[ and hopefully they come through, the perfect list of directions that lead to Sam leaning against a wall near a vendor offering snaps in a variety of flavors. he's itching for a cigarette and trying to play it off like he isn't, clearly drunk without being at the point of needing help for it.
it's a festival, and this has been a long goddamn week. it is what it is. ]
[ The coordinates are dutifully sent and Nate dutifully receives them, squinting at the approximate location on his map. A ten minute walk, and he hopes Sam doesn't wander away in the time it takes for Nate to find him.
Nate finds him right where Sam said he'd be, leaning up against a building with a bit of sway in his posture. Were they anywhere else in their own world, he'd be ripe for a mugging. ]
Hey.
[ A steadying hand comes to rest on Sam's shoulder, sobriety given him a much better view of the level of drunkenness. ]
It's definitely drunker than he'd let himself get at home. One thing about this place--in some ways, it's a hell of a lot safer than anywhere else they've lived since he was a kid. What're people on the street going to do, shake him down for cash? Nobody has cash. And if they're just in a mood to play "punch the drunk guy," he's confident he could still kick their asses. (Whether that's inebriated bravado or the truth remains, of course, to be seen.) ]
C'mon, I found the closest we're gonna get to good liquor around here.
[ There's more than one reason he might drunk-dial his only family and drag him out into a block party he seems determined to miss--but all of those can wait until Nathan's had some snaps. ]
[ Crooked smiles run in the family, and even with that vague undercurrent of unease Nate feels more at home around his brother when they're getting up to something. A little like putting on a pair of worn, comfortable sneakers. It's too easy. ]
Okay, okay- is it that snaps shit you kept talking about?
[ He allows himself to be led, at the very least. Indulgent in the way only little brothers can be. ]
Yeah--yeah, snaps. [ Like schnapps with no schuh. He's already waving Nathan along with him, weaving his way across a crowded street toward a vendor. He's got a preferred place now, even though it's just a little temporary bar. ] Some kinda Swedish thing. There's one you gotta try, tastes like Colombia.
[ When they get over, he orders two shots--doubles, live dangerously, little brother--and hands one to Nathan. It's not exactly the same as a bottle of AntioqueΓ±o, but the aniseed flavor floats through it like something out of Sam's dreams of home. ]
As thrilling as it might be as the little brother in this relationship to be an equally little shit, Nate refrains from inquiring further about the origins of the drink and accepts his tiny glass. The pungent, thick smell of aniseed slams into him like a freight train. ]
Salud.
[ He lifts it in a gesture of good will and good cheer and takes a sip, bracing himself. It hits hard and smacks of a youth spent on sunbaked roofing tiles. ]
[ He can't even deny it. Bitter, sweet, just the right amount of flavoring, the kind of thing that burns the insides of your nostrils. A little grudging, partly because he's indulging his older brother, Nate admits: ]
[ It's hard to hold onto any residual anger or resentment like this, alcohol buzzing pleasantly in his stomach, long-lost brother laughing at his side. It feels like all the other times they attended religious festivals south of the border, but the smells are sharper here, the food less avidly spiced.
Nate knows this sensation from a lifetime ago, and he missed it. ]
All right, all right. Creamed salmon. Jesus. Wish they had flautas.
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and?
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hes an asshole
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where do you want me to meet you?
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[ and hopefully they come through, the perfect list of directions that lead to Sam leaning against a wall near a vendor offering snaps in a variety of flavors. he's itching for a cigarette and trying to play it off like he isn't, clearly drunk without being at the point of needing help for it.
it's a festival, and this has been a long goddamn week. it is what it is. ]
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Nate finds him right where Sam said he'd be, leaning up against a building with a bit of sway in his posture. Were they anywhere else in their own world, he'd be ripe for a mugging. ]
Hey.
[ A steadying hand comes to rest on Sam's shoulder, sobriety given him a much better view of the level of drunkenness. ]
You look like shit.
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[ With a grin, lopsided as always.
It's definitely drunker than he'd let himself get at home. One thing about this place--in some ways, it's a hell of a lot safer than anywhere else they've lived since he was a kid. What're people on the street going to do, shake him down for cash? Nobody has cash. And if they're just in a mood to play "punch the drunk guy," he's confident he could still kick their asses. (Whether that's inebriated bravado or the truth remains, of course, to be seen.) ]
C'mon, I found the closest we're gonna get to good liquor around here.
[ There's more than one reason he might drunk-dial his only family and drag him out into a block party he seems determined to miss--but all of those can wait until Nathan's had some snaps. ]
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[ Crooked smiles run in the family, and even with that vague undercurrent of unease Nate feels more at home around his brother when they're getting up to something. A little like putting on a pair of worn, comfortable sneakers. It's too easy. ]
Okay, okay- is it that snaps shit you kept talking about?
[ He allows himself to be led, at the very least. Indulgent in the way only little brothers can be. ]
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[ When they get over, he orders two shots--doubles, live dangerously, little brother--and hands one to Nathan. It's not exactly the same as a bottle of AntioqueΓ±o, but the aniseed flavor floats through it like something out of Sam's dreams of home. ]
Salud.
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As thrilling as it might be as the little brother in this relationship to be an equally little shit, Nate refrains from inquiring further about the origins of the drink and accepts his tiny glass. The pungent, thick smell of aniseed slams into him like a freight train. ]
Salud.
[ He lifts it in a gesture of good will and good cheer and takes a sip, bracing himself. It hits hard and smacks of a youth spent on sunbaked roofing tiles. ]
...oh, wow.
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He knocks his back--not the first of the day--and slaps Nathan on the back with a brilliant grin. ]
Whaddaya think?
[ There's a sort of expectation in his face, c'mon, it tastes like home. It tastes like the past, like a better time and place than this one. ]
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It tastes like home.
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[ His face is one of naked delight, far brighter and less tempered than he ever is sober. ]
--loosen up a little, baby brother. It's a festival. We used to do this all the time, right? C'mon, let's get some of that creamed salmon.
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Nate knows this sensation from a lifetime ago, and he missed it. ]
All right, all right. Creamed salmon. Jesus. Wish they had flautas.