In hindsight, Ingo had underestimated just how effective a shield the waistcoat had been.

Its entire purpose had been to act as a buffer to hide behind-- and he had no doubt that without it, the timeline on making a formal announcement would have been much shorter-- but there had been a secondary function that he hadn’t noticed until it became too tight to function: the garment had created a continuous line that his current uniform lacked.

With just a black dress shirt, there was a clearer distinction to be made between the slope of his chest and that of his abdomen, and some people… wanted to touch. It was awful.

Those who had the courtesy to ask received a polite denial, and children a gentle talk as to what was and wasn’t appropriate-- but then there were those who took his presence in a public space as invitation in and of itself. He startled every time, which was mortifying enough, but then he had to go through the process of asking that they not touch strangers without consent, and in just under half of the cases, that individual became defensive.

It was a particularly jarring instance that led him to the in-station battle field, where he could pace his anxiety out.

As the Battle Subway’s entire gimmick was the unique arena, this space often went unused, but was always available for those subway trainers who wanted to practice on solid ground or battle a fellow member of the machine, so to speak. It was one of the many resources they offered those trainers who were willing to battle on their end rather than as a challenger, because if their volunteers weren’t allowed room to grow, too, forward momentum would coast to a halt.

No need to worry on that front. Ingo had no intention of stopping any time soon. Someone kicked into his side, and he went with it, choosing to turn the corner and patrol a different edge of the guiding lines.

Entitled behavior from a commuter was nothing new, and while annoying, that wasn’t what was eating away at his nerves. What nobody else needed to know was how helpless he felt when a stranger decided they had the right to treat him as an object, something that was there to be touched at their leisure; there was nothing to be done because it was the very act of doing his job-- straying into their purview-- that justified it in their minds. So long as he existed as a pregnant individual in a public space, it would continue.

Turning on his heel, he caught the white shape idling at the door and gave a haphazard wave, if only to acknowledge that he’d noticed his brother’s presence. Emmet raised a hand in answer and flicked his wrist on the downswing, calling him over. That was fine; he’d already been moving in that direction anyway.

His twin’s eyes raked over him in short order, processing what was going on, but Emmet was kind enough not to highlight it. “A team is on course to enter the Multi Line’s 19th car. I also crossed paths with Elodie on my way to speak with you. When you’re able, she would like your assessment of her Drilbur’s latest battle performance.”

Without turning away, he took several steps backwards, bumping the door open and holding it there.

“Did she state whether or not she’s volunteering on the lines today? If she hasn’t departed by the time the Multi Train returns to the station, I’d be happy to help her.” Ingo gave a brief, grateful nod and stepped through; the echo of footsteps falling into place next to him was a nice chance of pace from before.

Emmet shrugged. “Probably. Or she’s willing to wait.”

They’d see when it became relevant, then. He wondered for a moment what line the footage was from; Elodie only ran on the standard courses, and he hadn’t seen her name on the Single Line’s volunteer list for at least a week. Perhaps she’d taken a detour into double battling-- but then wouldn’t she be seeking Emmet’s advice instead?

He passed the thought off for the time being and asked after the correspondence Emmet had been keeping with another niche breeder.

“He had a verrrry interesting idea!” Emmet said, immediately taking to the line of inquiry, “His attempt to hatch a Sewaddle with Air Slash panned out. A friend of a friend had a cooperative Mothim. The important thing is that the resultant Sewaddle also knew Camouflage!”

Ah, now there was an idea. In the Battle Subway, Camouflage would temporarily change a Pokemon into a normal type-- and while that didn’t grant any benefits where active strategy was concerned, it would throw a wrench into the type advantages involved. Golett and Golurk weren’t uncommon matches against Galvantula, and a Joltik that could render half of its same-type moves unusable and reduce the other half’s effectiveness was a novel concept. It wasn’t exactly conventional, but if it was trained properly, there was a chance that weather effects could play into the move, too, lending another layer of complexity.

“That sounds promising. You’d considered a Mothim before, hadn’t you? In relation to Lunge, if memory serves.” It hadn’t worked out because the only Pokemon that could pass it to their electric offspring were Mothim and Centiskorch, which were a massive pain to find in Unova, let alone a specimen that lived up to his twin’s standards. X-Scissor may have lacked the stat alteration, but was slightly stronger and far more accessible, and so Lunge had been left at the station.

But if an associate knew someone with a well-trained Mothim, the concept could potentially make a round trip.

Emmet nodded twice, lighting up-- it was hard to tell if it was because the Multi Train had just pulled in or because he’d had the same thought. Across the platform, a pair of subway trainers departed, confirming that the challengers were still on track; Ingo gave them a wave as they drew parallel, and then turned his attention back to Emmet as they entered their car.

For no reason other than to watch it sway, his twin made a cheerful swipe at one of the hanging straps as they boarded. “I do not know if they specialize in Burmy and its evolutions. If so, they may have a Mothim that knows both or is open to learning them. I have no intention to initiate contact until long after the passengers have arrived. But it could be a verrry productive breeding experiment.”

Unsure why, exactly, the last comment landed the way it did-- maybe it could be chalked up to mention of the passengers just prior-- Ingo bit back a snort and tried to play it off as a particularly painful-sounding sneeze.

Emmet didn’t buy it. “What.”

“Nothing!”

“Don’t lie to me. There is obviously something.”

“Ah, it’s just--” There was no way out of this. Emmet was going to hate it, but he had forced the matter, so it was on him at this point. “I believe Arceus said the same thing about me.”

His brother stared at him for several seconds and then, silently, pointed across the car, ordering him to sit on the far bench and think about what he’d said. Unable to justify himself, Ingo held his hands up in surrender and obeyed.

