Chapter Text
Ingo is woken by a sun beam creeping through his window.
He shuts his eyes tight, trying his hardest to ignore it and sleep a bit longer, enjoy his sweet semi-consciousness if only for a few more minutes, but the light has already begun to spill into his room, and it will only get brighter.
He grunts in annoyance, rolling over instead to try to avoid the sunlight, but finds that more than just his blanket gets in his way.
Ingo finally opens his eyes. He peeks down at himself, finding that he’s wearing some sort of work coat while in bed.
He blinks, slowly, confused, figuring he likely just had a rough night last night that had led to him resigning himself to sleep before he cared to take anything off. However, when he starts to try and think back to confirm his suspicion, there is no such memory.
Actually, there is no memory at all.
Ingo sits up, suddenly feeling as if he should be taking this a bit more seriously.
He looks down at himself, seeing if he can glean any information. Surely this is a very temporary thing, all he needs is a prompt, and it'll all come back to him.
Tattered coat, though not necessarily dirty. it stands out from the rest of his mostly nice looking clothing. A light colored tunic with a circular design on the front. There's some sort of bracelet on his wrist atop a thin underlayer, with an emblem on it.
None of this gives him anything at all. Except that he should get his shoes off the bed.
Well, thinking about it, at least he knows they shouldn't be on his sheets! That's a start.
What other things does he know?
As Ingo puts his feet on the ground, he figures the next logical thing is to push himself further upward and stand.
He knows his name is Ingo, that he shouldn't be wearing shoes in bed, and…
He pushes off of the mattress, up onto his feet, and he wobbles. He catches himself by angling his heels away from each other.
… And that he knows how to stand!
This is a good start. And, with very minimal difficulty, Ingo finds that he also knows how to walk. He's much more off balance, he's not sure if he could do this on an uneven surface, but he gets himself across the room well enough.
When Ingo reaches the wall, he stretches his arms out to brace his hands against it, taking a rest from holding his weight on his own. He breathes out, taking a minute to himself.
This is a lot. It hits him at once that this is a lot. How is he about to deal with this? He wakes up in what must be his house, right, but he has no memories of anything.
Frankly, Ingo feels lucky he doesn’t need to learn how to stand or walk - it’s a tiny bit difficult already, and he has prior knowledge, even if he can't currently reach it to read the instructions. Maybe it’s as simple as muscle memory, and it would do him well to specifically not think of things before he does them, lest he lose that muscle memory and have to go off of his observations alone.
Well, at least he doesn’t need to worry about any sort of action right now. He can stand on his own two admittedly wobbly feet and take this at his own pace. This is his own home, so surely, he can find out plenty about himself, and about what (presumably) happened last night.
He reaches for the door handle, wraps his hand around it, then pulls. Nothing happens. He just gets jerked back by the force of the lock. Ingo blinks. He tries to push it next. It only takes him frustratedly jiggling the doorknob to realize that it can twist, and that’s probably what he needs to do.
Some sort of mechanism inside the door can be heard, and this time, when Ingo pulls on the door, it opens easily. It almost hits him in the face, with how he used much too much force to pry it open, but he catches it and stumbles back before he has to take any wooden blows to the face.
When he steps forward, he’s met with a carpeted floor. Even through his shoes, he can tell that it’s different to stand on. He takes a bit extra caution in how he steps, each footfall intentional to keep his weight displaced the best he can. It only takes him a few moments to realize what will be a real challenge, sitting in front of him, a few paces from the door to the room he’s just departed from.
A stairwell.
Not just a few stairs, either, Ingo would have to guess there's a little over a dozen of them. This is bad. He does not want to chance falling down the flight. He glances around, looking for anything else to do, and while he is simply met with a wall to his right, it’s what is hung upon it that truly grabs his attention.
For a moment, he thinks it’s another person staring at him, but upon his flinch, he notices it is just a reflective sort of painting. What stares back at him is merely a mirror image of himself.
