Archive of Our Own ^beta

I’ve been beaten, busted. Busted open, baited — all sorts of unpleasant things, back in Panama.

I'll tell you all about it one day, if you're willing to listen.

I did my best to stay out of trouble and keep busy. The guards and inmates were more trouble than they were worth, anyway.

But also, some instinct told me to do it; told me it would pay off in the end.

That instinct was right, because the day finally came when I was bribed out.

There are two kinds of relief I can tell you about.

First, when I set foot outside that jail for the first time in thirteen years — the world moving around me despite my limbs feeling frozen and rigid, unused to change, relearning how to just be, to exist as a free man.

And second, the best and most overwhelming one, is now, two years later, as I stare at this harsh light coming in from the open door to the storage room, the only thing other than moonlight allowing me to see in the gloom.

Tracking you down was hard — you still got it, huh. Covering your tracks like in the old days. Only you got yourself a wife now, and she made it easy to be found. She’s not like us.

She looked nice the other day, even from a distance, staring up at you with a soft smile as you two walked down the busy street hand-in-hand. You looked in love, too. I couldn’t bring myself to get in the way.

And now, I rap on the wood once, twice, three times. Sorry, little brother, I know it’s early, but I really need to see you.

I turn and stand with my back to the door again, messing around with the files thrown about on the table in front of me, listening to the creak — my heart is beating wild — as the door opens.

"Yeah? Can I help you?"

God, that tone. That voice, prickly as it is, still. How I missed your voice.

"Yeah, I'm uh, lookin' for my little brother," I start, surprised at how even my words are. Clean, unblocked. Anything but what I feel. "He's about your height, little bit leaner, definitely less gray in the temples."

You're looking up at me like I just hit you — eyes wide, jaw soft, the whole picture. It's the face of all-or-nothing; you either just received the best, most unbelievable news of your life, or the worst.

You get a shudder out of your nose, breathy and weak, and then.

"Sam?"

I smile and push words out with the strength I have left. It's been too fucking long.

"It's good to see you again, Nathan."

When you wrap your arms around me, I do my best to keep us both standing. It's monumental in a way I can't explain, and I need to do everything in my power to stop you from ever straying from me again.

I'll do what I must.

I'm sorry, Nathan.

You may tire of me

As our December sun is setting

‘Cause I’m not who I used to be

.

‘If you feel like you’re imposing,’ is what you said to me. And I do.

Elena, your gorgeous wife, has put up with enough. She’s been really cool about all this.

Or was, and I can’t tell what happened between one blink and the next. 

I’m on my way to Brazil with Sully, flying over Namibia, maybe, when you call. When you tell me, in a monotone, that your house will have a spare room for a while. Even after all these years, I can still hear the plea in your words.

So I fly back to you — Sully is much nicer than I remembered, I’ll give him that — and then to the U.S., the three of us together again. You’re silent, and I’m reluctant to push, but my hand on your shoulder doesn’t seem to bother you, in that jolting plane compartment. It’s as much a comforting weight for you as it is an anchor for myself, a reminder and a reassurance; I'm here with you, and I won’t wake up in a dark, gray cell this time.

Somewhere along the way, you decide to fill me in anyway, probably sensing that I would ask.

Some time apart. That’s what Elena asked for. Your voice gets smaller and smaller as you get the words out, like you’re confessing to an old, shameful crime that you're finally paying for, and in the jumble of things I feel, there’s anger.

I’m the one imposing. I’m the one belonging where I shouldn’t belong anymore, the alien presence with the expired fake license. You, little brother, have nothing to feel shame for.

I can’t tell you that because, at the height of my cowardice, I can’t bear to have you agree with me.

So I hug you. It’s a good hug, like the one we shared still in Madagascar, but it’s lacking. It’s held back, and it ends with two manly slaps on my back. And I ache a little, because I remember, of course I still do, but—

That’s not us anymore.

Right?

How could it be?

Your eyes seem to remember too, when you draw back, but your body tips away.

"She'll forgive you," I say, and I want to mean it. I want to be the big brother you deserve, if that's all I can have.

“Thanks,” you say, and you rest your head against the hard metal wall of the plane, and my shoulder tingles with a phantom weight.

I expected it, but it doesn’t hurt any less. 

*

The problem with faking — well, ‘faking’ — your own death is that there's always a loose end — or in my case, a whole string of lint following me around and reminding me of everything I've lost.

I didn’t just lose fifteen years of my life — I lost fifteen years of yours. Your first ancient city discovered (I was supposed to be there); Your first time on an actual pirate ship, going against actual pirates (I would’ve fought alongside you); your travels around the globe and the sights you got to see (without me).

You falling in love. You getting married. Buying an actual house, and an actual car and an actual job—

You’ve changed, and the contrast is made all the more abrupt by the gap those fifteen years left between us.

Do you still drink the same brand of light beer?

Do you still stick only one foot out from under the covers (else it’s either too cold or too hot, you used to say)?

Do you still open takeout containers flap by flap?

Do you still love me?

“Uh, I know I said spare room,” you say sheepishly, looking down at me from the top of the stairs in your house, “but there's no bed in there. It’s— used to be Elena's office.”

I ignore the way your voice fails for a moment when you say her name.

“I’ll take the couch,” I offer, so you don’t have to.

You nod, silent, and a while later you offer me a beer. It’s still the same brand.

We sit together on the couch, still in silence, but there’s so much I wanna tell you. A decade and a half’s worth of conversations I didn’t get to have with you. Jokes I didn’t get to tell.

Prison does that to you; the repetitiveness of it unbearable, each day like the one before, and your only solace is thinking, maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get my life back. Maybe tomorrow I’ll say what I held in today. I just gotta wait for the next day, even if I gotta weather through over five thousand uneventful ones first.

We talked plenty during our search for Avery’s treasure, but it’s not quite the same as sitting down, free to relax, with nothing more pressing than kicking back and drinking a cold one.

Here we are now — free, and mute. Wordless.

We used to be so good at this.

