Ingo was very expressive. It was a fact, and one that Emmet had gone to bat for more times than he cared to look back upon– people just had a habit of fixating on a quirk of the lips instead of literally every other sign his brother gave them. There was no rule against being an idiot, so it wasn’t as though Emmet could stop them.

To his eternal frustration, it had gotten even worse in the time since Ingo had returned from Hisui– a case of cultural crossed wires that were still being detangled. It wasn’t Ingo’s fault; none of it was anything he could help, but it was easy to catch him second-guessing himself in the face of mounting social anxieties.

This meant that Emmet put a great deal of effort into interpreting his twin’s [signals], to make up for those who were willfully incapable of it and to assure his brother that no, there was nothing wrong with the way he expressed himself.

That, in turn, meant that he was hyper-aware of the utterly heartbroken, “Oh” that sounded from across the room.

Head snapping up, he wasted no time assessing the area, trying to narrow down what was so upsetting, but there… wasn’t anything there. They were at home, the only notable company their Pokemon. If anywhere was safe, it should have been here.

But the evidence remained. Even with his back turned, the distress in Ingo’s posture was easy to read: shoulders curved forward, hands drawn up and clasped, head bowed minutely. All of them were ways to make oneself seem smaller and less threatening, to indicate [distress/uncertainty].

Message received. Loud and clear.

“Ingo?” He called, softly, to no response.

While there was no understating his concern, Emmet made a point of keeping his steps [slow] and measured– perfectly consistent, always the same. If he wasn’t panicking, there was no reason Ingo should either, after all.

It was a precaution that wouldn’t pay off. Dissociation, like everything, was plain to read in his twin’s expression; it had the dubious distinction of being the only time Ingo wasn’t actually emoting. Unusually blank eyes were fixed in the general vicinity of the bookshelf, belying little in regards to what had caused the episode. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary– and none of what they were looking at had ever caused any issue, prior.

Narrowing the cause down would have to wait. Mitigating the response was far more important.

Gingerly, testing how his touch would be tolerated, Emmet laid a hand on his brother’s bicep. In the sense that it didn’t cause an adverse reaction, he would call it a success; in terms of garnering any kind of reaction, however, it was a miserable failure. Assured that he wasn’t doing any harm, however, Emmet reached out to ease the trembling grip on Ingo’s own wrist before he could hurt himself. It transferred to the proffered hand without [issue] and held on with what might have been a startling ferocity, had Emmet not known exactly what he was getting himself into.

He tried again, “Ingo? Can you hear me?”

And again, nothing.

Chewing on the inside of his lip, Emmet steered the both of them out of the living room, just in case it was somehow a matter of overstimulation. Gliscor’s eyes tracked them as he led the way to his own bedroom and, careful not to jostle, Emmet gave a tiny shake of his head. Much as the bat may want to help, there was nothing it could do at this juncture. It was arguable whether or not there was even anything Emmet could do at this point in time, or if the only course of action was to wait it out.

As they crossed the room’s threshold, he decided there was, demonstrated by the act of prying free the fingers that tried to dig into the long-healed [?] in Ingo’s side. There was no fear that it might reopen, but Emmet knew that it still ached, and while the new painkillers would reduce the [pain], they would do little to mitigate any freshly-incurred damage.

By the third instance– the insistent pulling of a clump of hair, nearly as soon as Emmet had released the offending hand– Emmet was forced to acknowledge the pattern. Should he call a professional? This behavior was unprecedented– even in his worst moments of panic, Ingo had never been self-destructive– but there was no denying that every time he was warded away from one avenue of self-harm, he sought out another.

Emmet wished he knew what had caused it, what made this episode so much different. While none of it was [extreme], Ingo’s continued– subconscious– efforts to [hurt himself] were unnerving to witness. Eventually, he was forced to take hold of both hands and keep them there. It made sitting on his bed awkward, but what did that matter?

[…]

Abruptly, he was made aware of the fact that, while he still had a grip on both of his twin’s hands, one set was substantially further away than the other, steered by his partnering [idk]. Now that he was looking, the intention behind it was clear: even if Ingo couldn’t tear at himself with his hands occupied, he could still bite.

Halfway to panic, himself, Emmet did the first thing that came to mind: he dropped both of his brother’s hands and wrapped his arms around him, instead. For the first time, the [?] garnered a response in the answering pressure that [laid?] itself over his back. Good. That was good. That meant all three points of interest were [detained], and while it might not have been smart to guide them toward his person, he was satisfied with it. During all of the [subconscious] attempts to hurt himself, Ingo had never given a whisper of indication that he would harm Emmet, each [idk] ceasing the instant they made contact.

[…]

“…it hurts.” Ingo mumbled, somewhere below his left ear.

Shit.

Torn between the need to right his mistake and the more pressing matter of keeping his brother safe from himself, Emmet was put in the awkward position of trying to back off without letting go.