As for the smaller frames, they're filled with photographs… and, when he looks closer, he finds that he feels a wave of recognition. It’s him in the photos - though decidedly younger and less tired-looking than he appears now. Ingo reaches up slowly to another photo with a young boy he knows now as himself, but there’s another in the photo.
A younger Ingo sitting with another boy who looks oddly like him, in some sort of tub or basin. The other boy certainly looks like he’s having a better time than Ingo, but he can’t confirm without hold of this memory - a hold he does not have.
“Hm.” Ingo reaches to place it back on its proper place on the wall, and as he is about to do so, hears a noise from down the steps. Knowing it couldn’t possibly have been of his own doing, Ingo flinches, holding the photo frame a bit tighter in his surprise.
He peers down, then upon finding it difficult to see past the ceiling, kneels down to get a better look.
Someone is at the counter.
Ingo inhales sharply, now incredibly acutely aware that he is not alone in this house. Is this even his house? Even with his photo on the wall, he can’t be entirely sure. This could simply be a particularly sentimental someone he knew. Well, technically, knows, in the present tense, but he does not know.
Is he trespassing right now? Trespassing and he can hardly walk?
This is bad. This is very, very bad. How does he get out of this situation? Surely he can't stumble up to a complete stranger and try to explain his predicament, that he’s woken up nestled in their bed and has no memories of how he got there.
Despite his personal experience, Ingo thinks that, if this were to happen to him, and he were the other person in the analogy, he wouldn’t believe them either. Sounds like a home intruder trying a risky tactic for a safe escape after their target’s owner returned.
The person reaches up and takes a mug out of a set of small doors above the counter. They put it into some sort of machine, and after a few quick button presses, some water, and a little bit of waiting, dark liquid starts to drip into it! Ingo is floored - he saw no liquid of that color go in, but then..!
As Ingo stares in shock, the person turns, and he’s quickly reminded of his need to be stealthy. He kneels entirely still, and, luckily, they were simply taking the long turn around to walk back from where they came.
Filled with curiosity that makes him almost forget his mission, Ingo starts to creep closer to the stairs. He stays low, and once he finds a polished plank of wood attached to the wall, feels much more confident in his ability to get down safely. He takes hold of the banister and slides his first foot forward, a few inches down, to the first step. He isn’t a big fan of having his feet on different levels, so he swivels and gets them both on the same one.
Now, effectively sitting, with his newfound ability to get down the stairs, Ingo wonders what he should do about this person. If he can spy a way out of this lower floor, then it’ll be as easy as getting to it. But he’d need to get down there to check, first. Perhaps he can let this person lead the way as they leave for the first stop of their morning schedule.
Yes, that’s it! That makes sense!
Ah, perfect. Finally, a plan of action.
Well, the first step is to wait. Ingo has a feeling it will be until that mug is full to the very top… perhaps it’s some sort of time keeping device? Just, a particularly flashy one, with lots of steps and buttons to press… Maybe this person has expensive tastes in their proverbial stopwatches. Or just like hitting buttons.
The dripping noise just barely makes its way up to the stair Ingo is sitting on, and it’s methodical, like counting beats, steps he should pay attention to. He bobs his head along, mostly just occupying himself.
He realizes after a moment that he is still holding the picture frame of earlier. Ingo decides to take another look at it, perhaps the other person in this photo is the person in this house? Ingo would have to get a bit closer to take a proper look, of which he does not fully want to take the risk of doing, being fine with not finding out, but it would surely be convenient to know a bit more.
He hopes that these old photos carry a friendship that has lasted till his current age - as it may give him much more purchase in explaining what has happened to him.
Or, maybe, they might just happen to have all of the information, and know exactly why he’s here, and Ingo has freaked out over nothing. Even with the pointless worry, Ingo thinks he would prefer that option the very most, as it would give him the most amount of information in the least amount of time.
