Emmet woke on the floor with a Sneasel in his face and an arm steadily numbing as he used it as a makeshift pillow.

The blanket he’d tugged down from the bed had been haphazardly arranged to fill its intended purpose, and beyond the wall of fur, he could vaguely make out the top of Gliscor’s head through the darkness, sprawled out at ground level.

His other hand was still occupied, fingers twined loosely, a gentle rise and fall suggesting it was being held to his brother’s chest.

He had exactly enough mental energy to utter a brief, “Holy shit.”

Then he passed back out.

—

He woke up, properly, absent the Sneasel and all feeling in his left arm. Though it remained impossible to tell time through the tent, he was certain that it was unforgivably late in the day– until he processed the fact that Ingo was still out cold, too, head ducked beneath a leathery wing and pressed to Emmet’s collarbone.

Around that point, Emmet decided ‘unforgivable’ was a bit harsh. He wasn’t convinced his twin had slept for three consecutive hours since he’d found him; could he really begrudge him– either of them, really– one late morning to recharge? It wasn’t as though they’d be late for work.

Technically, their careers didn’t exist yet, and wouldn’t for a very, verrrry long time. What an odd thought. What a boring existence. When Ingo was feeling up to it, he’d have to ask how he’d managed in a culture without railways or standardized battling. For now, he was beyond content with the progress they’d already made.

…how long had it been since he’d had a morning without the routine of pushing off the heavy shrouds of loss and apathy, or the summer veil of single-minded determination? His logical mind had an answer– had never stopped counting, even when friends and family insisted that it was setting him back– but the rest of him rebelled against it; he had to have lost time in there somewhere, surely it had been longer than that.

The internal debate could wait for another day. What mattered was that it was worth it to be laying on the ground in the frozen depths of ancient Sinnoh, so long as his brother was next to him.

Emmet wasn’t entirely sure what happened– if he’d made a noise or moved without realizing it– but Gliscor abruptly stared him down with one luminous eye, gave it some real thought, and clicked once. If he were to judge solely by the intensity of the bat’s stare, Emmet might have thought he was being cussed out, but there wasn’t any measure of hostility in it. Amusement, yes– particularly at the muffled [groan] that sounded from beneath its wing– but not a lick of irritation.

—

Ingo had become quieter in their time apart.

It was only to be expected; an absentminded soliloquy to nobody in particular could only drive reality home when there was literally no one to speak with. Compared to what his own normal had become, Emmet would gladly take their companionable silence, but a part of him would miss the distracted chatter. If push came to shove, he supposed he could always pick up the slack. Maybe it could even be helpful– a low-intensity way to help catch his twin up to speed.

Or maybe it would just be overwhelming; there was really no way to know until something went horribly off the rails. But, even then, there was no guarantee it would be off the table for good.

Emmet legitimately had no idea what had changed between the Icelands and that morning in the tent. He wasn’t complaining by any means, but it would be nice to understand– if only to apply the knowledge in the future.