[…]

Once more, then. Truthfully, Emmet would try as any times as it took to see a change, but now it seemed he actually did stand a chance of getting a response.

“Are you with me? Ingo?”

His brothers eyes snapped up to his face with an intensity just shy of offputting, scrutinizing him with uncalled for [intensity]. It was punctuated by a short, [snappy] nod.

Entire form sagging under the tension’s sudden absence, Emmet let his head drop onto Ingo’s shoulder, just for a moment. To himself, he murmured a brief, “Thank god.”

The same hand that had gripped into an injured side until the shirt wrinkled reached up and combed through his hair– slowly, almost wonderingly.

Damn it, he wasn’t drifting off again, was he?

There was a gentle, “You’re safe,” and while it was good to have evidence that the moment of [clarity] hadn’t been a fleeting one, something deep inside Emmet hissed at that stupid, muted [tone]. It was so terribly far removed from the [?] that practically shouted what his brother was feeling, dampened to favor sheer survival over comfort, and one of his long-term goals was to coax it back to full volume. There was nothing for it today– one thing at a time.

Suppressing the reluctant whine that rose in his throat as he forced himself upright, he covered for it with, “I am aware. Were you? Can you tell me what happened?” He followed it with a sharp, “Stop it!” as he got a good look at Ingo– enough to realize that, dazed or not, he was back to clutching at whatever was available, fingers curled wickedly into the meat of his own thigh.

“Nothing hurt,” At the puzzled look shot his way, Ingo added, “That was what happened.”

“…good?” Emmet said, unsure at this point whether it was a statement or a question, and went back to trying to [pry] the [clawed hand] loose. With what was clearly a substantial amount of effort it relaxed, and under the force he’d been applying, he nearly smacked himself in the face with both it and his own hands.

In spite of the circumstance, he heard Ingo bite back a snort.

Patience beginning to wear thin, Emmet sat back up, “Stop that. It is clearly a conscious effort. Why do you keep trying to harm yourself?”

Any sign of amusement slipped away, and for a second he regretted the words, but quickly corrected himself; this was far more important.

“I… require something to hold onto.”

As if in argument, Emmet laced their fingers together; there was an automatic squeeze in response.

“Appreciated as it is, that isn’t what I meant.”

“You’re referring to grounding.” / “You believe that being in pain grounds you?”

“It’s always been a reliable metric; the absence of any pain generally indicated that I had gotten myself caught in a Zoroark’s illusion. It was imperative that I recognize the signs immediately in order to get back on track without further incident.” He trailed off, mind elsewhere, and only shook himself back to awareness after a conspicuous bite to the cheek, “I hadn’t thought modern pain killers would be so effective. There was no way to pinpoint when the aching stopped, and the only thing I could think was that it was… all an illusion, all this time.”

After a moment to digest this information, Emmet breathed a faint, “Oh”– perhaps not as devastated as the one that had preceded it, but [] nonetheless.

[something about finding a compromise; keep taking meds, no self harm, but what else might help?]

“I have an idea.” He announced, and almost immediately tore off, forcing Ingo to get with the program or suffer the indignity of falling flat on his face.

There was a moment wherein he stumbled, but he ultimately opted for the former [option], [bidding] a hasty apology to Chandelure as they skirted around her designated eavesdropping fixture in the hallway.

After a bit of single-handed fumbling in the kitchen, Emmet uncovered his [prize]: a number of individually wrapped chili rindo hard candies. Even without looking his twin’s way, he could feel through their connected hands as Ingo recoiled in disgust– not because his longstanding grudge against the confection had survived amnesia, but because Emmet had gotten him with one just days prior.

“I don’t think I approve of your idea.” He said, voice as flat as he could force it.

“That’s unfortunate,” / “Because this is the compromise.”

“So I’m not allowed to pinch, but I am allowed to poison myself?”

Emmet scoffed, “If it were poison, it wouldn’t do any good.”

“Well, yes. Speaking from experience, that’s the entire point of poison.”

He rolled his eyes and went on as though nobody else had spoken, “This is more sustainable than a little pinch here and there. And there were no rindo berries in Hisui, correct? So you cannot conflate the sensation with anything you may have experienced there. It is a perfect solution.”

“…it couldn’t at least be chili mago?”

“Nope!” Emmet said, delighted, “Because you told me Hisui did have native mago berries.”

And also because magos still had a sweet base underneath, unlike the spicy-bitter rindos– if this was going to work, it had to be a flavor that Ingo could not tolerate. Spicy and sweet? That was nothing– a little [annoying] at worst. But chili on top of an already astringent flavor profile would do nicely.

Depositing the greater portion of his handful on the counter top, Emmet pressed on one of the candies until the airtight wrapper popped, and tried to hand it over. Ingo stared at it ruefully and made no move to accept.