The buttons of Sam's shirt are hard and almost rough against his chest; he presses his body against Sam's anyway, sighing softly into the kiss. Kissing him is like his body and heart and mind all screaming this is safe and I love you and I trust you and whenever shit gets too hard, I want to be with you, and I know it's gonna be okay and if I was only with you for the rest of my life, it would be okay. This fucking sucks. The hiding and the limitations and the fear that they're absolutely fucked, absolutely fucked, if anybody sees them or if this gets leaked. He's not afraid of much, but he's afraid of losing everything. Afraid of losing Sam.

"I know," he murmurs, shrugging resignedly. "I'm living with you, dude." When he could be living alone, or with his family, or with Quinn - he wants to be with Sam. Quinn isn't at the bar, and he's up for shots; he leans against the bar itself, texting her again.

Text Message
To: q
From: puckzilla

@ bar - u want anything? come find me if u want babe

He shrugs off Sam's comment, reaching for the salt shaker as Sam places it on the bar with a soft click, barely audible in the chaos of the room. He doesn't take affront to it, because... "Yeah, she's gonna fuckin' hate me if I'm so wasted I fall on her or something. You don't have that problem, bro. Get fuckin' wasted, I'll make sure your drunk ass gets home."