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One night when Sam was eighteen, he crouched in an alley a block away from the orphanage, smoking. The air was freezing, the fog biting viciously at his sleeves. His fingers were stiff and numb from the cold, but he smoked relentlessly—three cigarettes in a row—staring blankly at the ashes flaking onto his shoes. Behind him, in one of the windows, his thirteen-year-old brother was asleep, a scar still fresh on his lip.
Streetlights cast wide, elongated ovals of light on the pavement. Sam waited until his last cigarette burned out, fiddled with the filter for a moment, then finally stood and started walking in the opposite direction. The money from his last job hadn’t been enough—the $85-a-week attic he’d been renting had become impossible to afford, and after a month of patience, his landlord had kicked him out. Now, he’d already spent three nights in a shelter. Nathan had no idea—and Sam couldn’t let him find out.
Sam tallied up the jobs he could take. Aside from drug running—which would force him to say goodbye to Nathan for good—there was almost nothing. Old George had given him a pitying look and said his age was awkward—too old to exploit his youth for sympathy, too young to handle the kind of work that involved blood and blades. And the small-time thefts he pulled off weren’t easy to offload. Dragging his feet, Sam wandered down the street, kicking at the pavement. By the tenth streetlight, a Mercedes pulled up in front of him.
Sam glanced sideways at the man in the car—middle-aged, not the type he usually tangled with. He hadn’t stirred up any trouble lately, either. The man tapped the window and asked, “How much?”
“What?”
“For the night.”
For a second, Sam just stared, one eyebrow twisted in disbelief, wondering what the hell this guy was on about. Then, reading the man’s shifty gaze, it clicked. “Jesus!” He spat, stumbling back in disgust. “The fuck is wrong with you? I ain’t some ass-selling maricón!”
The window slammed shut, sealing the man’s skittish eyes behind tinted glass. The Mercedes drove off, and Sam stood under the sickly yellow streetlight, flipping off the exhaust pipe before crouching down, face in his hands. The fog clung to his fingers, so cold he couldn’t feel them. “Damn it,” he muttered to himself. “So this is it, Sam. The day someone mistakes you for a whore. Fantastic.”
He didn’t spend a fourth night at the shelter. Instead, he broke into a textile factory’s storage room, reeking of plastic and stuffed with half-finished bras and underwear. He slept in a nest of boxes, surrounded by little girls’ undergarments, and dreamed of Nathan—except in the dream, his brother had turned into a girl, with big brown eyes that jolted him awake in a cold sweat.
He slipped out before security spotted him and lurked on a rooftop near the orphanage, watching his little brother. Nathan was hiding an adventure novel behind the Bible the nuns had assigned, engrossed. Sam couldn’t help but smile. At least one thing in his life was right—his brother, his Nathan. That thirteen-year-old kid gave him a reason to keep going.
So he went back to Old George and wheedled the man into giving him an errand-running gig. While surrounded by a bunch of Mexican-accented thugs (half of them switching to Spanish mid-sentence), he overheard details about an antique deal’s inventory drop. Nobody knew the eighteen-year-old kid understood every word.
When he swiped that Ming dynasty enamel cup from the warehouse, all he could think about was Nathan—his brother’s sharp mind and bright spirit, and how unfair the world had been to him. He sold the cup to Old George at a discount, ignoring the old man’s greedy stare. He didn’t care what happened to the beautiful, priceless artifact—as long as it kept him and Nathan alive.
By the time Sam was twenty-five, he and Nathan had landed in jail for theft. Sully chewed them out during visitation, his glare harshest on Sam. “You were supposed to look after him, Sam!” he snapped, nearly slamming the payphone receiver down.
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam shrugged, unbothered. “But it’s not like I held a gun to Nate’s head, right? He knew the risks.”
“And you know he’d never say no to you! Christ, the kid’s twenty and still follows you around like a damn puppy! When you gamble with your life, you ever stop to think about him?”
“Oh, so my life’s fine to gamble with, huh? You only care about Nathan—got it. I’m just the freebie trash that came with him. Oh, wait—right—when you met Nate and decided to ‘adopt’ him, I was already rotting in jail. My bad!”
“Sam, that’s not what Sully meant!” Nathan grabbed the phone from him. Sully glowered at Sam, who just raised his hands and turned to leave. Nathan rubbed his forehead, playing peacemaker. “Sully… nothing’s gonna split us up. You know that.”
