Historically, nothing good came of being asked ‘Hey, can you feel this?’ at a moment’s notice. While there had been the odd few occasions where one of them pulled a trick or made a stupid mistake, there was usually a third party involved-- oftentimes, it had been a new classmate testing whether or not identical twins really shared thoughts or pain.

Due to the nature of how they’d acted as children, it had usually progressed the same way: a peer would approach Ingo as the more docile of them and carry out the practical side of the experiment. Sometimes it was a pinch, sometimes a childish smack. Sometimes Emmet was nearby to notice immediately, and sometimes he was distracted by the various Pokemon that frequented their schoolyard-- up until he was asked whether or not he felt something. It always ended the same way: with Ingo frantically pulling his twin away from the would-be scientist.

Not… that he could criticize. While he’d been the more appealing target in that he was less likely to haul back and retaliate, that was only on his own behalf. It wasn’t to imply that he hadn’t chased down his own share of truth-seekers.

So it was a bit thoughtlessly that he reached over for his brother’s hand and asked, “Are you able to feel this?”

Working off of some half-buried instinct, Emmet scanned the environment for whoever it was that needed punching and came up lacking a target; this was largely because they were at home and the nearest entity was Crustle, who’d never done anything wrong in its life. He stared blankly at the crab for a second, eyes locked and either one blinking at the other in pure confusion, before slowly following his own arm to where his hand rested.

It was silent until the kicking stopped.

“That was them.” He said, and while it was clearly meant to be a declarative statement, there was an undeniable note of question to it, “They’re moving.”

Unable to help the easygoing chuckle that rose in his throat, Ingo specified, “They’ve been moving for some time now, but yes, that was one of them.”

Everything remained still after that-- Emmet included, staring intensely at his hand. Under different circumstances, it would be uncomfortable, but Ingo had been the one to put it there in the first place and this was his brother lingering, not someone intruding into his space, so he wasn’t terribly bothered. It was just them and Crustle in the guest room; the only disturbing thing here was the amount of renovating that needed to be done before the passengers’ arrival.

“Is everything alright?” He asked after a bit longer, more to prompt Emmet into speaking his mind than because he was concerned something was the matter.

The answer came in a smaller voice than he’d expected, the words almost hesitant. “I’m excited. I knew they were there. But they’re there.”

“They are most definitely there.” Ingo agreed, fully aware of what his twin meant in spite of how ridiculous it might have sounded, “I know you were curious about their movements, so I’m glad you had the opportunity to meet them, however briefly.”

Finally, realizing he’d frozen in place, Emmet took his hand back, “Is it different now? Or still like Litwick?”

“It’s much more solid; less reminiscent of waxy little nubs.”

“Litwick in winter versus summer.” He said, nodding to himself-- which wasn’t a bad comparison. With his curiosity sated, he went back to what they were supposed to be doing.

As his brother moved on to confer with Crustle-- who scuttled out from under the dresser he’d been helping to move-- Ingo raised a hand to the same spot, patting it. The responding movement, which he hadn’t actually meant to incite, was barely noticeable through skin and fabric, but was also far more forceful internally.

The guest room was, in a limited number of words, a disaster. It had never been the most elaborate set up-- a bed for visitors, a dresser that also acted as a night stand, an extra book shelf and some visually inoffensive storage, along with whatever bits and bobs Elesa inevitably forgot when she left-- but even those limited pieces of furniture were difficult to maneuver when pushed to one side.

Prior to Ingo derailing them, they’d been trying to work out how best to set up a nursery without completely sacrificing the extra bed. While most visitors would be perfectly fine crashing on the couch for a night, it wasn’t fair to ask that of Lane, particularly since she’d be helping to keep the household running while one of its usual minders was indisposed. In time, the function would change entirely, becoming the passengers’ dedicated space, but for now a two-pronged approach wasn’t the greatest stretch.

Today was mostly dedicated to brainstorming arrangements and furniture, but there were also a few smaller articles on the bed, and it was those to which Ingo found his attention turning.

Laying atop the truly incredible number of paint swatches Iris had stolen from a hardware store somewhere was a notepad featuring a hasty sketch of the room and its dimensions. There were several similar pages preceding it, filled with older, rejected options, leaving this one unscuffed by an eraser as they tried to puzzle out what to put where.