The relative stillness was pleasant, the occasional bump behind his ribs offset by the familiar thrum of the mechanical marvel they were riding on. He had to remain near station while any of his battle lines were operating-- unless something urgent came up-- so walking his frustration out had been the only viable solution at the time, but this felt far better than anything he’d accomplished by pacing.

Two cars away, he heard Round used in rapid succession.

Still in a huff, but unable to maintain a punitive distance, Emmet flopped down on the bench, too.

“Oh, have I been forgiven?” Ingo asked, willfully ignoring the crossed arms and determined stare up at the cab’s ceiling. Just to lay it on extra thick, he set his head down on his twin’s shoulder.

It meant he was near enough to hear the grumbled, “For the first time, you are lucky you’re pregnant.”

“I’m afraid the entire joke depended upon that foundation; if I wasn’t, you wouldn’t have anything to be mad at in the first place.”

“You’re making too much sense. Go back to being weird about Elesa’s perfume.”

The train slid to a halt, signaling that the challenger had drawn yet one more step closer. From the next car over, the general flow of the battle would be plainly audible, and if they so chose, it would be possible to listen for specific moves. Neither of them tended to bother-- it was far more fun to find out in the heat of the moment.

“Question.” Emmet announced with an uncommon softness, the words tempered back further with, “Though you’re free to refuse comment.”

Though he sincerely doubted he would have reason to do anything of the sort, Ingo returned with, “To borrow a turn of phrase, ‘You can ask.’”

It earned a brief scoff before the uncharacteristic timidity got the better of him again. “When they move. What does it feel like?”

There was a brief pause-- during which a clear Echoed Voice sounded from the next car over-- as Ingo considered it. Emmet was certainly aware of the descriptions that could be found online, and if he was asking now, it likely meant that he either wanted confirmation that they were accurate or found the analogies too abstract. How could he make this completely clear…?

“The first summer after Litwick followed me home, she had a great deal of trouble maintaining her form. Do you happen to remember that?” Perfect, he decided upon receiving a nodded response; this would do nicely. “At the moment, it’s a bit like soft wax arms trying to get your attention. When they first started, it was more akin to reaching too close to her flame, at a proximity where you could feel the air distort around it.”

Emmet’s expression cleared and he visibly perked back up. “That makes much more sense. Thank you. And sorry. That can’t be fun.”

“It’s far from the worst symptom I’ve experienced up to this point.” Ingo decided after a moment-- because, while it wasn’t necessarily the most natural sensation, he would hesitate to call it wholly unpleasant. None of the impacts were worse than that of a hiccup, and while he’d prefer it if the passengers stuck to targets without vital function, he could manage.

“I love Chandelure. But it was bad. She felt weird and clammy.” His brother shuddered and unfolded his arms, flapping his hands as if to rid himself of the reminder.

When he’d successfully shaken the phantom sensation off, he idled for another minute, flexing his hands into fists and back, gauging the sounds of the battle next door. It seemed to be going strong.

Humming to fill the air, he settled in more comfortably and stretched an arm low along Ingo’s back.

It took a second to realize what was odd about the gesture; it felt shallow, hollow almost. Ingo almost passed it off as a figment of his imagination until he turned to reciprocate and found the difference. His brother’s hand lay flat against his back, fingertips just barely encroaching on the curve of his waist. It was a confusing deviation from the norm, until it wasn’t.

“You’re fine,” He said, shifting to settle the hand in a more conventional position, “There’s a world of difference between being touched by a patron and you hugging me; I won’t ever reject the latter.”

The gentle air they’d been fostering between them all but evaporated. “People have been trying to touch you?”

This time when Ingo snorted, it was utterly devoid of any humor. “Unfortunately. Most seem to remember their manners once I ask them to pull the brakes, but some have become defensive.”

“That’s unacceptable behavior.” Emmet said unnecessarily, “We have rules against physical harassment. Do they not know how to read?”

“I believe the issue is that, in their minds, it’s an unconnected car. To be entirely fair, most are just trying to be friendly.”

Emmet made a face and pulled closer, angling his body inward, “The intention does not change the outcome.”

And that was something they would be teaching their own children.

“You’re correct, but if I remind myself that they’re just excited, it helps a bit.”

There was a dissatisfied grunt from next to him, followed by, “I will address the problem.”

“I’m… legitimately curious how you intend to accomplish that.” He said, with no small amount of trepidation.

This time, when Emmet flapped his free hand, it was pure dismissal. “I will address it. You just worry about the passengers.”

“I would love to.” Ingo said, and then really had to stress, “However, when you’re acting like this, I find it difficult to focus on anything else.”

In the end, the challengers didn’t quite make it to their car. It was disappointing, but they’d had a good conversation, even if it did descend into petty squabbling by the time they arrived back at the station.

Some time ago, Ingo had said that his greatest hope for the next few months was a sense of normalcy-- and, paradoxically, it seemed easiest to find it hiding in the shade of the surrounding changes.

(At the workday’s end, as they got home and hung their coats up, a flash of white caught Ingo’s attention. He was used to seeing the contrast against his own jacket, but it had been quite some time considering his white shirts weren’t circulation. Largely because he couldn’t hold them closed anymore.

When he took the edge and straightened it, he realized it was a piece of printer paper that had been taped to the back panel-- haphazard in its application, but sturdy enough to survive the day.

In what was undeniably his brother’s handwriting, it read: Do NOT Touch.

He glanced to the living room, where Emmet was scratching behind one of the Klinklang’s gears. When he noticed the attention on him, he looked from Ingo to the blatantly visible sign, and then had the gall to ask, “Did it work?”)