[The problem is that everything is a problem, from Nate's splitting headache to his aching lower back. (He still doesn't entirely know what he did, or at what time he did it, or when his impromptu bed mate decided to flee the scene of her crime and part of him feels weird and off about that, but there's nothing he can do.) With his brain playing a Latin version of the 1812 Overture replete with drums that sound like pots and pans Nate flails around on the floor for his jeans, for anything that will make him feel less sticky.
He has the sinking feeling that he's supposed to feel a lot better about all this and it bothers him that he doesn't, but if there's anyone who will have an eventual explanation, it's Sam.
Sam, who goaded him on in the first place and plied him with one too many beers and gently nudged an interested, local girl at him. She was pretty, Nate recalls distantly, dragging himself back into the mussed bed, jeans forgotten. She smelled nice, like the passiflora growing outside the dive they were in last night. He wishes he could recall enough of her face to draw it even with his own shoved deep into a pillow, groaning as his temples pulse like a damn marimba.]
[His own pounding headache aside, Sam would say that overall, last night had been a roaring success. Not only did Nathan finally loosen up a bit and actually look up from that journal of his in the bar, but he had left even earlier than he did with that girl with little more than a "see you later".
Sam had given them privacy, staying at his own date's place instead the night before, but now, with the afternoon sun a little too bright for his hungover state, he strides into their place only to find that his younger brother is...nowhere in sight. Maybe that date went better than he thought.]
Nathan?
[He calls just to make sure before opening his bedroom door to see if he's in there. And, lo and behold. There's the mess himself.]
Jesus, you're still in bed? Come on, little brother, rise and shine!
[Said as he makes his way over, grabbing a pillow and hitting him over the back with it.]
[Curled around a pillow in complete and utter agony, Nate doesn't shift when Sam walks into the room and neither does he flinch when another cushion unceremoniously smacks his shoulders.
It stands to reason that Sam would be the one physically rolling him out of bed, because he's a sadist and a masochist and apparently has an immunity to copious amounts of both beer and high-proof sugar cane alcohol. On the opposite end of the spectrum is Nate, who indulges in the former now and again and the latter rarely, because Central American hooch is the kind of stuff that can make you go blind in the wrong quantities. Sam is impervious to these things, but then, Sam is impervious to lots of things.
For example: his little brother's whining.]
Go away, I'm dying. [Comes the muffled response, and Nate squints at him out of the corner of one eye.] Too much guaro.
[Being impervious is one way to put it, blatantly ignoring his brother's cries is another. Sam can't help but laugh at his younger brother's complaints, hitting him over the head this time with the pillow. Hopefully that'll stir him up enough to get moving.]
You're not dying, it's called having a good night.
[Another smack to the head, this time with a little more force.]
C'mon get up. I'll even treat you to lunch. You gotta get something in that stomach of yours.
["Good" is subjective, Nate might argue if it didn't feel as though a belt were tightening around his temples. Flashes of the previous evening keep flickering like a strobe light in one of the town's dance clubs - color, booze, sequins, pounding music with brassy horns and the chanting of friends encouraging bad habits.
Nate scrumples his entire face, finally lifting it from the pillow to blink at his brother in a mix of irritation and agony, a long-suffering look. With a weak grumble he slings his legs over the side of the bed and feels around for his jeans again, pulling them slowly. Any more expediency and he might throw up.]
What's got you in such a good mood? You wake up with your wallet intact?
[It's as petty a dig as he can manage when he knows that Sam has (not once, not twice, but on multiple occasions) lost the contents of their shared purse after an evening out. His brother is susceptible to charming women, and they to him.]
Yeah, you know the strangest thing happened. My money's all there, but your share has mysteriously gone missing. Those damn ladrones.
[Sam accentuates his own remark with another hit to the head with the pillow even though his brother is already up and sliding on his pants. Sam has had more than enough hangovers to know where it hurts, and he's not afraid to play a little dirty when Nathan insists on being a smart ass.
