoyed to see him again, like so many others. Elesa is an elite trainer very similar to the two of them, Emmet had explained, after she’d tried to hug the life out of him. She’d also been unsatisfied with the idea of letting her training pull her away from her career, and so had decided to have her cake and eat it too. Aside from being a gym leader, her career, as far as Ingo can tell, seems to consist of wearing outlandish, impractical clothes. Only in Unova would that be a viable way to make a living, Ingo thinks.
Well, it’s probably for the best that the two of them get to spend some time together without him there for them to fret over. Every time Ingo’s dragged along, they wind up dedicating a significant portion of the meal to arguing over who gets to cover his bill. As in, they want to pay for it. They fight with each other over who gets the right to cover his tab. It’s baffling. Ingo never knows what to say while the two of them squabble.
The one and only time he’d expressed dismay at being unable to handle his own expenses (as he’s not quite back on payroll yet), Elesa had scoffed. “Oh, stop fussing and just let us treat you,” she’d said, not at all unkindly. “And don’t sit there all guiltily either! You know no one’s keeping score, right?”
Well, no, actually, he didn’t know that. He’s still struggling to believe it. There’s always supposed to be an even exchange, isn’t there? In Hisui, survival was only possible when one belonged to a community—and if you wanted protection, you were also expected to do your part. Those who didn’t work didn’t eat. As far as he knew, there was, literally, no such thing as a free lunch: everything came due, eventually.
But Emmet keeps giving, and giving, and telling him to relax, and offering to help, and asking if he has everything he wants, and not once does he ever indicate wanting anything in return himself.
Which is just how they do things in Unova, apparently. Cultural differences. The fact that everyone here possesses limitless hospitality should be a non-issue. But Ingo just cannot seem to find his footing… It's such a radical change from the world that he knew and assumed he loved. Even knowing all the things he went without in Hisui, sometimes he thinks wistfully about going back. Things made a clear-cut, if strict, sort of sense there; if you could conduct yourself in a certain manner, you were duly rewarded. If you couldn’t, then, well, you starved until you eventually learned. Ingo didn’t know it was possible to be starved of things other than food until he woke up here. Freedom, autonomy, self-reliance—these are all well and good, in the correct context. But removed from that context, and left unchecked, they so quickly mutate into detachment. In the blink of an eye, your strengths become weaknesses.
Maybe the creator finds it funny, playing with Ingo. Tearing him from his home, waiting for him to adjust to another, only to rip him away yet again. From one extreme to the other.
When the rain comes pouring down after a long drought, it floods. And not just a regular flood either—it flash floods. You’ll be standing on dry land one moment and struggling to keep your head above water the next. The clench Ingo feels in his chest at every good, undeserved thing that’s piled onto him feels much like that: an overflow. In the beginning it was just a pipe springing a leak. Then, it turned into a riverbed spilling beyond its banks. Now, Ingo can feel the cracks spreading across the wall of a dam. Which makes no sense—he shouldn’t be seized by the fear that a catastrophe is imminent. Not when Emmet smiling at him feels like the ocean being warmed by the sun.
And here is perhaps the cherry on top of all of Ingo’s troubles: he is increasingly growing concerned that he might be falling in love with his brother.
Which... is not what is supposed to happen, now is it. 'Falling in love' is a feeling reserved for when you meet someone new and exciting. It is not supposed to happen around someone you’ve known since birth. But every day he discovers more to love about Emmet, and it’s amazing, and it’s thrilling, and… Ingo doesn’t want it to stop. He should want it to stop. But he doesn’t. That’s… probably bad. Abnormal, at the very least. Undeniably weird.
And… there's an undeniable romantic subtext to the phrase too, isn't there? Just like there is for the idea of 'love at first sight'. But that is exactly what Ingo had felt back in that hospital bed when he got to see his brother for the first time, yet again. There was an immediate, unpredictable rush of emotion, as sharp and abrupt as a slap to the face. But this can't be romance—Emmet is his brother, first of all, and secondly, Ingo has never felt (or even wanted to feel) that type of pull towards anyone.