I feel like those years apart have been a really long, really gruesome fever dream — I still feel like I know how to talk to you.

But of course, you don’t know how to talk to me. You weren’t stuck in the same place for years, with only your memories for company. You moved on.

I try for an ice-breaker.

“I thought you’d be drinking grown-up beer by now.”

You smile and reply, “PBR’s still got its charm.”

I can’t help the snort that comes out of my nose. “Please tell me you just bought this for the nostalgia.”

You shrug.

Oh no, little brother. You don’t need to keep drinking cheap, shitty beer, and yet you do.

“At least you got better taste in women now,” I mutter before taking a sip from my can.

You stiffen beside me, and I could kick myself. I’m not supposed to dredge up those memories, as fresh as they are to me.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it,” you answer, but the damage is done. You’re no longer smiling.

*

It’s been three months — I’m familiar with the house now, enough that I don’t feel bad not asking for permission to open the fridge. We’ve fallen into a routine, almost like all those years ago, muscle memory syncing up our sleep schedules and our steps around each other.

We take turns cooking and cleaning on the weekends; you go to work (still retrieving stuff for Jameson, but Elena’s there too, now) while I housekeep, while I try not to feel like an unemployed burden — the itch to seek the next big treasure is getting to me, despite what I’ve told you, but I don’t wanna go alone.

Alone and without you mean the same thing to me.

You get home from work, every day, with the corners of your mouth pinched, and you don’t mention her name. 

It’s a somewhat easy pattern to navigate, if we ignore the big elephant in the room. The only thing that is missing.

We never go there, despite the yearning that only festers and grows in my chest, like nasty withdrawal. Not even cigarettes can soothe the burn.

I try to smother it, best as I can. I won’t do that to you, not now, when you’ve already got so much on your plate.

*

‘Time apart’ is code for divorce, and even though we both knew that, it still sends everything hurtling towards flames when you get the call.

You leave the house to have lunch with Elena on a bright Saturday afternoon. I take my bike for a spin, for lack of a better thing to do. Last I saw of New Orleans was two decades ago; might as well revisit some parts of the city.

After, when I ride back home to eat something, I find you slumped on the couch, staring unseeing at the ceiling.

I ask, “What’s wrong?” even though I know the answer.

You let me hug you again. I kiss your temple and whisper mindless reassurances that neither of us bothers to decipher. I feel dampness on my shirt over my shoulder, where your face is hiding, and my heart skips a beat. I don’t comment on it.

I find myself resenting her; she’s supposed to stand by you, and yet she leaves when things get tough. She put you in this state. She hurt you.

Each of your quiet sobs sparks a flare of anger inside, with a side of guilt and self-consciousness. I know what I did, and I know what you did, but. I can’t help but be protective of you.

At the same time, beneath the resentment, there’s— hope. Tentative, bashful hope.

But it’s clearly not that simple anymore. You love Elena — that much is obvious. I’ve never seen you cry for anyone other than me. Didn’t think I ever would.

We still haven't talked about our past, so it's hard to gauge where we stand.

I promised myself I wouldn’t add to the weight on your shoulders.

That promise is proving harder to keep.

*

I work the graveyard shift at the local Denny’s. It sucks, like all waiting jobs do, but it’s better than sitting on my ass watching you struggle with the bills, now that Elena has bailed.

It also helps, a little — we don’t see much of each other, now, when our work schedules line up. Helps with the burn, the hollow ache inside my chest.

I thought dreaming of you — replaying old memories and crafting new, fictional ones inside my head — when I didn’t even know if you were still alive and thought I’d never know for sure, was torture. But I wasn’t counting on how much worse it is when I have you within reach and have to keep my hands to myself.

It’s selfish, I know. I’m your selfish brother.

You’ve always had too much faith in me, but turns out my self-control isn’t perfect. Something’s gotta give.

The only thing stopping me is the guilt.

I get home around four in the morning one night — boss has asked me to stay a while longer, and we need the money — avoiding my face in the mirror because I know I look like crap, barely recognizable as myself, and make a beeline for the fridge.

The muted scraping stops me in my tracks.

“Nathan?”

I backtrack and pause mid-way up the stairs, waiting.

Another scraping sound, and then you say, “Sorry. Just need to finish this.”

You’re still hidden; your voice floats to me, painfully tired.

I reach the second floor and find you in Elena’s office, dragging and disassembling furniture. A mess of cardboard boxes, some closed, some still open, confined to one corner of the room.

The room, which looks even more abandoned than before, the walls and closet now lacking the random stuff she’s left behind.

Oh, Nathan. How long have you been at this?

“D’you want help?” I offer quietly, still on the other side of the door.

You drop your arm that’s holding the screwdriver and look my way.

Christ, your eyes, Nathan. She really did a number on you, didn’t she?

“Nah, you should catch some sleep,” you rasp, “I’ll be fine.”

My. ass.

I walk into the room wordlessly and grab a wrench, drop down to my knees beside you.

You don’t stop me.

“Your neighbors must hate you,” I mutter, already working on a bolt, and to my surprise, you laugh quietly.

It’s the sound I’ve been dying to hear, and I didn’t even notice that until now.

*

There’s a bed in that abandoned room now. We scraped together some money and made an investment (my feet will actually fit instead of hanging off the edge) — I tried to say it was fine, but you were having none of it. I appreciate the gesture; sleeping for nearly four months on a couch is rough on the back, and we both know I’m not that young anymore.

It’s not your bed, but it’s still a bed.

I’ll count my blessings.

Upgrading to the second floor means I get to hear you during the night and the morning, before you wake up.

You’re noisy when you get up to use the bathroom, almost daily, your shuffling pulling me from my dreams.

You groan and grunt sometimes, and after the first few worried occasions, I learned those are uneasy sleep sounds — it’s not a pain I can help with.

You still cry, but it’s rare.

When I see you with dark smudges under your eyes, after, I resent her all over again. You used to sleep so peacefully by my side; uninterrupted.

Every night, I wonder what your reaction would be, if I went to your room.