Ingo places the frame down by his side when his time comes. The mug is full, and the person comes by to collect it. Ingo is very curious as to what will be done with the liquid - is it saved for later to be poured back into the machine for another timer? Recycled elsewhere, or simply thrown away?
No, they lift the porcelain to their lips and take a good sip of it, then swallow. Ingo blinks. Not what he was expecting, but at least it is not going to waste..? Not a very practical or reusable hourglass, but he knows less of it, so maybe it makes much more sense in practice.
The person mans their post for another little while longer, leaning one arm against the countertops and taking a break to finish most of their drink.
This, Ingo feels in his throat, is when they should be leaving. It just feels right, he cannot explain it, perhaps this is also a sort of daily routine. Set the timer, drink the timer, get going. Something is off, but he thinks it is right enough to start getting ready to move again.
Ingo resituates his hold on the railing and pulls himself upward. Right as he sees the feet walk away and disappear behind the hallway is his time to strike. There’s not much of a rush, just don’t want to lose where the door to escape is, so Ingo proceeds with speed, not haste, down the steps.
He thinks he does a rather good job, and even gets more confident to hold the banister with only one hand instead of both. He gets the hang of one foot down, second foot down, hold, repeat. It’s a sound strategy, until he hears a small voice.
It’s probably nothing, and he couldn’t even make out what they said. Ingo is sure that he makes nondescript noises sometimes while doing tasks, but it takes his eyes away from the stair below him for long enough for him to take a step much too far forward.
His heel hits the edge of the step, the bumped curve that must be intended to provide a barricade for falls, but to him, it just makes it much easier to slide down.
Ingo gasps, realizing he’s headed downwards, and fast. He grabs the bannister with nearly his whole arm, pulling close to it as his only method to keep himself from tumbling all the way down, but his bottom still hits the stair with enough force for him to groan. He surely would have fallen all the way to the floor if he hadn’t had something to hold him up safely.
Well, he’s made it to the bottom of the stairs… if a bit more, how you say, spontaneous than he intended to.
Wait, there was a reason he was being silent-
“...Joltik..?” There’s a hesitance to the voice, like they know their guess is incorrect, “Did you fall down the…”
Ingo peeks past the corner to see what his slip has caused and what sort of damage control he can conduct to fix it.
The other man stands in front of a coat hanger, and Ingo sees him quickly enough to watch him turn towards the counter with a little confused smile on his face. That's not where Ingo is looking.
The- the coat there, on the rack, looks very familiar. It matches the hat it seems like he’s just finished putting on.
Ingo almost thinks he’s in the clear, but then the other man turns right towards him like he knew he was there. Ingo flinches, and starts to try to hide, but there is no getting out of this now. He braces his hands against the carpet and pushes to stand up, swallowing his pride and putting his hands behind his back to hide his nervous twitch.
Maybe they will understand after all.
The man looks at him, frozen in time, eyes wide. Ingo feels as if he should say something.
He straightens his back. “Hello,” He realizes after he has already started that he has no idea what he actually wants to say.
He had been very preoccupied in wondering about all of the things that he could say that he’d forgotten to narrow it down to one, and now he has to do it on the fly, with a particularly devastating pair of eyes staring him down.
“Ingo..?”
Ingo doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Perhaps his best case scenario had come true..? He does notice, now, that he’s pretty sure this man looks quite a bit like him. It was a brief glance in the mirror earlier, but Ingo thinks he’s right.
“Yes,” He speaks slowly, unsure of himself, or what to say, or how to make it the right thing. He feels like these stakes are impossibly high, heart beating fast in his throat. “I… believe that is me, yes.” That must sound so sarcastic to anyone else’s ears.
Ingo sort of breaks out of his stance when he hears footsteps. He blinks, and the man walks closer to him, with that same unbelieving, heavy stare. Ingo feels as if he’s being scrutinized, and he almost shrinks back, but again tries his best to stand his ground as he approaches.