But he's feeling a pull of some sort now. In fact, he can’t stop feeling it. Every time Ingo thinks to himself, well, surely this must be the limit of his affections, another memory surfaces, and he finds that the well runs even deeper. It's endless. He supposes he finally understands why they call it 'falling'. Maybe they should call it 'sinking' or 'drowning' instead—something that better captures the utter helplessness of the sensation. It's all just so sudden, and so new, and so big... and still growing! How do you know when what you’re feeling is too much? In theory, the difference between platonic emotions and romantic emotions is subtle. Much like the difference between “love” and “Love”. Done correctly, either can be the best feeling in the entire world. But capitalize a single letter incorrectly …
The thought makes him feel nauseous. What guarantee is there that he isn’t doing this—feeling this—all wrong?
There’s another trope about love that Ingo thinks he might finally understand, now. He gets why they call it lovesickness. Because it really does feel like an illness: like something invisible infected him, and now it’s in him, spreading, and he’s suffering the adverse effects. Shutting it down doesn’t work anymore. Not when the condition has progressed this far.
It’s a useful metaphor, Ingo thinks. It suggests a plan of action, at least. As with most afflictions, the most obvious plan of action is to wait it out, get some rest, and pray it passes.
Unfortunately, Ingo chose the exact wrong spot in which to get some rest, as Emmet so thoughtfully reminds him when he comes home and finds him sleeping on the couch. God, Ingo loves him, he really, really, really does… but he can be such a pest, when he sees an appropriate opening.
And he’s certainly got an opening right now: Ingo went and screwed up his back again.
He’s silent for a moment, thinking over his options. In another place, in another time, he would have just grit his teeth and powered through the discomfort. But he’s not there. He’s here. So he tells himself it’s completely fine that he asks Emmet: “Would you help me up?”
But his brother is so evidently ready and eager to help him, that it makes something in his chest clench. Emmet takes his hand in his again, and it doesn’t feel sick, it doesn’t feel wrong, it just feels nice, just like it was the first time. He doesn’t want Emmet to let go. Emmet, of course, winds up doing exactly that. Ingo’s forced to look away even before it even happens, a wave of disappointment swelling in him, guilt bubbling up from the back of his mind where he’d attempted to lock it away.
Why is this such a problem for him? Is he truly so prideful? There are people in his life who want to do nice things for him, just because they can. And here he is, answering them with either a restrained “oh, no thank you”, or a reluctant “well, if you absolutely must”, all because of his own insecurities. What kind of display of gratitude is that? Who exactly does Ingo think he is?
It’s an incredibly jarring experience, going about your life assuming you’re satisfied, and then waking up one day and realizing that you’ve actually been discontented for so long you completely lost all frame of reference for what happiness even is. Steep long enough in denial, and numbness begins to appear cozy; wide-open arms can seem so cold. And, make no mistake, shaking the apathy off is excruciating. When feeling returns, the first thing one experiences is pain and discoordination—like sitting incorrectly on a limb for too long, trying to stand, and then having to hobble about as the sensation of pins and needles run up and down your leg. Ingo wondered if he wasn’t experiencing some kind of minor, extended heart attack, at first. It was relentless, the way each pleasant experience was followed by yet another, every happy memory recovered accompanied with ten even happier ones. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing he could ever fully adjust to, ever truly accept as the new normal… but what is the point in denying it any longer? His life in Unova is miles better than the one he left behind in Hisui. Entire orders of magnitude better!
Now that he’s being honest, he can admit that the harshness of Hisui’s wilderness was taxing. You don’t realize how exhausting it is to constantly be looking over your shoulder until you’re in an environment that’s safe and secure. And, while he’s at it, the desolation was maddening. You can only talk to yourself for so long before you get bored. And… and you know what else? The perpetual cold was miserable! Ingo hated it! He never wants to be that cold again in his life!