“What is this, some shitty wedding vow? *‘For better or worse, till death do us part’?*” Sully growled. “Kid, I know you two only had each other growing up. But sometimes, you gotta stop Sam before he gets you both killed. That pottery job, for instance—if Zuckerman’s goons had caught you? Broken legs would’ve been the best-case scenario. Sam’s more reckless than you realize. I don’t wanna see you two throw your lives away.”
Nathan fell silent. Sam leaned against the wall behind him, smoking, watching the slatted light from the ventilation shaft. For a moment, his brother’s face held a quiet calm Nathan hadn’t seen in years—something buried beneath his usual grin, fragile and raw.
Softly, Nathan said, “Sully… I’ll look after him. I promise.”
Sully studied him through the glass, then finally nodded, weary. The old man hung up, muttering about pulling strings to get them out. Guards hauled them back to their cell.
“Sully didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah, he did.” Sam stretched out on the top bunk, arms behind his head. “I remember better than you, little brother. You were fifteen—just a kid. I was twenty. Five years doesn’t seem like much, but sometimes it’s the difference between a child and a grown man.” He rolled onto his side, grinning at Nathan’s uneasy expression. “I’m not mad, Nate. Hell, I’m glad for you. At least someone out there really cares about you. I owe him for that.”
“God, when did you turn into such a sap?” Nathan glanced away, shoulders tense—his tell when he was uncomfortable.
“Starting now.” Sam smirked, licking his teeth. “But sorry—sap-time’s over. Victor’s gonna need at least two weeks to spring us. Heard there’s a new guy from Panama in here. Wanna go pick his brain?”
“Obviously.” Nathan shrugged.
He followed Sam out during yard time, his brother’s shadow falling over him as they walked. Sam joked about cigarettes won from dice games and the Portuguese he’d picked up. “Man, if I’d known this back at eighteen, I could’ve pulled off that villa job—would’ve kept you fed for weeks.” Or clues from their mother’s notebook: “Avery’s treasure has to be tied to other pirates—no way he sailed through Anne Bonny’s waters otherwise. But was it business, allies, or were they screwing?”
He always sounded exhilarated, as if exhaustion had no hold on him. He believed, unshakably, that they were meant for greatness—and Nathan believed in Sam’s belief.
Sam was dragged out of the pitch-black solitary confinement cell by a guard with a thick Spanish accent. The man, named Dimitri, had worked there for fifteen years and sported a messy, unkempt beard often stained with greasy sauce. Weakly, Sam forced a chuckle, "Hey Dimitri, let me guess—cheese for lunch today? Jesus, look at the layer on your beard—wait, my cell's not this way. Hey, man, Dim? Where are we going?"
Dimitri didn’t even glance back, hauling Sam through the northernmost corridor, which had once been part of the prison’s drainage system. Sam caught sight of an unmanned guard post at the corner, and alarm bells instantly rang in his head. Sure enough, the newly arrived Russian and his crew were blocking the far end. Dimitri shoved Sam into the crowd, gave him a pitiful look, then turned and left.
Sam had just endured a week in solitary because of these guys. He’d won a pack of cigarettes—only it turned out they belonged to the gang leader. That day had escalated into a brawl, leaving Sam with three broken ribs. The doctor had just yanked the bones back into place before tossing him into solitary. Now, forced into a hunched position, Sam stared up at the man in front of him, his wrists pinned by enforcers, his hair yanked back by the Russian, who grinned down at him like a bear.
"They told me there was a pretty white boy here, but I didn’t expect it to be you," the Russian said, his accent thick. Sam swallowed hard. "But these Spanish bastards must be desperate. Look at you—aged like shit, and they still call you a boy?"
Sam tried to meet the Russian’s gaze with as much defiance as he could muster. "What do you want?"
A brutal strike to his back knocked the air from his lungs in one violent gasp. Sam doubled over, coughing violently. "Oh, you know, white boy."
The Russian gripped his jaw and forced his head up. Sam’s mouth fell open, panting, a crawling dread rising from his gut as half his mind screamed curses. One of the enforcers clamped a hand on his waist, dragging him forward, the stench of sweat and mud and male musk flooding his nose. Another hand forced his struggling head down, and for a split second, Sam felt utterly small.
Maybe he was that small. The only white guy in the whole damn prison. *Christ.* Even in the last second before he numbly opened his mouth, Sam managed to laugh at himself. Fuck me.
