It had been near the end of a night of heavy drinking in a shithole bar in Mexico when Rafe, barely staying upright on his barstool, declared that he and Sam were getting tattoos.
Sam blinked blearily and turned his head to look at Rafe. "But I already got one," he said with a hiccup, bringing the hand holding his rocks glass up to his neck to point out the birds flying over his skin. The whiskey in his cup sloshed with the movement but he surprisingly didn't spill one drop.
Rafe looked shocked, like he hadn't even noticed Sam's ink before. He leaned close and drug a fingertip down the birds gliding across Sam's sweaty pulse point. "Oh yeah, you do!"
Sam shivered from the touch but forced his gaze back down to his drink. He knocked back the last of his liquor, swallowing the burn with a grimace. The shot before this was really one too many. This one tipped him over the utter edge of inebriation.
His walls of self-defense were coming down, crashing with a graceless, shameless collapse and he could do nothing about it. He'd been doing so well in keeping his hands to himself around Rafe, doing so well in keeping his furtive glances down at Rafe's perfect ass to a minimum. Not to say every moment he got alone to himself, his hand wasn't immediately down his pants with Rafe's pretty mouth on his mind. But in Rafe's company, Sam never gave any inclination of his desire.
Licking his lips and pushing his empty glass away, Sam turned toward Rafe. Sam knew he was plastered, he knew they both were. He also knew that with his carefully constructed walls so completely obliterated by four shots too many, he was about to do something stupid - something he'd wanted to do for a long damn time, sure, but stupid nonetheless.
"Where are we gonna get tattoos done this time of night?" he asked, slurring. He leaned forward and put his hand on Rafe's knee. Normally just the idea of touching Rafe in such a way would make his heart gallop in his chest and his brain would shut the idea down right away, but with so much liquid courage flowing through him he didn't give it a second thought.
He moved his hand a little higher.
Rafe looked down at Sam's hand then drew his gaze up slowly. A few disheveled wisps of hair fell over his forehead and his eyes were a little glassy, but then he smiled at Sam and Sam thought Rafe had never looked sexier.
"I think I saw a shop next door to this place when we walked in. Let'sss go check it out," Rafe said, hopping down from his barstool.
Sam nodded and watched as Rafe paid the tab. He tried to at least chip in for the tip, but Rafe wouldn't let him. They stumbled out of the bar into the warm breeze of a Mexican summer night and Rafe latched onto Sam's arm to keep from falling down.
Sam pulled to a stop and glanced at Rafe. Rafe looked up at him owlishly with that damn lock of hair falling into his eyes again and Sam felt the very last vestiges of his self control snap. He pushed Rafe up against the wall next to the entrance to the bar none too gently and Rafe let out a surprised grunt at the impact. Before Rafe could even say anything, Sam had his mouth sealed over those perfect lips.
Rafe was rigid for a moment and then melted against him. Sam felt Rafe fist his hands in the back of his shirt as he pressed him back against the wall, taking in deep pulls of his taste. It was all tequila and limes and cigarette smoke and salt and Sam could not get enough. He'd waited far too long, had kept his distance everyday even though it practically killed him and now he could not stop taking.
Rafe gave back as good as he got, sliding his hands all over Sam's back and moaning right into his open mouth. Sam's blood pounded in his ears and a hot coil of arousal tightened in his gut to know Rafe shared the same feelings. Sam couldn't remember why he had fought this for so long.
The sudden blare of a car horn and a few wolf whistles from a passing car abruptly pulled Sam back a little. Panting, he moved his head back and swallowed. Rafe looked positively debauched in the neon lights outside the bar; his hair was a mess, his lips were puffy and kiss bruised, and a deep blush was splashed across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Sam had a sudden vivid fantasy flit through his mind that Rafe would look just like this after a long night in his bed.
Rafe pulled in a deep, steadying breath and looked up at him, smiling. "Still up for that tattoo?" he asked, arching a brow.
Sam grinned. "That's not the only reckless thing I get to do tonight, right?"
Rafe snorted and elbowed Sam back. "Don't push your luck, Drake," he said, tossing him a wink. He grabbed Sam by the hand and marched him next door to the tattoo parlor.
After arguing drunkenly back and forth for somewhere around ten minutes, they decided on matching tattoos that, in the moment, seemed absolutely perfect.
Years later, when Nate happens to spot just the hint of a tattoo on Sam's left ass cheek that looks like a map when Sam's pants dip a little low, Sam tells him it's nothing and no goddammit you can't see it. He doesn't tell his brother that he has a little rudimentary generic outline of a pirate map on his ass. And he MOST definitely does not tell his brother that the the dotted treasure line on his map continues onto Rafe's right ass cheek where there's an X marking the spot. No, that's only for Sam, Rafe, and one confused tattoo artist in Chihuahua, Mexico to know about.