Coincidentally, right now, Ingo is absolutely freezing.
The people of Hisui were not the kind to indulge in fantasy. They never traded fanciful stories of a far-off land of milk and honey, because it doesn’t exist. That doesn’t mean they didn’t believe in happy endings, though. Everyone’s a sucker for a good happy ending, even those convinced they’re not allowed to have one, even those who claim they don’t exist. And the best kind of happy endings are also the most cliche: the kind where love wins.
And true love will always win, if you let it. It is not always reciprocal, and it rarely appears in the form you expect it to, and it is not always fair. It’s not the kind of thing that can be earned. It’s never given with the expectation of return. True love is given free of charge, no strings attached. It will always find you, inevitably, wherever you are; you cannot escape it, there is nowhere to hide. But, again: true love wins only if you let it. You have to give it a chance, just one. Almighty Sinnoh, in all their glory and mystery, could descend from the heavens and deliver the world to you on a silver platter. But if you lack the tenacity and grace to reach out and accept it, what have you been gifted? Nothing. You have to make the effort to reach out, too—divinity smiles upon those who dare.
It’s obvious, in principle. When you hear someone knocking at your door, you’re supposed to answer. If you don’t, how is anyone supposed to know that there’s somebody home?
“Ingo,” Emmet asks, looking over at him, seeing some sign he wasn’t even aware he was putting out. “Is it okay if I come over?” Emmet has done way, way too much for Ingo already. And yet, he looks keen to do even more.
It’s so very simple, in the end: all Ingo has to say is a single word—a single syllable, even—and his brother drops everything he’s doing and bee-lines directly towards him, like that’s exactly where he belongs. Because, just as it was before, it is. When Ingo half-heartedly tries to float the idea that maybe this is a little weird, to give his brother an out, Emmet enthusiastically tosses the idea away, like it’s nothing. A trifle to be dismissed. Not worth dwelling over.
And, well, Ingo trusts him. Because Ingo loves him. Or maybe Ingo really does Love him…? Ah, who cares. The nuance doesn’t seem to matter very much, at the moment.
It’s the same word, either way.
Emmet was apparently serious about staying on the couch forever.
“Verrrrry serious,” Emmet says, once they’ve been there, hanging off each other and idly talking for close to two hours. “I told you. If you’re here, then there is no reason to be anywhere else.” Yes, Ingo definitely remembers him saying that. It’s been ringing in his ears for weeks. “So, unless you move, I am staying put,” he says, snuggling closer. Ingo is not sure how he keeps managing to do that. Every time he thinks the two of them are as close as humanly possible, he finds another way.
It’s nice. More than nice. It’s perfect—a surge of everything Ingo never knew he wanted, overwhelming in the best possible way. As with every other aspect of returning home, all he can really do is try to hold on tight while his head spins.
“You’re tired,” Ingo points out, when he notices his brother's eyes droop. No surprise there: Emmet was the one who actually got up and went to work today, while Ingo did nothing, worked himself into a panic, and then took a nap, in that exact order. “And there you were accusing me of falling asleep in weird spots.”
Emmet’s eyes snap open. “Wait, Ingo, get up,” he says shooing him off the couch an entire thirty seconds after saying he wasn’t going to move. “I have an idea.”
A few minutes of watching Emmet toss things around the room later, Ingo finally asks, “What are you doing?”
“Obviously,” Emmet says, dusting his hands off like he just completed a laborious task, “I am making a pillow fort.”
A fort, he says. “Emmet, all you did was put the contents of the couch on the ground.”
“No,” he brother argues, laying down right in the middle of the lopsided construction of blankets and cushions he threw together. “It’s different. Come on,” he pats the spot next to him.
Ingo lays down as instructed. “I don’t get it,” he says.
