[ 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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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.