Damage done and little brother finally moving, Sam tosses the pillow back on the bed and moves to lean against his dresser, rummaging in his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He can still smell the remnants of last night sticking to their clothes and the room--the stagnant mix of alcohol, sweat, and perfume that had still clung to the pillow. It brings a small, confident smirk to his face as he sticks a cigarette in his mouth and lights it up.]
Let's just say you're not the only one who had a good night last night, all right?
[He at least remembers the face of the woman he slept with. He returns his lighter to its proper place in his pocket, sucking on the end of his cigarette and lazily blowing out a cloud of smoke as he watches his brother struggle to get dressed.]
[he croaks, wincing as the pillow whacks him again - this is honestly tantamount to abuse - and feels around the floor for his belt. At some point he's certain he didn't pull it off because he didn't have the motor functions to stand up straight, let alone undo complicated articles of clothing, so the girl...geez, he wishes he could remember her name. He wishes he could remember if she told him her name.
Thinking about it is making him feel a little flushed, though, and not necessarily in the good way.
Nate makes a sound of disgust as Sam embellishes, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. The last thing he wants is an in-depth description of what went on with Sam's "date." His brother has always been good with girls - women, he tries to mentally correct himself even as his head swims with leftover liquor - and is getting way too much of a kick out of Nate's lost virtue.
His shirt comes next and it's a strain to put on, finally dragging it over mussed hair (unmistakable as a post-coital coif disaster) and glowering at Sam's smug face through squinted eyes.]
M'fine.
[It takes Nate an embarrassingly long minute to lace his sneakers and when he does he sways a little upon standing, bracing a hand against the nightstand.]
[It's a good thing Nate didn't actually need his help getting dressed, because even though he offered, Sam is perfectly content watching this struggle unfold from his spot by the dresser. His smirk seems to grow with each minute that passes as he looks over his brother while he puts himself back together, taking in everything from his messy hair to the agonizingly slow way he ties his shoes.]
Boy, she really did you in, huh?
[Said as he pushes himself off of the dresser. He takes a longer drag on his cigarette before taking it between his fingers, exhaling the smoke as he claps his free hand on his brother's shoulder.]
We are going to the only place that's capable of putting some dignity back in you.
[A few non-sympathetic pats before he leaves the room, calling back to him as he reaches the front door of the apartment.]
And try to keep up! The quicker we get some chilaquiles in you the less whining I have to hear.
[Sam could really stand to give his observational humor a rest, because newsflash: pointing out how shitty his younger brother looks doesn't make his younger brother look any less shitty.
Nate wants to argue. He wants to point out that he's fairly certain the half-dozen (or more) glasses of cane alcohol that got nudged his way are what "did him in," but lively debate isn't on the menu unless served as a side dish to something starchy that can soak up his regrets. Bile wells up in his throat when Sam rocks him with a heavy pat and Nate feels his eyes water as he suppresses his gag reflex.]
Chilaquiles are eight countries away, [he grouches, rubbing the back of his neck and trudging to the door.] Unless there's a vendor here who loves to cook them as much as you love to eat them.
[Of the opinion that not even ajiaco could save him now, he shuffles past Sam and squints at what feels like an oppressively bright ten-in-the-morning.]
All right, wise guy, so it's not chilaquiles. But trust me, it'll cure you right up.
[Sam shades his eyes with his hand, squinting as well as he steps outside. The sun is always relatively strong here, but even he has to admit that it feels even brighter than usual. Fortunately, his stomach isn't on the verge of revolting as much as his brother's seems to be. He looks around briefly before deciding on a direction and beginning to lead the way.]
And I'd say around two o'clock? I left about a half hour after you did.
[In contrast to the slow pace Sam's established on behalf of his brother, the rest of the city is vibrant and bustling with activity. Sam weaves through heckling vendors and chattering crowds, occasionally looking back over his shoulder to make sure Nathan is still alive and following.]