Emmet rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You don’t have to get it.” There’s a moment where Ingo thinks, wait, what happened to the hugging. How do we get back to the hugging? That had been nice. So far, the pillow fort seems like a clear downgrade compared to the previous set up. Is it Ingo’s turn to reach out, this time? Is that how this works? Should he just… go for it? Would that be okay? He has no idea how to tell. The moment passes when Emmet says, “it’s really just an excuse for me to do this,” and easily throws an arm around him.
“How do you do that,” Ingo mutters.
Emmet bonks his head against his shoulder. “Do what?”
“That.” How does he always know the right thing to do, at the exact right time? And how does he make it look so effortless? And how is Ingo possibly supposed to respond ? “You love me too much.” Emmet’s gaze snaps toward him in concern. Ah, he definitely can’t tell him that he worries he loves Emmet too much as well, now, can he? “And I… I want to keep up. I do! You deserve that. But I can’t… translate the thoughts into action, like you do. Does that make sense?” He sighs. He can’t even do a good job of explaining himself. “I’m awful at this, Emmet. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m sorry.”
"Wow," Emmet says, stunned, blinking in shock. "Elesa was right." Elesa? What does she have to do with what they're currently talking about? "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard."
"What-" That was not exactly the response he was expecting. "Emmet, I’m being serious!"
“Yes,” his brother agrees, “Seriously stupid.” He truly has a way with words. “Actually, cut that out. The whole being serious thing. It’s lame. If you want to do something for me, then just relax for once! And anyway…” Despite his previous protests, Ingo can tell that Emmet is, in fact, being very serious himself. “You don’t need to do anything. You’re here.” The arm around him squeezes tighter. “That is all I want from you.”
Well. What else can he possibly say to that? "I love you, Emmet.”
There’s a beat of silence before his brother breaks it by collapsing entirely into a giggle fit. Well, Ingo supposes it is pretty funny; funny that it took this long for him to gather up the courage to say something so simple. “Dork,” he says, still laughing. “You are still doing it! Too serious! Quit it!” Emmet kicks him, lightly. “Listen. You do not need to convince me. Did you really think I couldn’t figure it out myself?” His grin turns mocking, “I’m the smart twin, remember?”
“Is that so.” Ingo stares at him. “That is not quite how I remember it.”
His brother begins laughing again; apparently, he could care less what Ingo does or does not remember. “You love meee,” he sings, in an effort to be as obnoxious as possible.
Ingo shoves a pillow in his face. “Will you be quiet?” Somehow, being able to dissolve into bickering feels almost as good as the ability to be completely, blatantly sincere. There’s something reassuring about it—about being able to reveal your biggest, most shameful insecurity, and have someone else look over at it and shrug. A reminder that it’s all no big deal. Because it truly isn’t! “Go to sleep already.”
“Nuh,” Emmet whines, eyes closed after his laughing fit passes. “Not tired.”
“Of course not,” Ingo says. When another moment passes with no response, he looks over, and finds his brother out like a light. So much for that.
Everything is fine.
Everything is fine, because they are both here and they both love each other and they both know that the other knows and so on and so on. Everything is fine, everything is perfect.
But, still, even knowing all that… Ingo still allows himself to admit that he wishes things were just a tiny bit better.
There’s a memory he got back not long ago that he keeps returning to. It’s not a dramatic, or even an important one, not really—actually, what took place in the memory was probably a common occurrence. He’d recalled a time when the two of them were sitting on the worn seats of the subway, riding home after a long day of work. Emmet had dozed off leaning on his shoulder. At one point, the train had lurched, and Ingo adjusted his position to keep him from falling forward. The movement was automatic; he didn’t even need to look up from the book he was reading. Emmet remained asleep, not roused by the turbulence at all.
It’s his favorite memory, Ingo thinks. Such a simple, and sweet, and natural interaction—to the point of it being totally unremarkable. It’s perfect. Ingo wants it to be just like that between them again. He wants to go back to exactly where they were in that memory.