Every night, I just close my eyes, instead, and will myself back to sleep.

*

I've grown accustomed to sharing the room with the cardboard boxes, the ones you overstuffed and ditched in the corner.

Until one day, as I get home from a grocery run, they're not there anymore.

They're by the front door, and from the way it was left ajar, I can see a peek of blonde hair moving around inside.

I… don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Leave? The last thing I want to do is interfere.

But before I can make my exit, she sees me.

“Hey,” Elena says.

Her eyes are guarded; honey-brown, but lacking warmth.

Something tells me those aren’t the eyes you fell in love with.

Of course.

“Hi,” I say back, standing an awkward three feet from her. My arms, loaded with bags, burn.

She sizes me up, briefly, and then says, “Help me carry those to the car?”

I mutter, “Sure,” and go inside to put the bags on the counter. The house is silent; I shouldn’t have expected you to be here in the middle of the afternoon.

Still, I find myself asking, “Where’s Nathan?” when I step back outside, because it feels appropriate.

She frowns for all of a second, then shrugs and bends to pick up a box. “At work? I don’t know. He said I could come today.”

Because the house would be empty, is what she doesn’t say. Because I wasn’t supposed to be here either. It’s a Thursday — I work double on Thursdays. Except today I didn’t have to (overstaffed, apparently, with the fresh surge of teenage employees that comes with the beginning of summer). You had no way of knowing that, and neither did she.

The spot by the hedge where you usually park your sedan is vacant, but she left her car a block away. It strikes me as an unnecessary pain. Was she planning to make trips with the boxes alone?

Or… did you really know she was coming today, Nathan?

She turns her face away when she notices me staring, and there’s my answer.

When was the last time you two talked?

We load up the car in silence.

The last box goes in, and she slams the trunk shut.

Before I can think about what I’m doing, I catch her wrist.

She looks up at me with doe eyes — startled, by the hitch in her breathing. I remind myself again that I can’t fault you for being so affected by her. She really is beautiful.

“Look, I…” I begin, letting her go. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, then nods. She keeps staring at me, car keys in hand.

“Nathan, he’s—”

I don’t know what I’m trying to say.

“—he’s been miserable.”

Where am I going with this? ‘Take him back’? ‘Leave him alone’? ‘Forgive him’?

She smiles sadly, hearing the implicit plea I can’t define, and shakes her head again. “I can’t.”

“What happened?” I blurt. I need to understand, desperately. I can’t help you if I don’t have all the pieces.

She looks down, then up, and her eyes are growing wet.

“In Libertalia, I realized I can’t give him what he wants.” She chokes on the last word, and then clears her throat before finishing, “And he can’t give me what I want. I love him, but I can't do it anymore.”

There’s so much going through my head — guilt, pity, sorrow, hope, a twisting sort of understanding — that I can only nod in response.

She places another set of keys — the keys to our house — in my hand, and begins to turn away.

“Talk to him,” I plead. “I know I have no right to ask, but he needs closure.”

She opens the driver’s door and pauses. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Elena.”

When she glances back at me, she looks weirdly non-accusing. She just looks tired. “This is bigger than you, Sam. You were just the last straw.”

She climbs into the car and drives off before I can answer.

*

I didn’t tell you about running into Elena. You saw the cabinets were stocked up in the kitchen, that night when you got home, and you saw my room was emptier than before. You could’ve asked, but you didn’t.

It still changed things.

The gone boxes seem to take a weight off your chest. You’re slowly going back to being the Nathan I remember from Italy, and Scotland, and Madagascar — your smiles come easier, our conversations are longer, and you’ve started kicking your feet up on the coffee table when you sit on the couch.

I hadn’t seen you do that once in the five months we’ve been back.

Some days are still hard — you seem fine, but then you aren’t. I suppose it’s a process, whiplash-inducing and confusing, but going in the right direction.

You touch me spontaneously, now. A hand on my knee, a squeeze around my shoulders, a brush of your hand against mine when you pass me a beer bottle.

I’m trying not to read too much into it.

It’s all brotherly enough, and I might ruin everything if I give in to my yearning. My self-control is fraying at the edges, has been for some time, but I won’t do that to you. I still remember my promise.

I’m still your brother, so nothing is out of place.

One night, your cellphone rings.

“Hello?” you say, not bothering to check the screen before picking up, mouth half-full with dinner.

Your face changes a second later — suddenly you’re rigid, your posture gone defensive.

You swallow and say, “Just a sec.”

I don’t know if you’re talking to me, but I nod anyway.

You leave your barely-touched food behind and go upstairs.

You stay up there long enough that I decide to put your plate in the fridge and wash the dishes.

I settle on the couch, turn on the TV, and resist the urge to go check on you. My shift starts in about an hour, but I don’t want to leave you alone yet, in case you need me.

What could she be saying to you? Is she second-guessing the divorce? Will she take you back?

I only want what’s best for you, little brother. My own feelings don’t come into play here.

I won’t let them, if you make the choice. I’ll find a way to keep going without you.

Then, an eternity later — it sure felt like that to me — you come back downstairs. I can’t read your expression; your face is the blankest I’ve seen yet.

Before I can ask, you walk towards me and say, “How do you feel about hitting the road? For old times’ sake?”

I’m not expecting that, so I just say, “Sure.”

You smile and sit down beside me. “Great, it’s a plan. Who’s winning?”

Shit, right. I was supposed to be watching the game, but in all truth, I don’t even know who’s playing.

“I don’t… wait, plan? Where are we going?”

You roll your eyes at me and smile again. Your hand finds my knee.

“Anywhere,” you say.

*

We hit the road three days after Elena’s call.

Despite you having a more than comfortable car, we take my bike instead. Old times’ sake, you said, right?

You don’t plaster yourself to my back like you used to do, but your hands still find my waist instead of my shoulders.

Your thighs squeeze against mine, and shit. Been a while since I've been this close to you.

Are you thinking about it, too?

I want to ask.

I focus on the road.

We head north and, after an hour or so on I-55, we cross the border into Mississippi.