So, you wanna talk about it now or wait till you get some caldo de castilla in you?
[The normally welcoming smells of a morning marketplace feel like a fútbol player kicking him repeatedly in the stomach, and he holds his breath when they shuffle around the butcher's stall. It would be extremely rude to throw up on a pile of fresh tripe.]
What is there to talk about?
[he says with the kind of surly delivery that only a teenager can muster. Sam never worried about Nate's non-existent sex life until now and the question is too prying, too open, the implication that at some point in the near future they are going to talk about last night and oh God he can feel himself wanting to vomit again.
The mamita selling arepas waves and Nate waves back with a weak smile, following Sam around the fruit, the small flock of chickens, and the mountain of yuca down an alley.]
[The great thing about the morning market is that you can meet people from all different walks of life and experience some interesting sights. For example, while Nathan waves to the arepa vendor who always looks out for them and somehow knows when they might need some extra arepas to eat that day, Sam is looking back at the mamacita who just flashed him a smile as she passed by, walking backwards to get a good look at her until she's out of sight.]
You did...stuff?
[Sam's attention turns back to Nathan, eyebrows raised and an amused snicker inching at the corner of his lips.]
Oh, no no no little brother, that is not all. That is just the beginning.
[He slows down enough so that he's in line with him, throwing his arm around his shoulders and pulling him close to him. And if he adds a few extra tussles and jolts in there for good measure, well...hopefully Nate's gag reflex is a little less sensitive.]
C'mon, you gotta give me more than that. You enjoyed it right? Was she good to you?
[Sam, who shares the same distracted nature as his baby brother, turns to watch a girl's hips swing down the alley with the sort of "subtlety" that leaves nothing to the imagination. (Sam wouldn't know subtle if it broke down the door, painted itself purple, and tap-danced on the table singing "subtle days are here again," but hey, what does Nate know about making eyes at women?)
It isn't long before Sam's attentions are diverted to the piteous object of ridicule shuffling alongside him. The Good Book states that Hell is a lake of fire in which the wicked shall be annihilated or tormented for all of eternity - Nate is fairly certain that Hell is an older brother tousling your hair and asking you about the drunken sex you had on the night you lost your virginity.
Batting at the fist giving him a disorienting noogie Nate feels his self-consciousness about his inexperience grow exponentially.]
Yes, I liked it- [What he can remember.] -and yes, she was nice, will you- [With a sound of frustration, Nate hunches his shoulders again.]
I don't know what you expect me to say! What color her underwear was? It was black. Happy?
[He doesn't actually remember. Maybe it was blue? He doesn't remember how long he lasted, either, or how long he's supposed to last, or if he even did well, or if she even enjoyed it, or if he should take her speedy retreat as an indicator that he's terrible at this and should consider his first try a bitter failure.]
[Sam replies with the tone of someone who is not at all interested to know what color her underwear was. Some people might approach this subject delicately: sit their younger brother down and pass them a book about puberty and quietly answer any questions they might have about the changes their bodies are going through and how sex works.
Samuel Drake has never been so delicate, and he is certainly not going to make an exception the day after his teenage brother lost his virginity. As far as he was concerned this was a day for celebration. He'd take him out for celebratory drinks if he didn't think Nathan would just puke them all back up as soon as he saw them.]
Told you it'll change your world. Was I right or was I right?
[ Despite Nate's protests and his swipes at his hand, Sam keeps a good hold on him, resting his arm around his shoulders and giving them a good squeeze.]
Who made the first move, her or you? And you were safe, right? You wore a condom?
[Some people might approach this subject delicately. Some people might choose to gently nudge the conversation in this direction after a genial exchange, not unlike the way that foreplay can enhance the overall enjoyment and appreciation of sexual intercourse. Some people might broach the subject with care and discretion, instead of slamming into it with all the grace and elegance of a bull making itself at home in a china shop.
