Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So Emmet missed his brother. This was obvious to anyone who'd ever met him before. Or anyone possessing eyes.

Neither of them did well with alone. They never had. For short periods of time, sure, with well-defined starts and ends to be planned around, okay—but. Well, case in point: it would be far more practical to stagger their mandated vacation days, so that there was always at least one boss on the subway. Or to divide responsibilities so anything that called them away only called one of them away. But they didn't. Because it would make everything more difficult, or defeat the whole point of a vacation as in rest: they both vastly preferred to stay, at the very least, within reach whenever possible.

And now something had taken Ingo away, under dubious and alarming circumstances, and it was unclear when it would return him. So yes. He was functioning—he kept everything in order, helped organize the analysis and rerouted lines away from the danger zone and maintained the subway's daily expected functions and et cetera—but he was... ragged around the edges. Because there was that constant jagged splinter in his side, the unavoidable awareness of a loss of a very important structural support: Ingo was not available. Even if he wanted him, he wouldn't be able to find him.

The worst part was knowing that somewhere else, in some other reality or wherever he'd been taken, Ingo must have been struggling through the same thing. And that was painful. Knowing his twin was somewhere unreachable, alone and hurting, and there was nothing he could do to help.

Clearly being a Warden was... lonely. Isolated. But to be entirely honest, Ingo hadn't really noted much of a difference, himself.

Even back in the Pearl Settlement, everyone was so far away. As if they were on the other side of... some sort of barrier, or gap, and try as he might he couldn't bridge it to reach them. Or maybe it was that he wasn't trying, not very hard. Was he?

It didn't seem to matter. Or if he understood why it mattered—intellectually, at least—he couldn't bring himself to care anyway. Building all those new connections, laying new tracks, for what?

He didn't want to get comfortable, maybe. Maybe that was it.

Or couldn't get comfortable. There was some kind of misalignment between him and the rest of the world, that much was obvious. Some counterbalance he kept expecting and then not finding, leaving him stranded and off-kilter and unstable.

Or in plainer language—he wanted something. There must have been something, something fundamental, that he'd relied on, if its absence made him wake in tears from dreams he couldn't remember but that filled him with that undefinable sense of loss.

Surely he would adjust eventually. Surely. Whatever piece of him remembered would eventually work out that it wasn't coming back, and give up on waiting for it.

It couldn't keep getting worse forever, after all. Could it?

Chapter Text

Ingo is different now that he's back. This is obvious, and was inevitable. He's been living an entirely different life for years, and though his memories are slowly returning, there's no magic cure for the length of time he spent entirely without them. But people change, they adapt; it's what they're good at. And he's still the same Ingo, underneath all that. It can't help but shine through in the moments where he acts without really thinking.

So if his brother is more reserved now, or prefers to take a more aggressive strategy in battles, or hesitates more over his words, or, or—that's all fine. Emmet would learn, would rearrange things to make that a part of their life, if it was what made him happy.

Except, he can't tell if it does make him happy. Mostly due to the presence of this giant stupid wall he's putting up between them.

That is not a change he is okay with.

Communication has always been their bedrock. It's what made everything else work. But now he barely talks to him about anything, unless directly asked. And even then he dodges the question half the time, even though Emmet can tell there's still something making him uncomfortable, because his physical mannerisms are one thing that really haven't changed at all. It's still a guessing game half the time, and it's so—frustrating. There's a literal, physical distance between them, which is such a point-blank metaphor for what's going on that it would be funny if it wasn't so worrying. He dodges around him, intentionally takes the longer route, like he'll burn him if he gets too close.

Emmet hasn't come out and demanded an explanation, yet, because. Well, half because between the both of them, Ingo is, ironically, still the better one at conversations. And the directness is one of the things he seems to flinch from, now (which hurts, because he doesn't know how else to be—) and he doesn't want to make things worse. And, maybe a little bit, because he's not sure he wants the answer.

(What if part of the difference now is Ingo doesn't trust him? He's not sure how he could live with that.)

But he can't keep doing this, either. Or, he won't.