“Keep going?” I shout over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” you shout back.

“Alright, tell me when you need to stop.”

You ask me to stop in Memphis.

I desperately need a pee break, and so do you, apparently. But human needs aside, you look like this was your plan all along. Why Memphis, of all places?

“Something special you wanna see here?” I ask as we exit the gas station bathroom.

You shrug. “Graceland? We’ve never been.”

You’re not an Elvis fan — or at least you weren’t fifteen years ago — but whatever you want you shall see.

I’ll figure out your reasons as we go.

Elvis’ mansion is nice enough — big like Avery’s, but much better kept. I elbow you when I spot a golden statuette of a lion (I think it’s a lion) behind the red velvet rope that could make a nice trinket, and you smirk up at me.

Camaraderie. I smile down at you, and let my bent arm linger against yours.

We spend the rest of the day strolling around the city. Sitting on the grass in a public park and just talking, about lighter topics I know won’t upset you. Eating Doritos for lunch, like we’re kids again.

We hear of a ghost tour that’s taking place tonight, and of course you want to go. I do too, but I won’t tell you that — I’m supposed to be above spooky stories.

It turns out to be a historical tour involving ghosts, murders, and a brothel-turned-bar. It’s more interesting than I gave it credit for, although the guide’s efforts to sound eerie make me want to laugh.

You seem genuinely upset at one point — maybe it was the haunted jukebox that got to you? Or the haunted piano? — and I’m torn between teasing you and holding your hand, to comfort you in a teasing way.

“You okay?” I whisper next to your ear.

This close, it’s impossible to miss the little shiver you give.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, looking vaguely embarrassed. “I remembered why I don’t like supernatural shit.”

A memory flashes through my mind — you telling me about your… solo adventures, about Nazi zombies and weird guardian creatures. I gotta admit I’m still skeptical, but if those are true, then I don’t blame you for being freaked out.

“Do you wanna hold my hand?” I end up saying. I can’t resist.

You slap my arm playfully, your way of telling me to shut up.

Still, your fingers close around my wrist and squeeze once before letting go.

I spend the rest of the tour ignoring the guide, fighting the yearning for all I’m worth.

We get back on my bike and I drive us to the first cheap motel I can find, buried deep in a seedy area of the city. The nostalgia hits me hard, chain-link fences and cracked stretches of wet sidewalk bringing back all kinds of feelings. The picture of our lost childhoods.

It’s one of those hourly, no-tell motels — when was the last time we were desperate enough to stay in one of those? — but you told me you want to keep going north, enjoy the rest of the weekend in another city by daylight. That means we’ll only get a few hours of sleep anyway, so why not save money?

Due to the nature of such a place, the double bed in the middle of the threadbare room comes as no surprise. Not to me, at least, but you seem unfazed too.

I just gotta keep myself in check. How many times did we share a bed, before Greece? Sometimes those no-id, no-questions-asked places are more than worth a little awkwardness.

You’ve gotten used to a few luxuries in those years without me, I know. I promise we’ll do better tomorrow.

Today, it’s all for old times’ sake.

I lie on my side of the bed, and you lie on yours — it’s big enough for two people, but barely. The way the mattress caves in in the middle — a permanent longwise trench where many a couple probably fucked in — pulls our bodies closer, so our shoulders are pressed together.

We only have a number of hours, so we better make the most of them.

Regardless, I lie staring at the ceiling, and when I glance to the side I can see you’re staring too.

Suddenly, you say, “She called me.”

You know I know that, so I say nothing. Waiting. The mention of her seems to somehow pop the magic, wistful bubble we’ve been in today.

Can we ever go back to what we were?

No.

Can we at least try to rebuild it, adapt it to the present? Be free again?

You seem to want it.

But then again, I could be wrong.

You chance a glance at me, and then you continue, “She wants us to stay friends.”

Oh God. I should feel bad for being relieved, but I can’t find it in myself anymore.

“Are you okay with that?” I ask in my most controlled voice.

You huff a little laugh. “Surprisingly, yes.”

I smile. “That’s good.”

You glance at me again, nervous this time. I turn my head to look at you.

“Yeah, it’s good,” you mumble, and then you turn your back to me. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” I mumble back.

I can’t sleep at all.

*

We leave the motel at around two in the morning.

Jesus, I'm having to fight to keep my eyes open — felt like, when I finally managed to fall asleep, it was time to go.

You slept like a baby, from what I could hear of your steady breathing, and your foot that poked out of the covers nestled between my calves (how did you even sleep covered up? I was sweating just thinking about it, Jesus).

I have no idea if that was intentional.

Should I feel guilty for letting you? For indulging myself?

That single point of contact had my whole body tingling.

I wonder how long I can keep this up before I break.

I drive up I-40, my eyes stinging and watering, and you lean nearly your full weight on my back. You’re awake, because your hands are clasped together over my stomach, so I know it’s deliberate. This is dangerous; I’m already fighting my own fatigue.

I can’t bring myself to ask you to stop, though. You seem to be more comfortable around me today — tonight? — than you’ve been in months, and I’m not ready to lose this, not even for the sake of our safety.

God knows I’ve risked more for less.

When we reach Hendersonville, just as the sun is starting to come up, I stop by the side of the road. There’s just no way I can keep going without killing us both.

You drink a gulp of water from the bottle you brought, then splash some on your face.

I lower myself to the grass-covered ground, stretching my legs as much as I can without invading the lane.

Your wet hand smacks against the side of my face, and I start.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, old man,” you say and chuckle. “You’re gonna miss the show.”

I’m not even mad, but I feel I should argue on principle. “Old man… also, sunrises are hardly special to me anymore,” I inform you, wiping my cheek. “I've been out of prison for years and I see them like, three times a week now.”

“It’s different when you’re not working,” you insist. There's something odd in your voice that tells me your mind is casting you way back into a memory. One of ours.

You've got a point. I shrug.

You sit down beside me and tip your chin up. “I can ride if you want, so you can rest.”

I want to ask where you’re taking us, why can’t we just stay here, but instead I say, “Okay.”

