Maybe it was all in his head or maybe he’d lost sight of just how cold Hisui actually was, but he couldn’t think of a single exception to the rule. The feeling of another person in his arms, slotting so perfectly against him, overjoyed lavender flames, or a crowd of Pokemon eager to draw nearer-- all of it wonderfully, painlessly warm, in spite of the fact it made him feel that he might just melt.

 

One of the smaller joys he’d just rediscovered was a hot shower. It had been an experience, due in no small part to some lingering sense of muscle memory leading him through the process while his conscious mind marveled over every little detail. Upon absently opening a bottle of shampoo, he’d actually had to stop and steady himself against the wall, momentarily overcome with half-formed memories that he had yet to put into context.

 

He would ask about them in time. For now, he was dressed in new, clean, comfortable clothes and slightly in awe of how much better he felt. It was very strange. When it came down to it, it wasn’t so different from a trip to the hot springs, was it? So then why did it feel so distinct?

 

When he was satisfied that his hair wasn’t about to soak through the sweater he’d been provided, he hung the towel to dry and vacated the premises without so much as a glance toward the foggy mirror, hands already working through the snarls he’d created with his rough toweling. He made it a grand total of three steps out before Chandelure set upon him, taking his face in either wrought iron arm and bonking him square on the forehead with her globe. Chuckling, he bonked her back.

 

She stayed central in his field of vision all the way into the main living area-- only backing off when she had the room to comfortably float at his side-- and made sure to announce their arrival with an impressive promptness.

 

At the sound, Emmet glanced their way, standard smile turning softer, more genuine, before looking back to Crustle-- and then immediately double-taking. He uttered a quiet apology to the bug before abandoning his post and trotting over, the content smile from before taking on an edge, visibly delighting in something he’d noticed.

 

Taking a loose clump of mostly-dry hair in one hand, he shook the ends in Ingo’s face.

 

“What is this?”

 

Droll as he could manage, Ingo said, “If you require assistance in regards to your memory loss, I’m afraid you’ll have to seek it elsewhere.”

 

Emmet scrunched his nose up and flicked his wrist, letting the loose strands make contact. “You have never tolerated long hair before.”

 

Humming, Ingo took the bundle from his brother’s hand and went back to untangling it. “I’m not sure what you mean. It’s hardly unbearable at this length; quite easy to tie back, actually. I tried keeping it shorter for a time, but found it wasn’t worth the effort when it would reach the same station again within a fortnight. So long as it isn’t in constant contact with my neck, I have no complaint.”

 

Emmet echoed the hum-- looking completely unaware that he was doing any such thing-- and grabbed Ingo’s hand. Bemused, but curious enough to see where this was going, Ingo allowed himself to be herded onto the couch, sideways, where Archeops immediately curled into his lap. The cushions behind him dipped as his brother settled, too.

 

“You used to brush my hair for me when we were on our Pokemon journey.” Emmet told him, a hand on one shoulder to get a very specific angle. When, at the sound of his voice, Ingo automatically turned to look, he paused long enough to manually-- if lightly-- turn his twin’s head forward again, “Yours never required as much maintenance. Because you insisted on keeping it short. I made it to Mistralton before I got sick of the trouble it caused and joined you.”

 

For just a moment, Ingo considered the sensation of picking twigs and leaf litter out of his hair-- of how it had seemed so familiar, but just slightly to the left of what it should have been-- and resolved to revisit the thought later, when he wouldn’t be interfering with the point Emmet was trying to make.

 

Ironically, that very thought was interrupted by the feeling of fingers combing through his hair, working through the loose, tousled mess it had become. In a complete turnabout, it didn’t ring any bells-- distant or otherwise-- which made sense, if Emmet’s version of events was to be believed.

 

It was completely new, and it was shockingly wonderful.

 

There were notes in common with phenomena he’d experienced in Hisui-- like when a Sneasel kit got its claws stuck in his bun or Sneasler insisted on grooming him-- but it was so gently uncertain, affectionate and tentative. While he would never say he’d felt unappreciated in his service to Sneasler, he realized quite abruptly that this was what it was to be loved: to be unsure how to share it, and unable to keep from trying.

 

Ingo found himself holding perfectly still, so as not to interrupt; even when Emmet hit a snag and accidentally pulled just a bit too hard, he stayed quiet and motionless, focusing on the sensation with what might have been an alarmingly intense expression, had anyone been there to see his face. Fortunately, the only one in a position to witness that was Archeops, who’d long since draped his neck over Ingo’s thigh and fallen into a doze with an adorable cooing sigh.

 

It didn’t take terribly long to work through the tangle-- he hadn’t gone crashing through a forest in an attempt to escape the local Heracross or taken an unplanned swim in the river, after all-- but it was worth every minute. When he’d finished, Emmet hesitated and moved on to something else. Ingo’s best guess was that he was attempting a braid, and that it wasn’t going particularly well. He remained silent for another few minutes, and when the even breathing behind him gave way to a frustrated puff of air, decided to show his twin the same kindness he’d just shared.

 

“Have you finished?” He asked, and waited for Emmet to take the out.

 

There was a defeated little grumble and, after a moment, a resigned affirmative. Taking it as a cue, Ingo carefully shifted backwards, mindful not to dislodge Archeops or take Emmet by surprise.

 

Behind him, his brother gave a single, puzzled laugh as he was bullied back, “What are you doing?”

 

“This is a Sneasler custom.” He said, and while he hoped it came across as lighthearted, he was privately wary, watching for any sign that his actions were unwelcome, “Her bylaws state that grooming is to be followed by a nap; terribly sorry, but as her warden, I’m obligated to observe this protocol.”

 

Even if the tone didn’t carry it, Ingo knew that amusement lurked beneath the flat, “Mmhmm.” It was a very slight reassurance, and he only relaxed in full at the dull pressure against his crown, where Emmet had given up without a fight to rest his own head.

 

“That is unfortunate. As a Subway Boss, I have no choice but to follow the rules.”

 

There was a sleepy, chastising honk from Archeops’ general direction, and from there it was open season. The speed with which various Pokemon found a spot to huddle in was truly astonishing.

 

Ingo was home. It was warm.