"Sam." Chloe’s voice was soft behind him. He grunted around his cigarette in response. She sat beside him, the distant sunset bleeding across the sky like spilled paint.
"Nate’s been asking about you. Why haven’t you called him? They invited you and Sully for Thanksgiving dinner."
"Ah—because I know if I tell Nathan I’m not coming, he’ll be crushed," Sam said, lips pursed. "And then I’ll feel so guilty I’ll end up going anyway."
Instead of confusion, Chloe laughed. "Not good at the whole people thing, huh?" God, he loved her.
"I just can’t," Sam shrugged. "Let’s be real, Chloe. Nathan spent fifteen years without me. And in those fifteen years, what did he get? A family. A wife. A stable life. And the twenty years with me? Jail. Being hunted. Fighting for his life in jungles and ruins against soldiers with Uzis? See the problem here?"
"Survivorship bias," Chloe muttered, arms crossed. "And while it’s not my place to say—you’ve done enough, Sam."
"Have I?" His chuckle might’ve been mocking. Had he done enough? He didn’t know. He never knew. Because, Christ, no one had ever told him. The nuns at the orphanage had looked at him like he was something strange. People with happy families had stared at him like he was a gutter rat. Hell, he’d just been a kid himself—he hadn’t even learned how to be a good brother before he had to learn how to be a parent.
It was too damn hard.
No one had taught a high-school dropout how to find work on the streets. The Wall Street suits strutting past used him as a cautionary tale for their kids, even though this so-called failure knew enough history to earn a fat college scholarship. But—he couldn’t even afford high school.
Like every young orphan, Sam had wandered the streets from end to end, taking odd jobs at mechanic shops, waiting tables. The first time he stole a wallet from some Wall Street prick, he’d expected guilt. Instead, he’d calmly counted the bills inside, then bought Nathan a new coat.
"Christ, I don’t know," Sam ground the heels of his hands into his eyes before collapsing back onto the cliff. "I don’t know if I did enough."
"Enough with the melodrama," a kick to his back jolted him. Nadine rolled her eyes, hauling both Sam and Chloe up. "I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving. Drake, save the brotherly angst for Nathan—I don’t need you whining like a child in front of me."
Chloe grinned. "She’s right."
Sam made a motion halfway between a shrug and a nod, stubbing out his cigarette. "Alright, alright, ladies—and Miss Ross, pizza it is."
"Talk to Nate," Chloe said firmly. "I’m done being your middleman. Oh, and Sully says he’s done too."
Finally, God knows why, he still ended up standing in front of Nathan’s house on Thanksgiving.
Dressed in a floral shirt, backpack slung over his shoulder, and wearing sandals—now he realized just how out of place his outfit was for a family dinner. But he also resigned himself to the fact that he was never going to fit in anyway. Sully knocked on the door, and Elena’s voice greeted them first. The blonde woman beamed. "Sam! What a surprise!"
"Oh, hey, Elena. Where’s Nate?"
"Cooking." She helped Sully with his bag and coat. "He learned some Spanish chili sauce recipe and insisted on trying it out this time."
Sam raised an eyebrow, remembering thirteen-year-old Nate and himself sneaking around a museum in Spain before Sully dragged them away. "Since when did he learn how to cook?"
"Since he became a married man," Sully answered for Elena, pulling Sam inside. For a moment, the old man seemed more like part of the family than Sam did. But Sam lingered by the coat rack in the hallway, already catching the chaotic, savory scent from the kitchen—something faintly familiar, like the chili chicken their mother used to make for them.
"Elena, is Sully here—oh. Sam."
His little brother poked his head out of the kitchen, wearing an apron, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking every bit the domesticated man. Sam stared at him, once again feeling like an outsider. He’d never imagined kitchens and aprons being part of a Drake’s life, but his brother looked genuinely happy.
He forced a weak smile. "Hey, Nate."
Then he didn’t know what else to say. Happy Thanksgiving? Nate seemed equally lost for words, quickly ducking back into the kitchen. Sam shrugged and followed Elena as she led Sully and his bags to the guest room.
"He didn’t expect you to come," Elena said apologetically.
"Neither did I," Sam admitted, shrugging. "Guess brothers just know each other too well."
"That’s not what I meant." She sighed. "He’s been hoping you’d come for a long time. I think he’s just… nervous. Overwhelmed."