There are a myriad of colorful metaphors that can apply to this situation and Sam is tearing up the book on "how to talk about sex with your baby brother." Nate grumbles when Sam jostles him again, because at this point he's just giving a kid - a man? nah - a hard time.]
Oh my God. Seriously?
[With the pleading, wide-eyed look of a tortured soul in Satan's clutches Nate stares at Sam, his face hot, before determinedly examining the cobblestones beneath them in rapt interest.]
Yes, I wore a- yes.
[Sam, honestly. Who do you think made the first move?]
[Some people might also be genuinely affected by that sad, almost puppy dog look his younger brother is giving him, as if pleading for some higher power to come rescue him from this presumed torture. God must not be listening to them right now though, because Sam continues enthusiastically.]
All right, good. Cause you never know here and we've got enough to look after without some baby in the picture.
[He could just imagine the look on Father Duffy's face if they suddenly showed up there with a baby in their arms. Lucky for Nate, he gets a few minutes of silence as Sam leads them to a small restaurant on the corner of a busy street. He'll wait until they're both sitting down before he'll prod him further.]
[Nate would like to point out that he isn't the one with the wandering dick, and that if anybody should be worried about seeding local ladies and leaving a trail of infant Drakes behind, it's Sam. The thought alone makes Nate's insides turn over - a heady combination of Catholic guilt and preexisting fears of abandonment are all it would take to leave no child behind. He'd never want to do to a kid what his father did to him and Sam.
Slipping onto one of the worn, wooden stools at the counter, Nate is grateful for the lack of jostling movement. His stomach settles (but only just) and he braces his elbows on the Formica, fingers shoved into his rumpled hair as his nerves calm to a low simmer. Behind the bar an enormous pot of stew does the same thing, pieces of meat and onion surfacing before sinking back into the broth, a cauldron of delicious protein that's starting to look more appetizing with each passing second.
Sam nudges him with his elbow again and Nate looks at him askance, through the crook of his arm.]
I feel bad. [He confesses, the last vestiges of a pubescent whine trapped in the back of his throat as he starts to ramble.] I don't even remember her name, I-I don't know if I was any- if I was good, or-
You feel bad? What, just because you can't remember her name? Nathan, I don't even remember half of the girls I sleep with, and I'm pretty sure the other half don't remember me either.
[Sam chuckles, waving down the waitress after she finishes taking the order of another customer further down the counter. It smells like stewed beef and herbs and too much perfume, the source of which becomes ever more apparent as the waitress comes closer with a tired smile. Sam orders two tall glasses of water and big bowls of caldo de castilla before turning back to look at his brother's sorry position against the counter.]
Look, if that really worries you, just write the girl's name down in your journal or something before you leave next time. As for the other stuff--
[He pauses as the waitress sets down their water and steaming bowls of stew. She must have thought Nathan needed a little more help fighting that hangover, because there are considerably large chunks of meat and potatoes in his bowl.]
--As for the other stuff, that kind of thing comes with experience. Everyone's first time's a little awkward, I'm sure you weren't as bad as you imagine. Hey, maybe you're like a sex prodigy. I mean, after me of course.
[It doesn't bother Sam that he doesn't always remember their names, but Sam is...experienced, and looser, and a lot more free with that kind of charming expression. He goes out looking for the kind of women who want one-night-stands where talk that isn't suggestive comes secondary to the actual act, where opening lines aren't about professions or personal interests, unless those personal interests are sexual. Having observed many of these exchanges from the corner seat of a bar Nate knows that the assessment isn't too far from the truth.
Nate also has the suspicion that Sam's disappointment in his lack of enjoyment probably stems from a monetary transaction that led to a woman coming to Nate's bed in the first place.
He chugs half of his glass of water and gives his bowl of stew a forlorn look, prodding a piece of beef with a spoon.]
I guess. I feel stupid for even- [Nate rakes his hair back with one hand, furtively glancing at his brother.] I don't think I'm ladykiller material, Sam.