I don’t want you to feel observed, or called out. Might drive you back into your shell.

You stretch your legs like mine are, and lean your weight on your hands.

Your pinky touches mine, and neither of us says anything.

We don’t move either, and we let the warm sun rays wash over us.

Here’s to hoping we’re on the same page.

*

You’re not as strong a rider as I am, so I make sure to be as helpful a passenger as possible. Despite my best efforts, though, I can feel myself zone out during some stretches of the road, napping with my eyes open and my body somehow upright, like a PTSD-ridden soldier (which isn’t far from what we are, is it?).

My hands are locked around your middle. My head bobs gently to the rhythm of the brakes and the accelerator. It feels weird, since I’m not in control, but I trust you. You still seem to remember what I taught you.

What else do you remember?

There’s so much I need to know, and the urge only grows worse the closer you get to me.

Goddamnit.

My eyes are falling shut. I should ask you to stop, but I don’t wanna interrupt your… process, or whatever it is you’re doing.

There’s more to it than you’re letting on.

I’m gonna stick around to find out sooner or later. You didn’t drag me all the way up here for nothing.

Where is ‘here’, anyway?

How long has it been?

Then, the world tilts alarmingly and next thing I know, I’m rolling once, twice on the ground.

What?

“Sam, shit!”

Your voice comes from above me, somewhere just out of my line of sight. The sun glares down into my eyes.

Suddenly you’re there, crouching, hands hovering over me. You’re saying something, but I think I’m still in shock.

I fell. I fell off the bike.

My palms sting. Probably grazed them.

My right knee is also scraped, judging by the dull burn, not as bad as my hands thanks to my jeans.

My head feels okay — probably didn’t hit it hard.

“Sam!”

I focus my eyes on you. You look anxious. Were you talking to me?

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I say, pushing myself up on my elbows.

“Come on, let me check,” you say, hands still hovering.

“It’s fine, Nathan, I’ve had worse.”

For some reason, your hand-wringing annoys me. Five months of domestic life and you’ve forgotten Avery already? This is nothing compared to what we’ve been through.

You offer me your hand; it burns when I take it.

“I know,” you say, “but it’s still my fault. Should’ve warned you I was going to stop—”

“I think I fell asleep,” I talk over you. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

You click your tongue, but don’t push further. “Can you get on the bike? We can find a place to rest.”

I shake my head. “We can sleep later. Where are we?”

“Just outside Louisville.”

Jesus, we crossed Kentucky while I was half dead on the passenger seat? We’re lucky we’re still alive. I didn’t give you enough credit — you’re an excellent rider to pull this off.

“Alright,” I say, knocking my wrist over the back of my mouth. “Where do you wanna go?”

“A real breakfast would be nice.”

“Lead the way, then.”

We get back on the bike, gingerly at first. You’re extra careful, like I might break at any moment, and I feel like whacking you up the head.

It’s probably the crankiness speaking — a good cup of coffee should fix that.

*

We eat and then you find some Neosporin and bandages for my hands.

I feel ridiculous.

No use arguing against it, though — the cuts are an angry red, a threat of infection in case I leave them exposed.

Whatever. It's not like this is your first time patching me up.

We walk around the city, this time more like tourists than people who’ve got nowhere to be.

You say zoo, so we go to the zoo. All the animals blur together.

You say lunch, we eat again. I can’t taste the food.

The sun is bearing down on us, punishing, and my hands itch, and my head hurts.

I guess I’m getting too old for this.

There’s another ghost tour as evening sets — what is it with these cities and ghosts? — and you grin at me.

“Oh God, Nathan, no way,” I say, and it comes out harsher than I intended.

You deflate a little. “I was joking. I’m not spending money on that again.”

I feel guilty for my tone, but I can’t help it. My head is pounding, my limbs feel heavy, and maybe that coffee earlier only made matters worse.

I hate to admit it, but I need to sleep.

One last stop, you promise me, and it’s a glittering walkway crossing the border with Indiana. ‘The Big Four Railroad Bridge’, you read from the sign as we approach it.

Halfway across, you stop and lean against the railing overlooking the Ohio River.

I stop beside you and reach for a cigarette. It’s awkward with my hands bandaged, but I manage.

“You’ve been in a mood today,” you comment, avoiding my gaze.

I nod, and take a drag.

“Is this about the accident earlier?”

I notice you sound guilty. You shouldn’t — it wasn’t your fault. Maybe it was mine, maybe it was no one’s.

In any case, the accident is not the point.

I blow out some of the smoke, angling away from you. “No. It’s, what are we doing here, Nathan?”

I try to read what’s in your eyes — discomfort? Resignation? Is this something you don’t want to talk about?

“I mean, I get it, but do you mind filling me in on the hazy deets here?”

“I just needed to get away,” you say, looking down into the river.

“Okay. I get that. So what’s the itinerary? Is it just random cities? We need to start back south now if you want to make it to work in time tomorrow.”

You shake your head. “I’m calling in sick tomorrow. Need to rest.”

Oh. So you didn’t bother to tell me that either, huh? What else is in your plans?

“Are you?” is all I say. “Anything else I should know?”

You push away from the railing and turn back to where we came. “Come on, not here. Let’s find a hotel.”

I follow you in silence, smoking as an afterthought. I can’t concentrate on much right now. 

I stand to the side while you book us a room, my heart rate incongruous for the situation. Waiting until we can talk in private is proving harder than I thought.

Is this it? The end of your healing? Are you ready to move on?

If so, what does that mean? Where does that leave us?

Are you booking us two doubles or one queen?

I shake my head. Focusing on those questions won’t help me while we’re still in earshot of strangers.

When you’re done, we take the elevator in silence as well.

“Nathan,” I start before you can even close the door to our room.

Oh, two doubles. I know I should’ve expected it, but it’s still disappointing.

“Can we shower first? We’re disgusting,” you blurt. There’s pleading in your eyes — that hasn't changed, huh? You still like to buy yourself time.

I don’t see the point, but I allow it with a nod.