There’s maybe an arms length between them before long, and Ingo can observe a bit more about him now. His eyes are very tired looking, a little red, perhaps glossy?
His hand comes up, and Ingo watches it, weary, as it comes up to touch his face. Ingo raises a brow, trying his best not to pull away from whatever test he is being put under. He presses his hand against him like he thinks it could go right through, then finally pulls back.
“You, you’re,” he stands a little straighter, shoulders squaring, as his eyes well up with tears. “You’re really here.”
Ingo doesn’t get a chance to come up with something to say, he doesn’t even get a chance to start, as suddenly the man throws himself at him and wraps his arms around him. It almost knocks Ingo square off of his feet, but he has two pairs of legs to keep him upright now.
What is going on? Who is this?
Ingo’s mind runs a million miles a minute trying to glean all the information he possibly can.
This man looks like him, and that jacket looks like his. The hat looks similar too, it’s just a different color, but Ingo is pretty sure that the badge on it shows the same symbol, even as the one on Ingo’s is worn. Obviously there is some sort of emotional attachment here, and Ingo would be lying if he didnt feel a painful tug on his heartstrings, but it doesn’t jog his memory.
At the very least, he comes to the conclusion that they must have known each other before Ingo lost his memories. It must hurt to be forgotten just how it hurts to forget, and Ingo thinks he would completely ruin the mood if he pulled away and told this person clearly important to him that he does not know who he is. That would be the most rude possible thing to do in this scenario. Yeah, it’s decided, he’s not going to do that.
So, Ingo wraps his arms around him, settling his hands on his back. He pulls him close, and something about it seems so terribly right that Ingo feels all the answers he needs are right in front of him, but he just can’t grab ahold.
After a close moment, he sniffles, making sort of a gross noise as he pulls away. His face is messy with tears and snot, and he’s smiling and crying and laughing a little bit, shifting his hands to hold Ingo’s face again, much more tenderly this time. “You grew a little beard!”
Ingo isn’t sure what to say, though he supposes it clues him in to the fact that he didn’t have facial hair the last time they saw each other. It takes a bit to grow, right? So, it should be a long time since they’ve seen each other last.
The man sniffles and wipes his nose, face looking like he can’t decide what emotion he should be feeling (even though Ingo is the one with more right to be confused, here), and tilts his head. His eyes momentarily flit downward, inspecting Ingo's tunic with an even more uncertain expression before he looks back up. “Where have you been– where did you go?”
Um. Ingo does not know the answer to that question. He opens his mouth, thinking that perhaps the words will just flow, but they do not. He stammers, and the other man just moves back in to wrap his arms around him. Ingo relaxes into the hug much easier than last time.
“I decided I do not care.” He shakes his head into Ingo’s shoulder. “It does not matter. You are back now.”
As Ingo tries to keep up, tries to make heads or tails of the situation, the other makes an odd whimper-like noise as he squeezes him like he’s afraid Ingo is going to disappear into thin air within his arms. His knees stagger, and as Ingo would enjoy a break from being on his feet, he tests the waters by bending his legs and lowering them to the ground. He follows, so Ingo takes a seat on the ground and pulls him close.
Ingo sort of feels like he should be crying too, very aware of the other’s tears - though he’s not sure if he could call it distress even with the little miserable cry-noises he makes. He doesn’t think he’s capable of making tears, even if he would appreciate them, if only to be appropriate for the moment.
After a solid few minutes of sitting and sniffling and crying, he pulls back and wipes his tears, with much more purpose than the last time. He glances at Ingo’s shoulder, at his shirt sleeve, then goes to wipe that too. “I.. apologize.” He clears his throat, then looks him in the eye again with the most sincere smile in the world. “I am Emmet. I missed you very dearly.”
Well, that answers one of Ingo’s questions.
And he didn’t even have to ask.