Keep Making That Face (It'll Stick Like That)

They were 23 by the time Emmet managed to look back on old photos without wincing.

It wasn’t because they were embarrassing, or even because the two long-haired children pictured made him uncomfortable, but because he and Ingo had matched back then. Not their current game of opposites-- they’d been completely identical, to the extent that even he didn’t know who was who in some pictures.

That was to say, their past selves shared the same wide smiles.

The turning point had been an accident, that much they had agreed upon. Ingo was adamant that nobody had been at fault-- not their respective Klangs, not the newly evolved Eelektrik, not even Emmet himself, in his reckless pursuit of perfecting Discharge.

Emmet, for his part, would never have blamed their Pokemon. He was the one who’d been interacting with Klang and trying to command Eelektrik at the same time; it was little wonder it had gotten confused. The fact that Ingo’s own Klang was out and about, within range to boost Plus with Minus, was unfortunate, but not its fault-- and it certainly wasn’t his brother’s. That only left one party, and, in this, Emmet had never made any excuses for himself.

The attack hadn’t actually landed-- Klang, lacking a target, had launched it into a nearby cluster of trees-- but the two Pokemon had been flanking Ingo as he’d watched Eelektrik’s slow progress, and one of the arcs that jumped between the two, marking the activation of their abilities, had struck him. He’d laughed it off, and that had been the last time anyone would see him smile in a conventional way.

For days, Emmet had thought Ingo was upset with him, and rightfully so; every time he’d tried to bring it up, Ingo would wave it off and act unbothered, but the look on his face had been far from reassuring. Maybe he didn’t look mad, but it seemed clear that something was bothering him, and Emmet was all but convinced of the fact when it was combined with his brother’s spontaneous tearing up. On more than one occasion Ingo had continually swiped at his face, trying to clear his vision, while swearing up and down that he was perfectly fine.

The only thing that kept Emmet from calling bullshit was Lampent, wholly unbothered in a way she wouldn’t have been if her trainer really was upset. Reluctantly, he’d chalked it up as some allergy they must not have shared, and moved on.

If his brother had started speaking louder around that point, compensating for the ringing of an ear, he hadn’t noticed, too close to be aware of the gradual shift in volume. He’d thought it rude when other trainers asked them to keep it down; they weren’t that bad.

But then they made it to Opelucid. They’d put special care into preparing to challenge uncle Drayden, only for him to take one look and drag Ingo-- and, by extension, Emmet-- to the nearest medical center, concern transparent on his overly-bearded face.

The doctor there had called it facial paralysis, and, through process of elimination, determined that it had been caused by the shock to the temporal nerve. Ingo hadn’t understood. He’d reiterated, with increasing emphasis and volume, that he felt fine, and that the shock had dissipated almost immediately. What did they mean there was something wrong with his face?

He was released with a referral for a physical therapist and a list of exercises to try to maximize his range of motion in the meantime. Emmet still remembered the way he’d hidden his face behind the papers listing symptoms and coping strategies as they’d trailed after Drayden, and only emerged once they’d been ushered into their uncle’s guest room.

He’d put a hand to his cheek, almost testing it, feeling for an expression that wasn’t there, and asked if this was why Emmet had thought he was mad at him-- if he really looked that angry.

There wasn’t any response Emmet could begin to formulate. Nobody pointed any fingers, but he’d known; he’d been careless, he’d hurt his brother and it couldn’t be taken back. Instead of any sort of apology, he’d flung himself at Ingo and had the gall to start crying-- and Ingo, still taken aback by the day’s events, had automatically held him close and pet his hair. He’d never once brought up the root cause of the injury, and staunchly refused to let Emmet take responsibility for it.

They’d cut their adventuring plans short not long thereafter. They still challenged Drayden-- still pulled through with their own hard-won victories-- but didn’t pursue the Elite Four. It didn’t matter that much; there could only ever be the one Champion, and it wouldn’t be any fun if it the both of them weren't together. Truly, they weren’t bothered by that aspect, even as they’d hung onto Elesa’s every word as she recounted her own challenge, and her eventual defeat against Alder.

If they hadn’t already been friends, Emmet was certain he’d have named her one on the spot, just for the way she took the delighted downturn of Ingo’s lips in stride.

That had been a long time ago, though; between years of work at retraining the effected muscles and Emmet’s dedication to interpreting his twin’s severe expressions, they’d made it work. The patrons took their contrast shtick as a deliberate choice rather than a physical limitation, and that was all either of them could ask for.

They were 29 when Emmet, too, found himself both unable to smile and unwilling to blame his brother for it.

They would be 31 by the time he was able to look into a mirror again.