Leo's wandering, because he doesn't really know what else to do here. In reality, he's waiting for something to change: to wake up or make a breakthrough and be back on the dock, or in his tent, or even in his bedroom at his parent's house. Anything that isn't some random, apparently magical reality from which he has no escape.
Where he is, essentially, alone.
He's taken to walking with his (Tobi's) towel slung over his shoulders to shield the sun from his naked skin. His swimming suit is comfortable, but not terribly good at keeping his arms and legs (and chest and forehead and back and face) from being sunburned.
He spies a man, haggard and grungy with a few days beard on his chin, hauling a boat up onto the beach. If Leo knows anything, it's about boats, and how they might not be particularly light for being hollow. If he's a little taken aback by the man's appearance, he doesn't show it, shrugging of his towel and approaching with the same caution he uses when approaching anyone here, going over the words in his head a few times before speaking.
Leo nods once, making his way out into the surf, glad the sand is so soft under his bare feet. He looks up at the man he's about to assist, taking in his appearance before saying simply, "I'm called Leo."
Leo nods again, sensing that Mike isn't really interested in chatting. He's a bit grateful, considering his still halting English hasn't improved much over the few days he's been speaking it primarily.
He walks to the back of the boat, careful to make sure he has his footing. He places his hands on the smooth wood and feels a flood of nostalgia. In reality, it hasn't been that long since he was last in a boat, but at this point it feels like it's been forever. This feels familiar, almost comforting, and he takes a minute to imagine that he's back on the Rhine with his team, pulling the boat out of the water after practice, or a race. He can't tell if the surge of adrenaline he feels is real or imagined, but he likes the way it wells in his chest either way.
He opens his eyes all the way and looks up to Mike, letting the other man know he's ready.
[Sorry for the delay - I had a hockey game last night. :)]
He watches Leo move around to the back, not hiding his gaze the way he would normally. Only a week, but he's been turned completely inward and is only now emerging. It's a little jarring to remember that other people exist.
He nods again, hefts the rope over his shoulder and starts forward. Already, having the force behind him is making it easier.
[Is fine. Hockey takes precedence over everything. :D]
He loses himself in the routine task, for the first time since he's come to be here that he feels completely at ease. He likes the slight burn in his muscles, using them again. Before he'd - what, vanished? - he'd been training hours a day. The last few days, he hasn't done much more than wander around aimlessly.
He follows Mike's pace as they push/pull the boat out of the water, sliding it smoothly up the beach and along the sand.
When it's past the high tide line he lets the rope slacken, standing up straight and feeling his spine crack. He hasn't spoken in a week and he also hasn't done much in the way of moving, and any physical effort feels good. Like he's sliding back into his own body again.
He turns to Leo, wiping sweat and sea spray from his face.
"You're new." It's not quite a question. He has that feel.
Leo is straightening up as well, reaching his arms above his head to lengthen his spine. A few of his curls are clinging to his forehead, skin shiny with a slight layer of sweat. He nods at the statement, confirming.
He shakes his head. "Been here over a year. Seen two birthdays here." Which is a trip and a half. He leans into the canoe and pulls a bottle of water out of the small bundle of his things, uncapping it and gulping it down. He holds it out to Leo.
He'd guessed from the accent, the nationality if not the city. Though, here, that alone doesn't say much. God knows how many versions of Berlin there are out there, with how many different timelines.
Still. No sense in confusing things more than they have to be.
He inclines his head slightly. "Your English is good."
He smiles back, both corners of his mouth twitching upward. "We are made to take English in school."
Leo knows where New York is. He's seen pictures, heard stories from friends who have been. He's always wanted to go. "Did you like it there? In New York?"
"Some of us are made to take German," he says, still smiling just a little. "Not all of us remember a damn thing after, though."
He reaches into the canoe again, pulls out his boots and begins to shake the sand out of them, shrugging as he does so. "It was all right. Big. Loud. My mom died there and then I left." Once he wouldn't have said this, not to someone he essentially doesn't know. But once isn't now.
Where he is, essentially, alone.
He's taken to walking with his (Tobi's) towel slung over his shoulders to shield the sun from his naked skin. His swimming suit is comfortable, but not terribly good at keeping his arms and legs (and chest and forehead and back and face) from being sunburned.
He spies a man, haggard and grungy with a few days beard on his chin, hauling a boat up onto the beach. If Leo knows anything, it's about boats, and how they might not be particularly light for being hollow. If he's a little taken aback by the man's appearance, he doesn't show it, shrugging of his towel and approaching with the same caution he uses when approaching anyone here, going over the words in his head a few times before speaking.
"Can I help?"
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Everything feels weirdly distant.
He shrugs, the movement a bit hampered by the rope over his shoulder. "If you want."
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At another time in other circumstances he might have considered trying something.
Now, though, he simply nods, gaze landing on the kid's face again. "Mike," he says, and inclines his head to stern. "Get the back?"
Talking feels awkward and a little unfamiliar. He hasn't done it in a week.
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He walks to the back of the boat, careful to make sure he has his footing. He places his hands on the smooth wood and feels a flood of nostalgia. In reality, it hasn't been that long since he was last in a boat, but at this point it feels like it's been forever. This feels familiar, almost comforting, and he takes a minute to imagine that he's back on the Rhine with his team, pulling the boat out of the water after practice, or a race. He can't tell if the surge of adrenaline he feels is real or imagined, but he likes the way it wells in his chest either way.
He opens his eyes all the way and looks up to Mike, letting the other man know he's ready.
[Sorry for the delay - I had a hockey game last night. :)]
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He nods again, hefts the rope over his shoulder and starts forward. Already, having the force behind him is making it easier.
[Is fine. Hockey takes precedence over everything. :D]
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He follows Mike's pace as they push/pull the boat out of the water, sliding it smoothly up the beach and along the sand.
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He turns to Leo, wiping sweat and sea spray from his face.
"You're new." It's not quite a question. He has that feel.
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"You are not?"
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"Where're you from?"
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"Germany. Berlin."
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Still. No sense in confusing things more than they have to be.
He inclines his head slightly. "Your English is good."
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He reaches down, grabbing his towel from the sand, shaking it out and wiping the sweat from his face. "Where are you from?"
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"America." His mouth twists a little wryly. That question again, and the easiest way to answer it. "New York."
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Leo knows where New York is. He's seen pictures, heard stories from friends who have been. He's always wanted to go. "Did you like it there? In New York?"
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He reaches into the canoe again, pulls out his boots and begins to shake the sand out of them, shrugging as he does so. "It was all right. Big. Loud. My mom died there and then I left." Once he wouldn't have said this, not to someone he essentially doesn't know. But once isn't now.
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