Emmet’s already there. He never left. Ingo’s the one who departed—against his will, obviously, but still. He is slowly but surely working his way back, but progress is understandably slow. The heart is a muscle; love is a skill. Without exercise, a muscle atrophies; without practice, a skill grows rusty. Ingo’s cab sat stationary in the yard, neglected and forgotten, for quite some time. That doesn’t mean that it’ll never run again. Just that it’ll take time—the same way it does for an engine to get warmed up, for the wheels to begin turning, for a train to pick up steam.
Ingo scoots closer to Emmet, and the movement feels a little silly. He places a hand on the back of his neck, unsure if that’s the appropriate place for it to go. When he places his mouth against his brother’s forehead, it’s clumsy, unpracticed, inept. This kind of thing… it was never his forte, it seems. If Emmet were awake, he’d probably start laughing again at the sheer awkwardness of it all. But he’s asleep, so Ingo just lays there in the silence and feels the moment for what it is.
“Goodnight,” he says, and it doesn’t come close to conveying everything he wants to say, everything he’s currently feeling. It’s not the perfect little one-liner that wraps everything up in a nice little package with a shiny bow on top. But that’s fine. He’ll get there, eventually. “See you tomorrow, Emmet.”
Ingo is awoken early the next morning to something tapping him on the forehead.
He blinks repeatedly, and discovers that his brother is still sound asleep next to him. That’s strange. If he didn’t wake him up, then who…? A moment later, the taps repeat, this time on his shoulder.
Ah, he thinks, turning to identify the culprit. Durant.
“My apologies,” Ingo tells the pokemon. “I must have fallen asleep before I could give you your potato chip.” Durant squawks back indignantly. “I know, I know, I intend to keep my half of the deal. One moment,” Ingo mutters, as he moves to get up. He is surprised to find his back does not ache at all. Sometimes a firmer surface is preferable to a softer one—who knew? “Alright,” he says, heading towards the kitchen, the tiny pokemon skittering just on his heels. “Let’s go get your long-delayed reward, then.”
When Ingo holds the promised chip down within Durant’s reach, they leap up in excitement and quickly seize it within their pincers. Before they scarf it down, they scurry around in a happy little circle, a one-float parade in celebration of what a good bug they’ve been. It’s adorable. A little too adorable: with its potato chip eaten, the pokemon sits down politely on the kitchen floor and stares back up at Ingo expectantly. Strange. You would think that Durants were incapable of learning a move like Baby-Doll Eyes. And yet…
Ingo leans over, peering into the living room. His brother appears to still be asleep.
Good. Ingo reaches back into the bag, and silently presents Durant with a second potato chip.
“I saw that,” comes Emmet’s voice, almost instantly.
“No you didn’t,” Ingo counters. “You weren’t even looking over here.”
“Yes, well, I heard it,” he claims, now leaning over the top of the couch. He narrows his eyes. “We agreed on one chip. If they were good.”
“They were good.” It wasn’t Durant’s fault that the two of them got wrapped up in what they were doing and fell asleep right there on the floor. “And so I gave them a chip.”
“And the second one?”
“Oh,” Ingo looks down at where the pokemon is recreating it’s earlier routine, marching about proudly, reward held securely above its head. “Well, I gave Durant the second one because…” Why did he? He had no valid reason to. But it had made Durant light up in joy. And that had made something in Ingo light up, too. It is all so very simple: it feels good, doing something just for the sake of making someone else happy. Even better, to do so unconditionally. “Because I felt like it,” Ingo answers.
“Ugh,” Emmet is trying very hard to act like he’s annoyed. “You are such a softie, Ingo. Even the pokemon know it!” He flops back over to the other side of the couch in pretend disgust. “You haven’t changed a bit,” he sighs.
No, Ingo thinks, already reaching into the bag for a third chip. He supposes he hasn’t.