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@nathan.drake| ■ ▲ ◌ ▼

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[nonscriptum]

Must be genetic.

[ 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. ]

[withmeinparadise]

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 Antioqueño, but the aniseed flavor floats through it like something out of Sam's dreams of home. ]

Salud.

[nonscriptum]

[ Swedish. In Amsterdam. Okay.

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.

[withmeinparadise]

[ Hey, all those expats had to go someplace. Fewer meatballs than he'd expected, but most of the food and drink's still been delicious.

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. ]

[nonscriptum]

[ 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 tastes like home.

[withmeinparadise]

See--

[ 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.

[nonscriptum]

[ 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.