Kurt looks out through naked girders towards city lights sparkling through night's urban haze. He thumbs his pocket wistfully, desiring a cigarette but restraining himself.

After all, they hate cigarettes. Hell if he knows why.

Shoes strike against concrete from behind. Kurt follows the sound, turning to see a figure keeping close to the shadows.

"You gonna hide, or you gonna say hello?"

"You Kurt?"

"Course I am. Don't be retarded Dicky."

The figure hesitates, and Kurt harumphs as if taking on his discomfort. "Listen, I already know. You don't have to hide it."

Dicky takes a step forward where the city's light can reach him. It's the same face, barely changed in over a decade. Kurt forces himself to look away.

"Craig told you then?" Youth's memory asks. "How much do you know?"

"More than you think," Kurt laughs a bit, "You wouldn't believe how many of your freaky deaky friends try to get their teeth into the Unions. You're not the first I've seen... not by far."

Dicky considers this a bit. "Listen, if this is gonna be a problem..."

"No. No man, we go way back. As long as you've still got my best in mind, I've got yours. I know you Dicky. You're a fucking spaz but... still rather be dealing with you than some zombie Duchess bullshit."

"How bad?"

"Bad enough I need your help to get them out of our fucking Union."

They stand in silence for a moment.

"Hey Kurt, you remember that brunette with-"

"Fuck you Dicky."

"Call you later then?"

"Yea, yea. Get out of here, I need a smoke."

---

Dicky hops into his car, looking upwards to see if he can spot the tiny red mote of fire on his old friend's lips. Twelve years was a long time.

Too long and too much to make up for.