You shower, and I sit on the edge of one bed, trying to keep my mind as blank as possible. I’m distantly aware of my fingers crossing and uncrossing on my lap.

It reminds me of Greece — you, running from your feelings, running from me. Hiding behind showers, and food runs, and research and fake friends. I was more patient back then, I think. Patiently waiting for you to come around. Frightened that you never would. Warring with my impulses in the meantime.

The song remains the same.

You gotta know the effect you have on me by now, so why keep dragging this out?

We’re clearly still attracted to each other, right?

If prison taught me anything, it’s that time is much more scarce than we think. Fifteen years of my life, wasted away in unsavory company. Now that I have you back, I… I don’t wanna wait anymore. And it already took me damn long to realize that. Elena’s no longer a problem, so there’s no reason to keep running.

And yet, you do.

Without thinking too hard about it, I get up and stand in front of the closed bathroom door.

Five or six minutes pass and, as if on cue, it opens to reveal you — already dressed in your night clothes, hair still dripping.

“You shower and we talk, yeah?” you say after the shock of seeing me so close eases off.

Nope.

“How about we talk first, and then I shower?”

You chuckle nervously. “Come on, man, can’t you smell yourself?”

I’d humor you any other day, but not today. Today I need you to quit running.

Your smile drops when I remain impassive. “I’ll make you a deal.”

A deal? I feel my eyebrows lift in surprise.

You continue, “Both at the same time. I’ll wash your hair for you, and we talk. Deal? I mean, your hands are no good, rubbing shampoo on them will only be unnecessarily painful. Let me help you.”

Jesus. You really know how to throw someone for a loop, don’t you?

I gotta say something, so I mumble, “Sure.”

I’m anything but sure about this. You realize this is not a brotherly act, right, Nathan? This is the kind of thing we did back when we were dating.

I don’t want to raise my expectations, but…

I can only pray we’re going in the same direction here.

You fill in the tub for me, and I feel ridiculous all over again. At the same time, I feel… seen. Loved. I don’t know.

“Sorry for being cranky today,” I say. I hate how my voice echoes off the tiles, but at least it’s out in the open. “Thanks for this.”

You glance at me, then look back at the tub. “You’ve always done this for me. It’s fair.”

I know this is not about fairness, but I let it slide. Your actions speak loud enough.

I undress, clothes and bandages, and climb into the tub. You politely look away, and it makes me want to sigh.

Despite the heat outside, the warm water does wonders on my body. I didn’t realize how sore I was from that fall and all the walking around, and if I ignore the sting in my injured knee and hands, all I feel is physical bliss.

You clear your throat, and I suddenly notice I’m being noisy. Oops.

There’s a sound of a shampoo bottle being opened.

Then, as I feel the first brush of your fingers against my hair, your voice comes along.

“The reason I came here,” you say, sitting behind me so I can't see your face, "is because I wanted to get away."

You already said that.

I wait for more.

"I also wanted to be on the road. With you. Y'know, old times' sake."

I try to nod, but you tug my head back. Oh God, Nathan, don't do that unless you mean it.

I'm glad for the bubbles covering the surface of the water. You'd be getting an eyeful otherwise.

"But why didn't you tell me outright? I had to guess all that," I say, my eyes falling shut when you rub in circles. Mmm, so good.

"I didn't know where I was going either, it was just a feeling. A whim. I mean, Memphis and here were just excuses so I could, y'know."

"Yeah?" I prompt gently.

"Be with you again. Like we were before you disappeared."

There's a constriction in my chest, and I can't tell if it's a good or bad one.

"Before or after Greece?" I ask.

Your fingers still in my hair; I feel you shift, but you say nothing.

I'm about to take back what I said, because fuck I said the wrong thing, but then you sigh and resume your rubbing.

"I—"

You hesitate for a little too long.

Oh.

"It's not that I don't want to, Sam."

I scoff. "Then what have you been playing at? And don't pretend things haven't been different since Elena called."

"Exactly!" Your fingers still again. "I was married, man! I didn't think I'd ever see you again, and then you come back and Elena leaves and everything changes so fucking fast I don't know what to feel anymore!"

"So this is about you needing time?"

"It's about— God, Sam."

You rinse the shampoo out of my hair.

The water is now full of residual shampoo foam, so I gotta step up and out to wash up with soap. Thankfully my dick is well-behaved again.

"I can soap you up if you want—"

And what? Tell me you don't mean anything by it because you don't know what to feel?

"I got it," I say, stepping into the shower cubicle.

At least the burn in my hands helps ground me somewhat.

You're waiting for me in the bedroom. You look away while I get dressed, like a brother would. Of course.

Except this line's been crossed for days — years, actually, since it's something not even death, real or otherwise, can reverse.

You keep fooling yourself, though.

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

You sigh, and then you motion for me to sit down on your bed.

When I do, you put your back to mine and lean against me.

The wet backs of our heads brush together.

"I love you," you say.

"I love you too," I answer, eager, trying and failing not to be hopeful.

You pause, and then, "But I don't think you understand what Elena meant to me."

Your tone makes me bite back a jealous retort.

"Try me," I eventually say.

You blow out an audible breath. "Have you ever wondered why we are the way that we are?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, why we do what we do. Or did. You know, the dangerous shit. Climbing with no protection, getting involved with crime lords, going on suicidal missions. Prison. Stealing."

"We had to make a living," I say, aware of the defensiveness in my voice. Where are you going with this?

"See, that's not an excuse. We didn't just steal wallets and got into trouble with store security guards. It was much bigger — like, we broke into mansions and stole artifacts worth thousands or millions. We constantly risked our lives and for what? Glory? An adrenaline high? A sense of purpose?"

"Well, yeah? We always said we were born to this—"

"What if we weren't?" you interrupt me. "What if we were just two lost kids, desperate and alone in the world, with no sense of identity? What if we just wanted to feel special, meant for something?"

Oh, come on, I didn't sign up for a free therapy session.

