So long as he was breathing, he was alright. It proved he was still here, still alive, even when he felt like he was missing a lung. Careful, steady breaths; fill, hold, let go. He couldn’t afford a panicked gasp while working at half capacity, couldn’t risk a lack of oxygen and a spinning head.

 

He became quite good at it, tracking where he was in the process to keep himself from lashing out at nosy reporters and insensitive comments. If he breathed out until there was nothing in his lungs, he was physically incapable of snapping back and escalating the situation.

 

The carefully laid pattern hitched at the sound of his brother’s name, and he changed tracks, slowly blowing it out; even when he knew it was coming, it always caught him off guard, caused his breath to catch like a tug on the collar. He didn’t like the way people had taken to saying it, as a resigned sigh or an accusation. It just sounded wrong, even when the pronunciation was perfect.

 

Practiced from months of forcing the matter, he held his tongue.

 

Four seconds in, keep going. There was nothing wrong with the air; it was just his own outrage that made it feel so stifling. The oxygen boiled in his chest, and it was hard to hold it the full seven seconds without being scalded, harder still to exhale an entire eight when it rushed from his lungs, super heated and eager to escape.

 

Emmet’s hands clenched around nothing. Time to start again. Think of it this way: he had a lot in common with a steam engine right now. It was too hot in here to see the evidence, but maybe outside in the cold, the clouds would be visible trailing from his lips.

 

The man pacing before him turned on a heel, laying out his case, and Emmet managed to relegate a disbelieving laugh to a harsh huff of air. Of course. Yes, surely that was what happened the night his twin vanished.

 

Ridiculous. Emmet didn’t understand how anyone could believe that, why someone would waste their breath on it. This person had to have known better ways to spend such a precious resource, because the words he chose were utterly worthless. He clearly bought into it, though, eyes alight, cheeks flushed as he outlined his impossible version of events. Maybe he could stand to take a moment and recoup, breath deep enough to realize he’d lost his head somewhere in all of that and start talking sense instead.

 

He talked about the subway tunnels that had laid empty during weeks of investigation, of what had and hadn’t been found. Ironically, it was as though he was a train, charging ahead relentlessly, his words a deafening rumble in a room that was otherwise quite quiet, and when he was finished, the gasp for air wasn’t so different from a car pulling into station. Emmet was a little tempted to try yanking his chain, just to see if the man might also whistle.

 

There, see? All that time, and he hadn’t had to moderate a thing; sometimes his body could be trusted to maintain a course on its own. Thinking as much was a mistake, because Emmet was immediately made aware of the rise and fall of his chest, and his controls switched over from automatic to manual once again.

 

Someone was speaking to him, and he made sure to draw a silent, even breath, so as not to drown them out. If they were making the effort to address him, the least he could do was ensure that they didn’t have to repeat themselves. Swords of Justice knew once was enough.

 

They reached their point in perfect sync with his pattern; topic established in seven seconds, question posed by the end of the eight.

 

Emmet took another breath, cloying in spite of the chill that settled over him, and leaned forward so his statement wouldn’t be lost. He’d said it so many times already, at least now he could get it on the record-- maybe then people would stop making him echo it over and over again.

 

“No.” He said flatly, without an ounce of intonation in his voice. Why bother when it had proven to be such a lost cause? Nobody had been any more convinced when he’d forced his tone to match his sincerity.

 

“I did not kill my brother.”