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uncalendula) wrote2016-11-04 12:27 am
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He has the sinking feeling that he's supposed to feel a lot better about all this and it bothers him that he doesn't, but if there's anyone who will have an eventual explanation, it's Sam.
Sam, who goaded him on in the first place and plied him with one too many beers and gently nudged an interested, local girl at him. She was pretty, Nate recalls distantly, dragging himself back into the mussed bed, jeans forgotten. She smelled nice, like the passiflora growing outside the dive they were in last night. He wishes he could recall enough of her face to draw it even with his own shoved deep into a pillow, groaning as his temples pulse like a damn marimba.]
Nnnnsiento que voy a morir.
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Sam had given them privacy, staying at his own date's place instead the night before, but now, with the afternoon sun a little too bright for his hungover state, he strides into their place only to find that his younger brother is...nowhere in sight. Maybe that date went better than he thought.]
Nathan?
[He calls just to make sure before opening his bedroom door to see if he's in there. And, lo and behold. There's the mess himself.]
Jesus, you're still in bed? Come on, little brother, rise and shine!
[Said as he makes his way over, grabbing a pillow and hitting him over the back with it.]
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It stands to reason that Sam would be the one physically rolling him out of bed, because he's a sadist and a masochist and apparently has an immunity to copious amounts of both beer and high-proof sugar cane alcohol. On the opposite end of the spectrum is Nate, who indulges in the former now and again and the latter rarely, because Central American hooch is the kind of stuff that can make you go blind in the wrong quantities. Sam is impervious to these things, but then, Sam is impervious to lots of things.
For example: his little brother's whining.]
Go away, I'm dying. [Comes the muffled response, and Nate squints at him out of the corner of one eye.] Too much guaro.
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You're not dying, it's called having a good night.
[Another smack to the head, this time with a little more force.]
C'mon get up. I'll even treat you to lunch. You gotta get something in that stomach of yours.
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Nate scrumples his entire face, finally lifting it from the pillow to blink at his brother in a mix of irritation and agony, a long-suffering look. With a weak grumble he slings his legs over the side of the bed and feels around for his jeans again, pulling them slowly. Any more expediency and he might throw up.]
What's got you in such a good mood? You wake up with your wallet intact?
[It's as petty a dig as he can manage when he knows that Sam has (not once, not twice, but on multiple occasions) lost the contents of their shared purse after an evening out. His brother is susceptible to charming women, and they to him.]
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[Sam accentuates his own remark with another hit to the head with the pillow even though his brother is already up and sliding on his pants. Sam has had more than enough hangovers to know where it hurts, and he's not afraid to play a little dirty when Nathan insists on being a smart ass.
Damage done and little brother finally moving, Sam tosses the pillow back on the bed and moves to lean against his dresser, rummaging in his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He can still smell the remnants of last night sticking to their clothes and the room--the stagnant mix of alcohol, sweat, and perfume that had still clung to the pillow. It brings a small, confident smirk to his face as he sticks a cigarette in his mouth and lights it up.]
Let's just say you're not the only one who had a good night last night, all right?
[He at least remembers the face of the woman he slept with. He returns his lighter to its proper place in his pocket, sucking on the end of his cigarette and lazily blowing out a cloud of smoke as he watches his brother struggle to get dressed.]
You need a hand there, sweetheart?
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[he croaks, wincing as the pillow whacks him again - this is honestly tantamount to abuse - and feels around the floor for his belt. At some point he's certain he didn't pull it off because he didn't have the motor functions to stand up straight, let alone undo complicated articles of clothing, so the girl...geez, he wishes he could remember her name. He wishes he could remember if she told him her name.
Thinking about it is making him feel a little flushed, though, and not necessarily in the good way.
Nate makes a sound of disgust as Sam embellishes, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. The last thing he wants is an in-depth description of what went on with Sam's "date." His brother has always been good with girls - women, he tries to mentally correct himself even as his head swims with leftover liquor - and is getting way too much of a kick out of Nate's lost virtue.
