lormenari | ( puck/sam verse: lima gig )

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( puck/sam verse: lima gig )

They're playing a gig in Lima, their first since they left home, and Sam has mixed feelings about it. On one hand, they sound awesome. It's familiar, this dingy venue, one of the only spots for live music in town. They played here a lot when they were just starting out. It has memories. Sam fell off the stage once and sprained three fingers on his right hand, which drove him crazy because he couldn't play for weeks afterwards. Puck once stripped onstage and threw his pants into crowd, then played the encore in his Star Wars boxers (Puck claimed he didn't steal them from him, but Sam knows his underwear doesn't just disappear from his room). They'd gotten in trouble with the manager for that one, but it'd been totally worth it.

On the other hand, it's almost surreal being back where they started. It feels like an entire lifetime ago, a lifetime Sam doesn't particularly want to go back to. He still recognizes some of the faces in the crowd, people they went to high school with who are still stuck here. There are new faces as well, the younger crowd - McKinley students with fake IDs. Sam used to be one of them, along with Puck; they came here all the time to see whatever band was nice enough to make a stop in Bumfuck, Ohio. There's one face that stands out to him, dancing in the crowd near the front of the stage. Quinn. Puck told her she could hang out in the wings during the gig, but when the show started, she said she wanted to experience it like everyone else does. She's the most striking presence there; sure, there are tons of beautiful girls in the crowd, but Quinn has always lived a plane above the others. Sam couldn't bring himself to get it up for a vagina even if he tried, but there's something special about Quinn, something that Sam knows Puck sees as well. She's dancing with her hair loose around her face, her arms raised as she sings along, and Puck's eyes keep gravitating toward her.

It's the end of the set, and Sam is sweaty and tired - tired from playing, tired of watching Puck and Quinn and their strange wordless communication back and forth during the gig. The buzz he usually gets from playing live, the rush of adrenaline and the pure joy, it's strangely absent tonight. He's just off, and he's been off ever since they've been back in Lima. Puck is hopping all over the place, yelling into the mic and thanking the crowd. Sam waves and slides his guitar off, setting it down. The venue is small; backstage is basically stifling since the AC is out in half the rooms, and all Sam really wants to do is hit the bar and get drunk.

"Hey," Sam says, raking his sweaty bangs out of his eyes. "Do you wanna do shots?"

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"You're going to feel like shit if you don't shower," Puck points out, signaling for a left-hand turn. His hand jerks on the wheel as Sam kicks his arm, but it's accidental, and he ignores it. "I'm not sleeping outside. The fuck's wrong with the bed?" The fuck's wrong with your bed? "This isn't fucking camping tonight. This is you getting rid of your damn hangover and not puking in my truck like I know you're gonna in the morning." Maybe the truck is cozier than the house [especially with the back cab] and maybe it reminds Sam of living on the road, of sleeping with the soft vibrations of a moving vehicle, but it's not reality. It's not their reality right now.

He turns the truck into their driveway, parking it; the light over their porch and stairs is on, and moths fly around it. "Come on," he throws an arm in the backseat, rubbing Sam's shoulder. "I'll get you in the house, okay? I'll fix the coffeemaker, get you meds and shit, get you water. Let's go. I don't wanna carry your ass if I don't have to, you're fucking heavy."

"Why can't we just stay here?" Sam asks in a soft whine, latching onto Puck's arm when he reaches into the backseat. "Just come here. I'm already comfy, I just need you to keep me warm. Beds are lame." He brings Puck's hand to his mouth, planting a wet kiss on his fingers. "It's nicer out here. Pleeease? I don't want to be alone. My head hurts." He rolls onto his side, narrowly missing rolling off the seat entirely, and looks at Puck with bleary eyes. "I feel like I'm gonna puke now." He pauses for a second, wrinkling his nose. "No. False alarm. I'm okay. Can you hurry up and come here?" Sam sits up, leaning forward between the front seats and trying to attach his lips to Puck's face.

Puck jerks his arm away; it's too much for right now, too much when all he wants is to go inside the house, make sure Sam's safe, and - honestly - get the fuck out of there. It's too much. If he's around Sam tonight, Sam will force answers from him because Sam is drunk and there's no reasoning with drunk!Sam. "Because you're gonna puke in my truck," he answers shortly. "Come inside. I'll help you walk and shit. I'll even give you a fucking piggyback ride if you get out of the truck." When Sam rolls, it feels like the entire truck tilts and he swears he can see him turn green; his eyes widen in panic before Sam leans closer and tries to kiss him [again]. "Dude, get out of the car," he whines, leaning back and hitting the horn with his back. BEEEEEEP! He groans, because the last thing they need is to wake up the whole fucking neighborhood [and since when did he turn into such a grandpa? the fuck?] and leans against the door, fumbling for the handle. "I'm getting out," he finally says, annoyed.

Puck is not being cooperative in the slightest, and then he's leaving Sam by himself in the truck, so Sam grudgingly opens the door and stumbles out. He runs smack into Puck, throwing his arms around his waist from behind as he presses his face into his back. "It would be so much better if we slept in your truck." He goes with Puck to the front door, dragging his feet and not so discreetly feeling up the muscles in Puck's stomach. "I'll only sleep inside if you hold me the whole night. No coffee, no shower, just come to bed with me."

