redheadedstepson Terra Firma

[huggingcompetition]

Getting shot through space would be traumatic if you weren't asleep and/or being beamed through it at the speed of life itself. It only felt like he'd had a long, restless sleep when Emil's eyes opened to focus blearily not on the smooth metal ceiling of his tiny apartment, or, more often than not, someone else's, but on the generically spackled ceiling of a hotel room in Malay. He was sure he was dreaming at first; he'd had dreams like this before, where he was back on earth and preparing to go about his day, at least until someone new happened out of the bathroom, or turned over beside him in the bed, but a quick glance around told him the one thing that made his heart sink straight into his stomach.

"Reno?"

Silence. just wind and surf and birds outside the cracked open window, and his own pulse plodding along strangely placidly.

He checked his phone to confirm what the date was, finding himself only a little bit alarmed to find out that time had passed here. Not much, but some. Enough to have taken up his vacation before he had to head home and begin arranging for the next winter sports season.

It would go like that for months after arriving back home and settling back into his routines. Wake up, work out, practice, visit with friends and family, with the underlying feeling that something was just off. It almost felt wrong just going back to his life now.

Sometimes, he'd try to talk to a concerned friend asking questions. Explain that he wasn't sleeping well. Making an effort to rationalize that he wasn't unjustified in feeling like something was missing or wrong. He had so much on his phone that confirmed what he already knew: this "dream" of his, about all of these people he'd met, couldn't be fake. He had photos taken of the park, of ladies he'd made friends with, of interesting people he'd met in the observatory or at the rink, of Koller and Reno and Mo Guanshan and Sam. He still had messages from some of them.

He reread those a lot as time went on. He couldn't possibly have fabricated those, surely. He'd start doubting every so often, wondering if it was all an elaborate, staged thing, like he'd been brainwashed. He joked that he'd been abducted by aliens, which did throw off some concern with the humor of it, but feeling so left of center never really stopped.

Even when the world started turning into the sort of low-key hell that had always been predicted by the sci-fi writers of the last century, Emil kept going. He went to the finals another few times, even making it to the Four Continents, with a piece that he'd choreographed on his own, to a remixed piece that he'd once worked on when he was still in his "dreamstate". That year he dressed in red with a yakuza-style phoenix emblazoned on his costume's back.

The summer after, he opted to take time off from his normal busy schedule to spend time close to home with his family, to reflect on what he wanted to do with the few years he had left in his skating career. He only had a few years left in him after all, as his body filled out and matured. He'd kept his hair short and feathery, but let his beard grow fuller and make his face much more mature. He walked the streets of Prague like anyone would the streets of home, having moved here the year prior after leaving his parents' home. It had been a move advised by his coach and some well-meaning publicists after some suspicious occurrences, including redirected phone calls and some increasingly freaky "fan-mail" that had apparently never had a name or return address attached. He'd been curious, but followed the advice nonetheless, if only to keep his actual fans from going on some kind of witch hunt.

Pulling out of his distraction for a moment, he stops in his meandering path through a small city park to sit and take a moment to zone out, a tablet in his lap for his fingers to flick across mindlessly. It's become home to a massive photo gallery, transferred from his phone when it was finally on the verge of death. The background of it is, predictably, a starfield, though if anyone looked closely enough at it they would realize that it isn't the view from anywhere on earth. In one corner of the image is a figure standing without paying attention, a shock of red hair tied and twisted into a haphazard bun over a simple tshirt, hint of tattoo peeking from the collar. Emil finds himself glancing back at it as he scrolls through an article linked from his Twitter feed, barely absorbing a word as his mind wanders.

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[redheadedstepson]

When Emil first disappeared, Reno didn't think too much of it. Their lives were very ebb and flow on the station, the two of them with their own cadre of friends they spent time with. They knew where their hearts were, knew who they belonged to in the end. They had made promises to each other. They would leave together...

So it was two days before Reno suspected anything strange was going on. Normally his texts were answered within a day at the latest, but sometimes you got wrapped up with a partner (or tied up, literally) and couldn't do anything but wait out what you were doing, so he let it go. Asking a few people some innocuous questions resulted in answers he didn't like. No one was with Emil. Emil was with no one.

By the third day, Reno went looking for answers. Only by tamping down on his temper was he able to get anything, and he was only able to do that because of almost a year of good influences teaching him better negotiating skills. Emil had been ejected from the station at some point, for disruptive behavior. Since he may have a negative impact on the overall experience for others, he was escorted home.

