[ Nate normally wouldn't touch this subject with a forty-foot pole, knows it would be a simple matter to just hold hands and pass some sad sentiments over through the empathy hotline and call it a day, but he needs Ian to understand the extent of that protection. The lengths Sam Drake would go to, to ensure his little brother was all right. The man had his fucking selfish moments but the decisions he made always rested under the same umbrella. ]

I lost my mom really young. She, um. She was smart, a historian. Taught us Latin. [ Nate was so small he barely remembers more than a few faint recollections burnished by Sam's stronger memories. ] She killed herself when I was four.

[ There was a funeral, small and sedate. His older brother's hand gripping his tightly, avoiding the questions he asked because Nate didn't understand. He scratches at the label on his beer, brow furrowed slightly at nothing in particular. ]

Our dad kind of held onto us for a year, and then he just sort of...dropped us off. [ Pat, matter of fact. ] We stayed with the nuns after that. I was pretty young and I'd get scared so I'd- sometimes, early on, I actually snuck into the older boys' dormitory to beg Sam to let me sleep in his bed.

[ Nate rolls his head back, leaning it on the seat cushion of the couch and staring up at the set concrete of the ceiling, concentrating on the warmth at his side, on his thigh, knowing this is A Lot bordering on Too Much. ]

We snuck out often. Broke into a house together when I was twelve, it was this...old lady who'd worked with our mom and we wanted her stuff back, and she had a heart attack- right there. Right after telling us she'd call the cops off.

I couldn't go back after they spotted us, and Sam had gotten kicked out for stealing and smoking the same year. So we left. [ His head lolls to one side, looking at Ian. ] It was just us.