His shirt comes next and it's a strain to put on, finally dragging it over mussed hair (unmistakable as a post-coital coif disaster) and glowering at Sam's smug face through squinted eyes.]
M'fine.
[It takes Nate an embarrassingly long minute to lace his sneakers and when he does he sways a little upon standing, bracing a hand against the nightstand.]
Where are we going.
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Boy, she really did you in, huh?
[Said as he pushes himself off of the dresser. He takes a longer drag on his cigarette before taking it between his fingers, exhaling the smoke as he claps his free hand on his brother's shoulder.]
We are going to the only place that's capable of putting some dignity back in you.
[A few non-sympathetic pats before he leaves the room, calling back to him as he reaches the front door of the apartment.]
And try to keep up! The quicker we get some chilaquiles in you the less whining I have to hear.
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Nate wants to argue. He wants to point out that he's fairly certain the half-dozen (or more) glasses of cane alcohol that got nudged his way are what "did him in," but lively debate isn't on the menu unless served as a side dish to something starchy that can soak up his regrets. Bile wells up in his throat when Sam rocks him with a heavy pat and Nate feels his eyes water as he suppresses his gag reflex.]
Chilaquiles are eight countries away, [he grouches, rubbing the back of his neck and trudging to the door.] Unless there's a vendor here who loves to cook them as much as you love to eat them.
[Of the opinion that not even ajiaco could save him now, he shuffles past Sam and squints at what feels like an oppressively bright ten-in-the-morning.]
When did I leave the bar last night?
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[Sam shades his eyes with his hand, squinting as well as he steps outside. The sun is always relatively strong here, but even he has to admit that it feels even brighter than usual. Fortunately, his stomach isn't on the verge of revolting as much as his brother's seems to be. He looks around briefly before deciding on a direction and beginning to lead the way.]
And I'd say around two o'clock? I left about a half hour after you did.
[In contrast to the slow pace Sam's established on behalf of his brother, the rest of the city is vibrant and bustling with activity. Sam weaves through heckling vendors and chattering crowds, occasionally looking back over his shoulder to make sure Nathan is still alive and following.]
So, you wanna talk about it now or wait till you get some caldo de castilla in you?
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What is there to talk about?
[he says with the kind of surly delivery that only a teenager can muster. Sam never worried about Nate's non-existent sex life until now and the question is too prying, too open, the implication that at some point in the near future they are going to talk about last night and oh God he can feel himself wanting to vomit again.
The mamita selling arepas waves and Nate waves back with a weak smile, following Sam around the fruit, the small flock of chickens, and the mountain of yuca down an alley.]
I left the bar at two-ish. We...did...stuff.
[He can feel his cheeks heating up.]
That's all.
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You did...stuff?
[Sam's attention turns back to Nathan, eyebrows raised and an amused snicker inching at the corner of his lips.]
Oh, no no no little brother, that is not all. That is just the beginning.
[He slows down enough so that he's in line with him, throwing his arm around his shoulders and pulling him close to him. And if he adds a few extra tussles and jolts in there for good measure, well...hopefully Nate's gag reflex is a little less sensitive.]
C'mon, you gotta give me more than that. You enjoyed it right? Was she good to you?
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It isn't long before Sam's attentions are diverted to the piteous object of ridicule shuffling alongside him. The Good Book states that Hell is a lake of fire in which the wicked shall be annihilated or tormented for all of eternity - Nate is fairly certain that Hell is an older brother tousling your hair and asking you about the drunken sex you had on the night you lost your virginity.
Batting at the fist giving him a disorienting noogie Nate feels his self-consciousness about his inexperience grow exponentially.]
Yes, I liked it- [What he can remember.] -and yes, she was nice, will you- [With a sound of frustration, Nate hunches his shoulders again.]
I don't know what you expect me to say! What color her underwear was? It was black. Happy?
