Withdrawal

Half a year into resuming operations, Emmet thought things had been progressing quite well. The Hisuian Pokemon had adapted beautifully to the Subway’s conduct, Chandelure was beginning to moderate her possessive behavior, and the young Sneasel had reached an age where it wasn’t constantly poisoning everything it touched.

So of course this was when they’d be thrown for a detour. Arceus forbid the Battle Subway maintain its schedule for three months at a time.

To his simultaneous credit and discredit, Ingo was trying to make it work. It was easy enough to hide his shaking hands in a formal tuck behind the back, and very few were able to read him well enough to recognize the tells that his muscles were acting up. If that had been all, Emmet might even have let him get away with it, but of course it wasn’t. Insomnia was followed by fatigue, a loss of appetite backed by an intermittent nausea, and anxieties that had otherwise been settled came back in full force. There was no denying that something was wrong-- the only problem was that, no matter what combination of terms he looked up, he kept getting the same result.

It was a known fact that some Hisuian-era medicines relied upon pepaver somniferum, which was later renowned not only for its ability to enhance a medicine, but also its addictive compounds. Ingo had recognized the plant and its applications-- had known how to craft a remedy for a Pokemon from it-- so he’d certainly had contact with the flower at some point, thirteen months prior.

The odds that he was experiencing withdrawal more than a year after the fact were ridiculous.

And yet, when he returned from yet another visit to the doctor, that was their best guess. Blood tests were clear, but the symptoms sounded like withdrawal.

Emmet dropped his head into his hands and made a vague, frustrated noise.

“It should run its course soon enough,” Ingo said from the other side of the kitchen, considering what they had on hand for dinner preparations. That much was a relief; it meant that, tonight, he wasn’t too nauseated to consider eating. “Regardless of what it is, it isn’t contagious; so long as I’m not putting anyone at risk, I can handle it.”

“I have no doubt that you can handle it. You should not have to endure a mystery ailment because your doctor is incompetent.”

“You’re being too harsh; it’s a complicated situation, and he’s hardly to blame for not being well versed in an archaic form of medicine.” There was a beat, and then, “We haven’t used the spinach up, have we?”

“We definitely do not have any more.” Emmet said, just for the heck of it, and finally tilted his head up to rest on his left hand.

Ingo rolled his eyes and gave a dubious little hum as he went to check for himself. “If you’re not opposed, we can make stuffed mushrooms.”

The kitchen eased into a comfortable silence for a few moments. While Ingo rounded ingredients up, Emmet moved from the table to the sink. As much as he appreciated the initiative involved in getting dinner started, he didn’t trust his twin with a knife right now; it just wasn’t safe when the tremors had no known trigger. He didn’t mind cutting vegetables, anyway.

The refrigerator door closed, followed by a minute intake of breath.

“I’m permitted to take something now that the tests have concluded, correct? I haven’t forgotten anything?”

“Look me in the eyes and ask that again.” Emmet said, and pointedly did not turn to accommodate. Behind him, Ingo sighed; it was more fond than it was exasperated, but it was getting closer to a 50-50 split than he preferred. The pain must have been worse than he was letting on. “You are allowed. Yep. Headache or muscular?”

There was a huff of a laugh and he felt a hand on his shoulder as Ingo passed by, “I only needed the reminder the first few times, but thank you.”

His footsteps made it clear of the kitchen, but from the sound of things, he got waylaid by Sneasel and Galvantula before making it anywhere close to the medicine cabinet.

He would be a bit, then. Still, there was no reason for Emmet to put his part of meal prep off when he was already here. He was dimly aware of the sounds of a playful kit in the hallway, but had long since become desensitized to it; the noises only went on for a few minutes, anyway, mellowed by virtue of being aimed at a human caretaker. He ignored them in favor of washing and then disassembling the mushrooms.

His brother was carrying Sneasel in one arm; the opposite hand held the blue bottle of painkillers, but also boasted a bandage that hadn’t been there five minutes prior.

“I should hope so.” Emmet said flatly, “You have certainly been poisoned enough to recognize the signs.”

Contrary to the response he’d expected, Ingo hastily turned his head to stifle a laugh. “Yes. Well.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to tell you.” He hefted Sneasel higher. On instinct, she reached to anchor herself, but curbed the habit at the last second, “I haven’t taken anything for it, but my headache is beginning to ease. That makes me believe withdrawal may have been the correct diagnosis.”

For half a second, Emmet thought his brother had lost him, then the connection between the two ideas clicked. “No. I am willing to believe that your system adjusted to being poisoned out of necessity. I refuse to entertain that you became so used to it that its absence is causing withdrawal symptoms.”

“I don’t see why you find that so far-fetched; Pokemon adapting to their conditions is a well recorded phenomena, even if you disregard the variants that… no longer exist.”

“It is not about the science.” Emmet said, and turned back to his task with a renewed vigor.

And it really wasn’t. The theory was fine-- Emmet just didn’t want to follow up on the implications it presented. How many repeat poisonings did it take to reach resistance? How much venom did a person have to be exposed to before they found themselves immune? Whatever the answer to those questions, it had to have paled in comparison to the quantity needed for the system to actively believe itself dependent. On poison.

Across the room, there was a muted click and the scampering of clawed feet on tile.

“I’m sorry,” Ingo said, stepping carefully across the space, purposefully allowing his footfalls to ring out, “I thought you would find it amusing, but clearly that’s not the case.”

With more gusto than strictly necessary, Emmet chopped the next mushroom’s base, and it skittered across the counter top. Wordlessly, Ingo reached out to stop it, and then tossed it to Sneasel, who scampered to grab her treat before it could bounce off of the floor.

“Hisui is still finding ways to hurt you. That is why I didn’t laugh.”

There was a noncommittal hum to his side and, just as Emmet realized he’d run out of mushroom to prep, a peeled shallot was rolled into range. He pounced on the opportunity it presented.

“I’m not sure what to tell you.” Ingo eventually said, depositing the freshly washed greens onto the counter, and picked up the garlic in their place, “It was a harsh place, but not without its own brand of kindness.”

It was immediately met with a challenging, if gentle, “That’s not true,” but Ingo was kind enough not to put together an entire counterargument when Emmet didn’t want to be convinced right now.

“We’ll speak about it another time.” He eventually concluded, and stopped his anxious passing-of-the-bulb from one hand to the other, breaking off two cloves, “For now, you clearly need to vent your frustration. Would you like to destroy the garlic, as well?”

Yes. He would very much like to destroy the garlic. And the poison in his twin’s system, the man who’d ripped them apart in the first place, and the unjust god of Pokemon who’d allowed any of it to happen.