"Nervous? Nate? Oh, come on."
"It’s true," Elena insisted. "Last Christmas when you didn’t show, he sat in the living room playing video games all afternoon and couldn’t even get past the first level of any of them."
"...How the hell does someone fail the first level of a decade-old platformer?"
"That’s not the point," Elena opened the guest room door for him. "The point is, Nate’s always relied on you. That hasn’t changed. He misses you, but he doesn’t want to push you. He’s scared you don’t want him *bothering* you."
"Bothering?" Sam blurted. "He thinks he’s bothering me? Jesus, if anything, I’m the one who dragged him—and you—into this mess from the start—"
"Don’t tell me," Elena cut him off, nodding toward the kitchen downstairs where Nate was now shouting something at Sully, his Crash Bandicoot avatar on screen twisting into absurd shapes from his frantic button-mashing. Her expression softened. "Tell him. You’re the other Drake." She patted Sam’s shoulder and headed down to set the table.
Sam hesitated in the guest room for a long moment before finally descending. Nate was just coming out of the kitchen with a plate of pasta drenched in chili sauce, offering him an awkward smile.
"Spanish-style chili, huh? Damn, Nate, I thought you’d outgrown this phase." Sam said it too loudly, maybe out of guilt. But the uncertainty on Nate’s face vanished instantly. He shrugged and sat across from his brother. "I could never get it to taste like Mom’s."
"Course not," Sam snorted, shoveling a spoonful into his mouth. "You couldn’t even boil soup without blowing up the pot back then. But look at you now—apron and all, like one of those extreme makeover househusbands."
The chili didn’t taste like their mother’s. Nate had been seven back then—asking a man to recreate a thirty-year-old memory was unfair. But Sam knew why Nate kept trying. His little brother carried so much guilt over the past, yet clung so desperately to the one thread that tied his life together—him.
Nate cracked a smile at Sam’s teasing, and the rest of the meal passed without incident. Sully and Elena kept the conversation flowing, and Sam didn’t resist their efforts. He talked about their childhood, bits of his time in prison, listened as Nate recounted the adventures Sam had missed—how his little brother had become a legend in the treasure-hunting world on his own.
After dinner, Sam hovered by the kitchen door, watching Nate wash dishes. Nate’s movements slowed. He turned to face his brother.
"Sam..."
"Let’s take a walk later," Sam said, chewing his lip. He tapped the doorframe. "We need to talk."
Nate and Elena had bought a beachside vacation home. At dusk, the greatest pleasure was walking barefoot on the still-warm sand, letting the sea breeze wash over them. Sam didn’t know how he felt about the ocean—he hadn’t had many chances to visit the coast—but he supposed he didn’t hate it. He wandered near the house in his sandals before stopping in front of Nate’s little sailboat. Yep, a sailboat. He figured Nate used it to fish for seafood in the shallows.
Nate didn’t take long to join him. Sam was already on his second cigarette, and he could practically feel his brother’s disapproving stare. "Those things are gonna kill you one day."
"Plenty of other things’ll get me first." Sam stubbed the cigarette out in the sand and motioned for Nate to sit. Nate fidgeted, looking like a kicked puppy.
"Alright, just say it," Nate blurted, as if bracing for impact. "I’m sorry. I know you didn’t really want to come. I shouldn’t have used Sully and Elena to guilt you into it. And Sam, I’m *sorry*—for all those years I wasn’t there. I get it if you don’t even want to see me—"
"Stop. Right there, Nate." Sam took a sharp breath through his teeth. "You’re not even gonna let me talk? Just assume I’m here out of obligation?"
Nate looked up, startled. "I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Sam snapped. "I thought you didn’t want to see me."
"Sam—" Nate nearly leapt up, but Sam held up a hand. "Nate, we were apart for fifteen years. That’s almost as long as we were together. The other day at the docks, I had to ask *Elena* to catch me up on your life. Then I realized—you retired. Left the game. For your family. And I started thinking… maybe *I* was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so obsessed with treasure, with chasing ghosts. Maybe you *were* meant to have this life." Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "I don’t know if I made the right call. And you’re happy, Nate. You and Elena—you’ve got something good. I’m not part of that."