[He doesn't actually remember. Maybe it was blue? He doesn't remember how long he lasted, either, or how long he's supposed to last, or if he even did well, or if she even enjoyed it, or if he should take her speedy retreat as an indicator that he's terrible at this and should consider his first try a bitter failure.]
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[Sam replies with the tone of someone who is not at all interested to know what color her underwear was. Some people might approach this subject delicately: sit their younger brother down and pass them a book about puberty and quietly answer any questions they might have about the changes their bodies are going through and how sex works.
Samuel Drake has never been so delicate, and he is certainly not going to make an exception the day after his teenage brother lost his virginity. As far as he was concerned this was a day for celebration. He'd take him out for celebratory drinks if he didn't think Nathan would just puke them all back up as soon as he saw them.]
Told you it'll change your world. Was I right or was I right?
[ Despite Nate's protests and his swipes at his hand, Sam keeps a good hold on him, resting his arm around his shoulders and giving them a good squeeze.]
Who made the first move, her or you? And you were safe, right? You wore a condom?
no subject
There are a myriad of colorful metaphors that can apply to this situation and Sam is tearing up the book on "how to talk about sex with your baby brother." Nate grumbles when Sam jostles him again, because at this point he's just giving a kid - a man? nah - a hard time.]
Oh my God. Seriously?
[With the pleading, wide-eyed look of a tortured soul in Satan's clutches Nate stares at Sam, his face hot, before determinedly examining the cobblestones beneath them in rapt interest.]
Yes, I wore a- yes.
[Sam, honestly. Who do you think made the first move?]
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All right, good. Cause you never know here and we've got enough to look after without some baby in the picture.
[He could just imagine the look on Father Duffy's face if they suddenly showed up there with a baby in their arms. Lucky for Nate, he gets a few minutes of silence as Sam leads them to a small restaurant on the corner of a busy street. He'll wait until they're both sitting down before he'll prod him further.]
Sooo?
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Slipping onto one of the worn, wooden stools at the counter, Nate is grateful for the lack of jostling movement. His stomach settles (but only just) and he braces his elbows on the Formica, fingers shoved into his rumpled hair as his nerves calm to a low simmer. Behind the bar an enormous pot of stew does the same thing, pieces of meat and onion surfacing before sinking back into the broth, a cauldron of delicious protein that's starting to look more appetizing with each passing second.
Sam nudges him with his elbow again and Nate looks at him askance, through the crook of his arm.]
I feel bad. [He confesses, the last vestiges of a pubescent whine trapped in the back of his throat as he starts to ramble.] I don't even remember her name, I-I don't know if I was any- if I was good, or-
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[Sam chuckles, waving down the waitress after she finishes taking the order of another customer further down the counter. It smells like stewed beef and herbs and too much perfume, the source of which becomes ever more apparent as the waitress comes closer with a tired smile. Sam orders two tall glasses of water and big bowls of caldo de castilla before turning back to look at his brother's sorry position against the counter.]
Look, if that really worries you, just write the girl's name down in your journal or something before you leave next time. As for the other stuff--
[He pauses as the waitress sets down their water and steaming bowls of stew. She must have thought Nathan needed a little more help fighting that hangover, because there are considerably large chunks of meat and potatoes in his bowl.]
--As for the other stuff, that kind of thing comes with experience. Everyone's first time's a little awkward, I'm sure you weren't as bad as you imagine. Hey, maybe you're like a sex prodigy. I mean, after me of course.
no subject
Nate also has the suspicion that Sam's disappointment in his lack of enjoyment probably stems from a monetary transaction that led to a woman coming to Nate's bed in the first place.
He chugs half of his glass of water and gives his bowl of stew a forlorn look, prodding a piece of beef with a spoon.]
I guess. I feel stupid for even- [Nate rakes his hair back with one hand, furtively glancing at his brother.] I don't think I'm ladykiller material, Sam.