Ultimately, though, none of that was where his eyes lingered. Instead, he idled over the set of a sock Sawk and Throh. He knew it was a bit preemptive, but the handicrafts had been adorable and it had taken him all of twenty seconds to cave. The soft toys had been waiting on the guest dresser ever since-- until they’d finally been moved today. It didn’t mean much for the poor things; they still had months to wait before their actual owners arrived, let alone were old enough to play with them.

Emmet, upon realizing what Ingo had returned from a check up toting around, had laughed and complained of the hypocrisy. Hadn’t Ingo been the one to set the boundary of ‘no Pokemon until the passengers legally exist’?

And right now, that specific line of thought began to chug along.

Leading the lives they did, it was no wonder the specter of starter Pokemon had already reared its head-- the real surprise was that it had taken even two weeks to surface once they’d made the decision-- but the odds were very, very high that the passengers would go on to catch and train Pokemon of their own. Ingo’s thoughts traveled that basic track, but instead of speculating uselessly as to what those first Pokemon might be, veered onto an alternate route.

“We’ll likely need to move once they’re older.” He said, and only belatedly realized it sounded like it came out of nowhere. “The apartment is appropriate for our current needs, but was never meant to house more than the both of us and our Pokemon. Not only will they need their own space, but when they’re old enough, they’ll have their own Pokemon to care for as well.”

Emmet hummed, considering that as he picked Crustle up and flipped it over to cradle like a human child. Its six legs curled inward, and it seemed content with being held, even if that wasn’t what it actively wanted. “Anville is an option. It would be quieter. Being closer to mom could be useful. For her and us.”

“It could be, though our schedules would require a great deal of alteration if we were relying on the brown line to get to and from work.” He shook his head, “It’s a thought we have plenty of time to explore in further depth. I just didn’t want it to blindside us.”

“True. Right now they are dependent on the absence of personal space.” Emmet said, and returned Crustle to the ground.

Job complete, it wormed its way back under its shell and set off into the apartment proper, taking the discarded sheets of paper sitting atop its rock with it. Ingo watched it go, a rejected floor plan flying off in its wake, and, without a second thought, stooped to retrieve it. The task was far from impossible, but still more complicated than it had any business being and-- with a rather unkind thought toward Arceus-- he straightened up, one hand migrating to his lower back as he set the paper with the rest of its ilk.

When the entire spectacle came to a close without being poked fun at, he turned to see what was holding his brother’s focus, and, therefore, what he had to thank for not being teased. There wasn’t anything to speak of; Emmet was staring into the empty corner they’d chosen to start with, idly flexing his hand.

Suspecting what that was about, Ingo chuckled, “Would you like me to alert you when they start up again?”

Emmet’s head snapped up and, while his attention defaulted to his brother’s face, dropped to the subject as he processed who the question was about. “...maybe. Yes. It’s verrrry weird.”

“You’re certainly not wrong.”

“It… really doesn’t bother you?”

Unable to help himself, Ingo moved to pick up the chunkier Throh toy. As he manipulated one of its soft arms, he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific. If you’re concerned that I found it distressing when you felt them, then no, I take no issue with that.”

Emmet hummed, hearing him, but was focused on the Throh’s back in a suspicious way. When Ingo turned it over, there was a Joltik clinging to it, and he rolled his eyes and plucked the little bug off, depositing it with his twin instead.

Utterly unfazed, Emmet turned his hand to let it scurry over his palm, and then upside down across his knuckles, “That would be grating too. But I meant when they move.”

“Ah. As we progress down this track, their movements do become more prominent; while it’s not terribly bothersome at the moment, that may be subject to change.” Just short of a sigh, he folded his arms over his chest, Throh dangling to the side of one elbow, and added, “They’ll only get bigger from this station on. I have to imagine that will reflect in the way they move.”

Brows drawn in thought, Emmet urged the Joltik to scale his arm and settle on a shoulder. “I meant to speak with you about that.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Here they went again.

He’d been taking an extra iron supplement every morning alongside a B12 capsule, just to be safe; his doctor was happy with the difference in recent blood work, so there was no reason to harp on this.

Cilan had even been kind enough to help him modify a number of recipes to include foods rich in either nutrient. For goodness sake, they had a faintly ridiculous amount of spinach in the refrigerator right now-- and Ingo wasn’t the one who pretended its presence was a boon while actually steering clear of it.

