Facing away, Puck doesn't see Sam's bottom lip wobble as he feels Puck's arms wind around his waist, holding him close. He wipes his nose on his pillow, sniffling and trying to decide if he needs the bucket or not. "It's okay," he says softly, his voice wavering. "I hate it, too, but it's all we have." He puts a hand on Puck's arm, slowly feeling his muscles like they're the only things keeping him grounded, and something warm slides down his face. It takes only seconds for whatever flimsy dam inside of him to break, no doubt aided by the tequila, and then he's drunkenly crying into his pillow, unsure of exactly why. It's just everything - the hiding and the lies and how bad he feels for Quinn when he's not feeling bad for himself. He's supposed to be her friend. Instead he's fucking her boyfriend and ruining their dates by getting drunk and guilt-tripping Puck into staying with him. And Puck. He knows this is hard for him, too. It's taking a toll on both of them. Sam blubbers for a moment, refusing to turn around because his face gets all embarrassingly red when he cries, and he slowly stops when his sobs turn into hiccups. He wipes his face on his pillow, shivering and still holding onto Puck's arm. He relaxes his grip when he realizes he's digging his fingers in too hard, and he tries to manage an apology, but his teeth chatter instead, so he shuts up and tries to bury himself under the sheets.