Ingo's on the couch when he finds him, reading their heavily annotated copy of a book cataloguing Doubles abilities and moves. Before he can back down again, Emmet takes a seat next to him.

"I want to talk," he announces.

He sees the flicker of doubt—reluctance—in the way the book in his hands pulls back, but then he stops, and sets it down. "...Very well," he says, voice still hovering somewhere in uncertainty. "About... what?"

"You are far away. And I do not like it."

"...I am right here," he says, sounding puzzled. "You could reach out and touch me, if you liked."

"You are here physically," he says, frustrated, and then pauses—no, that needs clarification. "But you are keeping your distance. On purpose. I think. You will not tell me anything. That is far away. And you do not want me to touch you."

Ingo inhales sharply, at that, like he has something to counter it—but then he doesn't say anything.

He looks down, drumming his fingers on the back of his hand, while he puts his conclusion together. "I told you before that I do not care. If you change. But I want to know why. And I want to help if something is wrong. And I do not like guessing. That is why I am specific. I want you to do the same. At least a little. Please." He hates that he has to repeat this, to his brother of all people.

Ingo opens his mouth, and then shuts it, and then finds a piece of patterned blanket to pick at.

"I have been distant," he repeats, confirming what he understands. "Physically and verbally. And this is not... you want me to be... more direct. More open."

"Yes."

He traces a straight line, frown pinched and deepened.

Then he says, "The Pearl Clan reveres space."

"Okay?" Emmet tilts his head, able to parse that this was somehow significant, but not able to interpret how.

"They revere space," he repeats, with more emphasis this time. And then continues, "They treat it with the utmost respect. It must be kept neat, and clean, and cared for communally... so, many things are... left unsaid. To argue in a public space would be disrespectful to it, so communication is... indirect. And to bother other people would be an invasion of their own, personal space. Thus there is a... distance. A physical distance. Maintained at all times." He holds one arm out to the side, as if delineating an invisible personal-space bubble.

"To... touch a clanmate, or even be particularly close to them, was... rare. Reserved for private moments, or emergencies where it couldn't be helped, or..." His hand drops back down, and he adds on, "And I was ever an outsider. Becoming a warden did not help with that. Not when it so far removed me from the rest of them."

He takes a deep breath, and this time it shakes a bit, though his voice stays steady. "I assumed... or, I... if I have been distant, it is because..." it's unusual to see him struggle this much, grasping for the right words. Finally he says, slightly snappy like he's frustrated, "I do not know where the line is, anymore. Distant is all I can remember. If this set of rules is wrong, then..."

He raises one hand to his forehead, smooths back his hair. "What I want is too much. I know that. But that does not make for much of a benchmark."

Suspicion and concern gnawing at him, he echoes, "What do you want?"

He curls back on himself, one hand folded against his chest like he's guarding it, head angled down in a way that would hide his face if he were wearing his hat.

"...everyone is so far away," he says, voice much smaller than it usually is.

It isn't difficult to hear the pain in his voice, or see it in the way his other hand twists a handful of blanket. Emmet takes a breath, but then, he isn't the wordsmith between them. So he just reaches over, arms open, and, like he's ached to do since they reunited but hasn't been allowed, he hugs his brother.

He holds him, silently, chin on his shoulder, hand on the back of his head, feels his unsteady breathing. Until he gets an answer, in the form of a pair of arms reaching up to wrap around his shoulders.

"Understand?" he asks.

"Yes- I-" his voice wavers, and then catches on a sob, and then his shoulders are shaking.

Despite himself, Emmet feels a spike of relief. A surge of, there you are. I found you.

He can feel him trying to fight it back—to pull away again, veil his emotions, keep the distance—but he rocks them both back and forwards, silently, holding him tighter, trying to say without words, it's okay, it's okay, just stay.

"I missed you," Ingo says, after a while, voice still rough.

"You did not remember me," Emmet points out.

"No," he agrees. "But- I missed you, regardless. I knew–" his voice catches again. "Something was missing, and I– and it–" he breaks off.

"I know," he answers. "I missed you too."