In spite of the steep turn his thoughts had taken, he drawled a patient, “Yes?”

To his surprise, the actual question was, “You have been eating less, lately. Are you feeling sick again?”

“Not terribly; most of the symptoms I’ve noticed of late have been various aches, not nausea.” He could grant his changing body that much, at least; he hadn’t noticed a return to that particularly unpleasant station in quite some time. “It’s likely a byproduct of the recipe modifications; they’ve been altered to include more ingredients, so it’s quite possible that the proportions have skewed.”

“Cilan is a professional.” Emmet argued, shaking his head, “He is used to making substitutions. The amount is the same. You’re just eating less.”

Ingo considered that as he set the Throh back with its counterpart, offering one palm up in surrender, “I’m not sure what to tell you, then; I eat what I can comfortably manage. It has to be a matter of capacity, and with two active commuters, mine is rapidly dwindling.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Emmet said, but it was more of a complaint than a demand for information, “How is a person meant to provide for another if its presence impedes their ability to do so?”

“It’s a critical design flaw.” Which made him wonder if the Sinnoan beliefs didn’t have an element of truth to them after all, as that kind of oversight could easily be ascribed to Arceus-- or, at least, the somewhat irreverent mythology Emmet had spent the past few months building up around it.

Ingo lived in fear of the day Clay brought up Almighty Sinnoh in even the smallest capacity, because he’d legitimately forgotten how much of what he knew was actual folklore, and how much his brother had just made up. It was funny enough that he wasn’t about to ask that he stop, however.

That was easier to think about than the fact that, as he’d said a moment prior, their sons would only grow from here.

Why couldn’t humans be more like Pokemon? Letting young develop externally was so much more practical-- and reliable enough that even human children were regularly allowed to handle Pokemon eggs. It didn’t impede the carrier’s ability to function and allowed the young to grow until they were able to move about on their own. Human reproduction, by contrast, was limited to the constraints of what the parent’s body could physically tolerate-- it had even been theorized that nine months of gestation wasn’t actually enough, simply the full extent of what they could bear.

It was a track that he didn’t need to continue down. That was all hypothetical to begin with, and there was nothing to be done to change his own situation. He just had to make it another twelve weeks.

He was doing his best not to give in to pessimism and decide ahead of time that it was going to be terrible, but there was little room to argue that any of what lay ahead was going to be pleasant.

There was a pressure opposite the earlier round of kicks, but lighter-- too light to feel externally, he knew. Was it just a lack of motivation, or was one of them stronger than the other? Maybe Emmet had a point. He would make an active effort to finish dinner tonight, just to be sure the passengers were getting everything they needed. It would be uncomfortable, but he was getting used to that in new ways every day.

It was at that point that Ingo became quite suddenly aware of the fact that he’d completely spaced out, one hand absently cradling his abdomen where the movement had started. Where Crustle had departed several minutes prior, Garbodor had ventured in, eyeing the crumpled pieces of paper with undisguised longing. Back turned as he confronted the issue of the far corner, Emmet hadn’t noticed yet.

Even though there was no need to keep it a secret, there was a thrill to sneaking over and nudging one of the balls her way-- and a sense of vindication in the fact that he hadn’t lost his full range of movement, even if it sometimes felt like it. Garbodor gurgled low in her throat as thanks. Snuggling in to enjoy her snack, she stopped mid-chew as someone kicked against her side, and then pressed a single finger back.

He tried to be quiet, but, inevitably, his laughter caught his twin’s attention, and the both of them were told off for indulging Garbodor so close to dinner.

It was worth it, he decided, to see his negative thoughts out for the remainder of the day. The coming months might not be comfortable, but the good would still be there, so long as he made a point to find it.

(As the last of the Pokemon got their dinner that evening, Emmet found his hand taken captive. He thought nothing of it.

And then something ghosted past his palm.

He startled, jumping back and pulling both fists to his sternum defensively, but couldn’t find anything amiss-- save for his brother, mirroring his posture with hands held up in surrender. His eyes were wide and surprised, and there was clearly an apology on his lips.

“You did that on purpose.” Emmet said, accusing.

“No.” Ingo confessed, the amusement seeping into his tone making it that much harder to believe him, “But next time I will.”)