Reno was alone again.

Koller was gone, Emil was gone, and when he started looking - really looking - a lot more people he knew were simply vanished. It was another two days before he was able to pull himself together, go around asking for information on the people he knew that were still there. Worlds, full names, ages, relevant dates. So many people from Earth meant a good possibility that they were all from the same place. He may yet see them again.

When he filled the last few boxes on his card, he demanded a ticket home. When they agreed, he stopped them, explaining the situation about his intentions for travel to the home he wanted, not the home he'd left. It wasn't an uncommon request, evidently, though usually reserved for worlds more aware of the station's existences. Still, he'd fulfilled his part of the station contract; where he wanted to go wasn't necessarily relevant, and thereby of no concern to them.

That was how he ended up in Prague, the only name he could immediately remember in terms of the country Emil was from. Unfortunately, the station hadn't seen fit to put him precisely where Emil was.

So began the complicated dance of missed connections, two lives magnetic but too distant to attract. Emil went on with his sports, Reno watched from afar, TVs in stores, pubs, cheap motels. He learned the rest of the language and a few others, learned the country, the history, the world. He was scattered, piecemeal at best, but he learned. If nothing else, Reno had always been a resourceful survivor.

He consoled himself knowing the Emil was out there, alive and well. Maybe he'd forgotten Reno, maybe this was the wrong Emil; wrong world, wrong time. Maybe a lot of things, but he was there, Reno could see him, and it was good enough while he kept trying to get closer.

Crime was naturally the easiest route, Reno not at all above such things, and he soon became a bit notorious in the underworld, fingers in a lot of pies. It wasn't work that would make him wealthy, but it kept him fed and clothed and allowed him more maneuverability than simply being a well-behaved transient. It also resulted in a long record of minor offenses, but nothing big was ever pinned to him. He ran jobs, got involved in criminal groups that he could remember the names of based on things Koller had said, and eventually he was able to get closer to Emil on his own. Not close enough to touch, but he was there the show Emil wore the phoenix.

He remembered.

That competition was enough to press Reno on, renewing his ambition. If Emil remembered, there really was still hope, even as the years crept on.

Reno continued to practice his skating, amusing his criminal companions, but they never argued his skill either on the streets or on the ice. The plan was, if he couldn't get to Emil through conventional means, he'd just have to get there through things he'd not intended to do, like professional skating. Unfortunately at his age, with no legal records and no sponsors, it was almost impossible to get far, but it kept his spirits afloat, kept him from losing faith.

Maybe faith was all one needed, in the end?

It was pure happenstance, Reno standing at a food cart that the gang he was in coordinated with. He collected the usual funds, leaving the coffers mostly full because draining them like some guys did was bad for business and morale, and turned just the right way to lean again the cart for idle chatting when he saw him. Older, hairier, more filled out, but definitely the real Emil. He'd taken up the habit of casually flirting with anyone that looked anything like the skater just to keep the spark from guttering out. In that moment he realized it wasn't necessary - it would have exploded into life again even if it were dead ashes.

For a long time he just stared, watching the other man - no longer a teen, no. He felt suddenly unmanned, afraid of approaching him after so long. There were so many possibilities, so few good. Emil may have found someone else - Mickey? Sara? - he may have given up while Reno held on. What if coming back home and picking up where he'd left off meant putting away everything from Lagunbiru? What if he didn't want Reno back in his life? What if, what if, what if.

"Hey...you got any of those shrimp-lookin' things you had last time?" Reno asks, tilting his head back to look at the cart cook.

"They're actually shrimp, boss."

"Oh, well, whatever. Dish me up a plate?"

"You gonna go talk to that guy you been starin' at the last ten minutes."

"Has it been that long?"

"You're scarin' off customers."

"My bad, man. Come on, shrimp."

A moment later and Reno wandered over to the bench, trembling inside despite the casual way he sauntered, turned and settled on the other side of the bench, crossing his legs and leaning back.

Inches. Inches between them. He almost can't breathe, trying to keep his inhales and exhales slow while he heart races wildly. He counts to five, waits, schools himself to calm and lifts the plate, holding it off to the side and well within Emil's field of vision.

"You like space stuff? I never really got it. It's kinda pretty 'n all, but I'm not really smart enough to get into the science. I got a friend that loves that shit but...we don't talk anymore," he murmurs, arching a brow and looking from the tablet up to the other man. His own Czech is all but flawless now, though just as lazy and informal as anything else he ever did, and full of preferential slang where applicable. Some things never changed.