Still, you continue, "After you died, I went months on autopilot. I ate and slept and used the bathroom because I had to keep going, because I knew you'd be pissed if I let myself go completely. You have no idea how hard it was, Sam. I was so angry and… sleepwalking. I barely remember the first couple years. My entire life had died with you."

I reach behind myself for your hand. It's not even a conscious motion — I just need an anchor against the wave of grief that grips me.

"I'm so sorry, Nathan," I mumble and squeeze your hand. It burns, but I don't care. "It was hell for me too, thinking I'd never get to be with you again."

I feel your nod against my head. "I know. I was walking around like I was shackled; treasure hunting didn't make sense anymore, traveling, meeting new people, nothing. I couldn't bring myself to even look at your things, even though I carried them with me everywhere. I felt like someone had pulled the world from under my feet."

It's my turn to nod. "You said Rafe gave you a hard time for that."

You scoff. "That's putting it lightly. That asshole didn't care about anyone but himself."

Yeah, Libertalia is still fresh in my mind.

"Anyway, after I ditched him, I spent some time just… thinking. About what I was gonna do, what you'd want me to do. And then of course, I used every resource at my hand to confirm if you were actually gone. Some days I was convinced you were still alive, but then every time I checked the conclusion was always the same — dead. It tore me apart every time that confirmation came, so at one point I accepted defeat because I couldn't take it anymore."

Your other hand finds mine and you hold onto my wrist. I cross my legs on top of the covers, adjust so I can balance my weight better with no hands.

"It occurred to me," you say after a few moments of silence, "that I didn't know what you'd want me to do. I didn't know what I wanted to do either. Adventuring was our way of coping with the shitty lives we had together. It was our distraction from the harsh reality, y'know? And then you weren't there anymore and I was truly alone. Who was I if not a Drake? Who was Nathan Morgan supposed to be?"

"Where was Victor during all that?" I ask, suddenly bitter. If you tell me he disappeared on you too and left you alone, Nathan, I'm gonna be forced to kill him.

"Trying to reach me," you say simply. "I was glad he didn't give up on me, but he couldn't possibly replace you. No one could."

"Except Elena," I mutter.

You clench your fist around my wrist, hard. "Don't say that. She never replaced you. It's not a competition."

I would raise my hands in surrender, but they're kind of trapped at the moment.

"I was a junkie, though. Eventually I ended up going back to the dangerous shit, because it was all I knew how to do. It was who I was. But it was never the same — every time the thrill came, it came empty. Sully was there, but at times I felt like I was truly on my own. It was bad for me like an addiction, and I was bound to get myself killed sooner or later at the rate I was going. Sully was worried, but he couldn't get through to me. If I'm being honest, part of me wanted to overdose, to just miscalculate a jump and end it all."

I close my eyes. God, listening to this is harder than I expected. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something had happened to you.

"Then I met Elena."

"And she saved you," I guess.

"Not at first," you say, and I can picture the smirk on your face. "I mean, she was pretty nosy and annoying when we worked together. She and that damn camera and that damn TV show."

It's hard to hear the fondness in your voice when you talk about her. It's unfair to her and to you — it's not your faults I was gone.

"But then she grew on me, and she was the first person to actually catch my interest since you. I thought that, even though it wasn't the same, you'd still want me to be happy in whatever way I could manage. So I tried."

You pause again, and I wait.

"We were on-again-off-again for a while. I liked her, but what she wanted for me I wasn't ready to face. She wanted us to have a picket fence life, y'know? I wasn't opposed to the idea, but I couldn't quit hunting. Again, it was who I was. I couldn't change my personality completely to fit her expectations. So I left, and she took me back, and then I left again and she took me back again. She forgave my lies and shortcomings every time."

Until I ruined everything for you. Ruined your picket fence life, brought back your grief.

"Hey, hey, relax. Let me finish."

I notice my hand on yours is too tight, and make a conscious effort to loosen it.

"She managed to pull me out. It's like I told you, I'd feel unfulfilled every time I went back home from a hunt, and not because I left empty-handed, but because I didn't want to do it anymore, and yet I couldn't stop. But she got me to stop. She never gave up on me. She stood by me. That's why I married her, because she was the best thing I had in my life at the time, and I was in love with her. I was happy."

I fidget. "Okay."

"But," you keep going, "our marriage would never be what I had with you. I had made peace with that. It was something different, completely new — she helped me find a purpose, figure myself out outside of treasure hunting. Or was helping, anyway. I was still detoxifying when you showed up."

"So me showing up messed up your life."

You tutt. "Not like that, Sam, I couldn't be more glad that you're alive and here with me. But yeah, it turned my life upside down. It took fifteen years of baggage and scattered it all over the place. Now I gotta pick up the pieces and make sense of them, y'know?"

"Poetic."

"Not funny."

"Not laughing."

Silence fills the room.

You've gotten so much better at this opening up thing — makes me wonder why you were avoiding it like the plague before.

I don't know if I can keep pace with you.

"Say something?" you mutter. Your head lolls to the side and rests on my shoulder.

I shrug. "What do you want me to say?"

You shift away from me, and then you're in my peripheral vision. You sit beside me, cross-legged too, our knees touching.

"I want you to understand where I'm coming from."

"Okay, I do."

"No, you don't," you insist, and one of your hands turns my head by the chin. You search my eyes with a confidence that's completely alien, judging by the last few months. "I'm not saying no, Sam. I'm just saying not now. Not yet. Remember when I needed time in Greece? It's a bit like that. I need to sort myself out first, so I don't dump my issues on you again."

Uh-huh. You've only had five months to 'sort yourself out', after all.

Dick move, but you're not a mind reader, so whatever.

I know I'm being unfair, but I can't control my anger all that well. You probably see it in my face right now.

I nod. "We can talk more tomorrow, since you're not going to work. I'm exhausted."

I get up to move to my bed, and you don't stop me.

I suspect I'll be asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. It doesn't make a difference, anyway — I have no other option but to sleep on everything you just told me.

*

I wake up to the sound of you on the phone.

