Didn't ask to do shots with Quinn, too. Sam stays silent as he follows Puck backstage. He's not going to do anything, he's not going to make a scene. He pulls his t-shirt off and picks up a towel, drying his face and finding a clean button down to wear. He shrugs it over his shoulders and keeps his eyes down as he fastens the buttons. "So, do you two, um... are you spending the night with her?" Either way, Sam's getting drunk. He'll wake up with Puck or he'll wake up alone, but he's definitely waking up hungover. Puck texts someone, probably Quinn to come find them. Sam inhales a slow, controlled breath. Fuck this. He could find a guy here, he knows he can. He's gotten good at picking them out; he knows all the spots that the questioning kids discreetly hang around in hopes of an exchange of handjobs or a quick blowjob out back against the brick wall. He doesn't know why he should feel guilty about a handjob when Puck is in fucking love with someone else.

He does, though. And he doesn't want another guy anyway. Sam rolls up his plaid sleeves and puts his damp t-shirt in his bag, then straightens and looks at Puck, slipping his hands in his pockets. "You wanna go find Quinn, it's cool. I'm just... gonna be at the bar. Getting shitfaced."