"I don't gotta do anything." His voice is serious, deadly-quiet and steely. He seriously hates this, the constant tug-of-war he feels whenever he does something with Quinn and Sam gets jealous. Sure, he'd feel the same way if it was Sam who had somebody else, so he doesn't fault him. But, at the same time, it makes things fucking difficult. This happens just about every fucking time that he does something with Quinn or even mentions his plans with her. He gets it. There's jealousy. It doesn't mean he has to like it. "Fast," he insists, stepping closer to Sam and clearing the distance between them. The door is shut, but not locked; the AC is actually functioning in this room, and he cups Sam's face in his hands and kisses him, gentle and deep before pulling away and returning to his bag to rummage through for a shirt. They're safe, and there's nobody in the vicinity of the green room backstage, and nobody sees.

"Let's go," he mutters, turning to head back to the bar. "I want you. You know I want you. S'long as you want me."