You're making up some bullshit excuse about feeling sick, but Jameson is your friend, so you know he'll let it slide even if he calls you out on it.

There's something subdued in your voice, even though you got plenty of rest this time. You even stayed silent through the night, in a way I haven't seen since her.

I wonder what changed.

Silence isn't always a good sign.

Your words kept running circles around my head, intruding in my dreams, nonsensical and uncomfortably lucid at the same time.

You're still in love with Elena, you said. You need more time to sweep up the mess she and I left in your heart.

I don't know what hurts more — the rejection, or the fact I'm not your everything anymore.

I guess that's supposed to be a good thing. I mean, you were suicidal because I was gone — I don't want to be your only lifeline, Nathan. Your only reason for being here. You deserve better than that.

We're supposed to be wiser. Age and all that.

No one ever told me wisdom could make me feel so awful, so wrong, even though I'm technically doing the right thing.

But I've always been strong for you; the reflex of putting you first is still a hair trigger, set for release at the slightest indication you might need me.

Maybe I'm stuck in time, in more than one sense — hunting, Greece, us. Maybe you can teach me what you've learned. Be my mentor for a change.

If I can't have you the way I want, then at least let us be brothers again. I'll take what I can get. For you.

I suddenly realize I've been watching you while you're on the phone. You're staring back, mouth still moving with soft words. I was wrong — you still look tired.

Although, underneath, there's something like relief in your eyes.

Relief?

No — clarity. A glimpse of the path ahead, and a willingness to keep going, to push on. In true Nathan fashion, as always.

You end the call and keep staring at me, silent. After a few beats, you say, "Ready to hit the road?"

I nod. At least one familiar thing I can be ready for.

*

Ten hours on a bike with two stops is no joke.

It's evening when we're finally home again, in New Orleans. For some reason, I was expecting something monumental, a big change, something to mark the metaphorical milestone we reached together.

Instead, there's just the front of your house — all lights off, your car parked by the hedge, paint peeling off in some places.

Nothing's changed.

At least not visually.

You look at me differently. Your attention follows me around as I put away our packed stuff, as I cook dinner, as we watch TV.

This feels like a damned if I do, damned if I don't situation. What do you want from me?

I'm trying, but you're not making matters any easier.

I lie in bed and it's late, one arm thrown over my ear to block out stray noises.

That's why I don't hear you come in.

I start when the mattress dips behind me, push myself up on one elbow but you push me back down. We're both only in boxers, late June air damp and unforgiving. The fan isn't helping much.

"What're you doing?" I mumble, still groggy from the edge of sleep.

"I know you're mad at me," you murmur in my ear. "You got it all wrong."

"What?"

"Just lemme, okay?" You say, and then one of your arms comes around my waist. You plaster yourself to my back, and I can feel you breathe against the back of my neck.

Spooning? What the hell, Nathan, I thought…

Your embrace gets tight, and tighter, until there's a pain in my ribcage. I can feel your body trembling behind me, probably from the effort of trying to merge the two of us into one person.

Despite the painful line of your forearm across my middle, I press back into you, and use my own arm to aid you in your quest.

Needless to say, this hug holds everything our previous ones lacked.

Your exhales turn shuddery, loud. My chest constricts for a different reason.

After what seems like a lifetime and not enough all the same, you sigh heavily and the pressure relents.

The bare skin where we're pressed together — nape to ankle, waist and the crease of your elbow — is slippery with sweat, but the sound of your voice when you speak tells me maybe there's more to that wetness than just overt heat.

"Sorry," you say, your voice breaking a little. "It's just, I didn't think I'd get to have this again."

I know what you mean. I know exactly how you feel. And it's too much to put into words. All those years… all those torturous doubts.

I have to take a deep breath to control my own emotions, threatening to spill. My eyes burn, but my voice is even when I say, "Me too, Nathan. I know."

You breathe out one last time, carefully, and you pull back just enough to allow some air between our overheated bodies.

I turn my head to look at you. Your eyelashes glisten almost imperceptibly in the near dark of a summer night, but other than that, you're composed.

"You got it all wrong, you idiot," you say softly again.

Then you inch forward and brush the lightest of kisses over my lips.

I hold carefully still. The last thing I want to do is to scare you away, even though every impulse in my body tells me to grab you and pull you in, even tighter than we were minutes ago.

I let my eyes close, instead.

You sigh, and I can't tell if you're giving me several tiny kisses in quick succession, or just a long, close-lipped one.

It doesn't matter. Either way, it's perfect.

You pull back and turn my head around. I realize I'm trying to chase your lips in vain.

"Sleep," you murmur, your mouth now on my shoulder. You still cling to me like a koala, but I don't mind it.

There's a warm feeling sitting deep in my belly, and I can't help but comply.

*

You're still my brother. More brother than anything else.

Our routine barely changes — we still don't see much of each other during the working week.

You still work with Jameson and Elena — you two seem to be on better terms, now, or at least speaking ones.

We still drink the crappy beer you love so much (although I haven't given up on purging that from our lives, just like you haven't given up on getting me to quit smoking).

We're figuring this new civilian version of ourselves together. Continuing Elena's work, I guess.

God knows how long it'll last, until the itch gets to us again. Until we can't help but seek the next big thrill.

We'll figure that out, too, as we always do.

Since the night you came to my bed, it's become a ritual — we'll stand together in the bathroom brushing our teeth, on the nights we're both turning in at the same time, and we'll take turns with the master bedroom and the spare room.

We take turns with the spooning, too — I've realized I'm quite fond of being held by you.

We haven't discussed any of this yet. I know we're due, but I'll respect your time. For now, sharing a bed is enough.

I'm just glad we're moving forward at all.

I don't know what's gonna be of our relationship, now that we actually live somewhere and have actual neighbors and friends and acquaintances to worry about — should've thought of that before introducing me to everyone as your brother.

It's never gonna be like it once was, I know.

But every time you look at me, I see a thousand memories behind your eyes, and in every little touch, a thousand unspoken promises for the future.

That's one thing that's never changed.

Not even death can interfere.