"Sam, *no*." Nate grabbed his arm, voice choked. "I *never* forgot the years you were there. The stories you told me as a kid, the things you made me believe—that’s what kept me going. Sam, I never told you how scared I was of the future back then. But you *always* told me not to be afraid. You believed everything we did mattered. And I believed *you*. That’s why I’m here now. And everything I have *proves* you were right."
Those damn fifteen years. Nate’s restless hands, the unsaid things between them. The brother who’d once shared the cold streets and the warmth of a single bed with him now worried he didn’t belong in his life. Sam had shared a prison cell with him, an arm dangling from the top bunk to rest on Nate’s head at night. Now they were closer than they’d been in decades, yet Sam’s hand never reached out first.
Sam studied him for a long moment before sighing. He rubbed the back of his neck, revealing the flock of birds inked into his skin. "My tattoo. A Roma guy in Panama—red hair. Said my spirit animal was a bluebird. Gave me this. Not that all Roma are fortune-tellers, but he said it meant freedom." Sam paused. "I called bullshit back then. Nate, I’m not a good man. Not the brother you deserved. I stayed away for two years because… I wanted to prove I could find Avery’s treasure on my own. I heard about your exploits—Rafe told me. Shambhala. El Dorado. My little brother, the unbeatable star of the treasure-hunting world. And here I was, middle-aged and getting nowhere. I was *selfish*. So selfish it overrode even wanting to see you. Because I had all the time in the world to remember what you looked like. And you—you’re exactly how I pictured." Sam gave a bitter, relieved laugh. "I lied to you, little brother. And can you *really* accept a brother you don’t even know anymore? Hell, *I* don’t even know if I can."
A heavy silence fell between them. Nate clenched and unclenched his hands, struggling for words. Sam lit a third cigarette. The floral shirt did nothing against the evening chill, and the rising tide had already dampened the sand under his feet. Then Nate grabbed his hand.
"You’re my brother, Sam. Since I was eight years old, you were the one who took care of me." Nate spoke slowly, deliberately. "Whether you admit it or not, you *raised* me. From the time you were thirteen. Whether you accept it or not, you’ve *always* been part of my life. I wanted you in my past *and* my future. I still do. Sam, you’re a liar—yeah," Sam flinched, "but guess what? So am I. A damn good one. And I *learned* from you. What right do I have to judge you? You know what you did that was *great*? Not finding treasure. Not surviving thirteen years in Panama. It was *not giving up on a kid* when you were just a kid yourself. Most people couldn’t do that, Sam. *Hey.* Look at me. *Please.*" His voice was soft, pleading. "You did *enough*. More than anyone could’ve asked for."
The words hit like a physical blow. Sam froze, cigarette halfway to his lips. The way Nate gripped his arm now mirrored the way an eight-year-old had once clung to his sleeve—those same soft, anxious brown eyes impossible to refuse. That old, fierce pride swelled in Sam’s chest, the kind that came with being *needed*, making every muscle in his body tremble with restless emotion. *Nate’s waiting for you. Right here. How can you say no to him?*
"...Thanks," Sam murmured, voice rougher than he intended. The urge to cry surged up, but he laughed instead—once, twice, then fully, staring at his hands.
"Always with the damn puppy eyes. Even back then, I could never stay mad at you. Even when I *was* pissed, I’d already be thinking of how to make it up to you. Damn it, Nate. You know what else that redheaded Roma said? That my spirit bird only had one wing. That I’d die young, couldn’t survive on my own. I beat the shit out of him for that. But now? *Christ*, he was right." Sam tilted his head, showing Nate the tattoo again. "Guess I’m stuck with you for life, huh?"
"Damn right," Nate muttered, burrowing into Sam’s side the way he had as a kid on freezing nights. "You’re stuck with me *forever*."
"I can't take it anymore. I can't. Nadine slumped onto the crate beside Chloe, who handed her a beer with an amused smirk. "Why the hell did I agree to let Sam Drake on this job? Is he here to work or go on vacation? And why is he texting his brother nonstop like some lovesick teenager?"
Chloe laughed, the sound bright against the constant beeping and keyboard clatter from the truck behind them. "Cut them some slack. Fifteen years apart—think of it as them making up for lost time." She paused, grinning. "Besides, I know you like him—"
"Oh, shut up, Fraser!" Nadine swatted Chloe’s hand away and rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. Meanwhile, Chloe snapped a photo of Sam’s back—his phone still glued to his hands—and sent it to Nate with a caption:
'Look. Your idiot brother.'
END