Once they're inside, Sam tries pulling Puck toward his bedroom. His own bedroom gets ignored; he's slept in his bed maybe a handful of times when Puck's been away with Quinn and Sam was too upset to deal with the smell of Puck all over the sheets. Tonight he wants Puck's soft bed, and their limbs all tangled up together, and Puck's warm breath on his skin as he falls asleep. "Come on," he says, tugging Puck by his wrists. "Just you and me. I need you tonight. I'll make you breakfast in bed tomorrow morning. Totally kosher."

He understands, now, why Sam was kind of pissed at him that first night. That first night they shared, though, Sam was also drunk - just not as drunk as he was. This shit's not as funny when you're sober, and he is, and he doesn't like it.

A few options. He could go home, fall asleep in his bed. He could get Sam into bed and then leave for his mom's... or leave for Quinn's. Regardless, he stumbles when Sam crashes into him from behind, his arms wrapping around Puck's ribs before he basically becomes dead weight and makes it a little fucking harder to reach the house. [He's happy, at this point, for automatic locks; he just beeps the truck and it enables the alarm. He'll get Sam in the house and come back for the shit in the back.] "Shower first," he tells Sam firmly. "You smell like smoke and tequila, dude. I just washed my fucking sheets." Annoyance is taking over, and the night is absolutely not going his way at all. Sam tries to tug him toward the bathroom, but they've got at least a grand of equipment in his truck, and he'd like to get that in the house before anything else happens.

"I'm serious, dude," he nearly growls, turning to grasp Sam's wrists in his hands. "Get naked. Get your ass in the shower. I'm gonna get our shit out of the truck unless you want it to get stolen. If you don't shower, I'm not sleeping with you." It's a serious concession that he's even considering sleeping with Sam; he'll have to come up for something really stellar, because he and Quinn had planned to spend tonight together. Having fun.

"Nooo," Sam whines, plopping down on the couch as Puck turns around and goes back outside. He plucks at his shirt before deciding the buttons are too hard and pulling it open, watching as the buttons scatter on the couch. He gets his shirt off and then unzips his jeans, wiggling them off his hips. In just his boxers and socks, he gets up and stumbles to the door, watching Puck carry something heavy that he can't remember the name of. "Come in the shower with me. I'll fall by myself. You have to sleep with me, Puck. I need you." Sam goes to the bathroom without waiting for an answer, turning on the shower. He stays outside the tub as he dunks his head beneath the water, then pulls back and lets the water drip over his body as he heads to the living room again. "I finished." He flops onto the couch again, letting his sopping hair leave a big wet spot on the cushion. He finds his discarded buttons and starts throwing them at Puck. "I'm done. Come on, let's go to sleep. Why are you being like this?" Sam sits up suddenly, his brain working slowly and finally coming to a possible conclusion. He frowns, water still dripping over his face. "Are you going to Quinn's instead?"

Noah leaves Sam on the sofa, grouchy and whiny; keys in hand, he walks out the door and to the truck, swinging one guitar case over his shoulder, and carefully lifting the other in his hand. He makes several trips in this fashion, heaping their things on the bench seat near the door. When the truck bed is empty, he resets the alarm and begins the irritating task of carrying their things, one by one, inside the house and setting them in the kitchen [the room just inside the door]. When he glances up after bringing a practice amp inside and setting it on the floor, Sam is standing shakily before him, wearing only boxers and socks.

He'd laugh if it was any other time, any other situation.

Sam makes his way to the bathroom, demanding that Puck join him for a shower and then for sleeping; he locks the doors, replacing the keys on the counter where they go, and pulls out his phone to text Quinn. [Jeans and Sam's shirt are dropped haphazardly on the living room floor, and he kicks them in a pile by the couch as he hears the water in the bathroom start and quickly stop.

Picture Message To: quinn fabray From: noah puckerman [img 74] q - sam's a mess. gonna stay here tonight. tomorrow? anything you want. i'm sorry, babe. and pissed. i love you

Sam is a mess; he clearly has gotten his head wet and done nothing else, and he gets the couch soaking wet, and he really shouldn't care because the couch sucks but he cares because he's sober and really fucking irritated. "I'm fuckin' staying here," he growls, "taking care of your drunk ass. The fuck, seriously. Get your ass in the shower." He stands then, quietly seething - now he has to deal with Sam and an irritated HBIC Quinn - and heads for the bathroom, stripping off his clothes on the way. He yanks the shower knob as soon as he steps into the shower, the hot water cascading down over him as he bites back a yell and twists the knob to a more comfortable level, the temperature lukewarm rather than scalding.

Puck leaves quickly for the shower, and Sam spends a moment blinking dumbly, alone in the living room. Puck is staying with him, and this should feel like a victory, but it strangely doesn't. Sam feels kind of sick, because he thinks Puck is mad at him, and he hates when Puck is mad at him. He also is pretty sure none of this is his fault, so he gets up and follows Puck to the shower, shedding his boxers and socks somewhere in the hallway, and steps under the warm spray with him. He tentatively stands behind him and wraps his arms around Puck's waist, mouthing at the back of his neck.

"Can you stop being mad at me now? We have a whole night to ourselves. Unless..." He stops kissing Puck, pulling his arms away as he picks up their bottle of shampoo and proceeds to squirt it on the wall. "Unless you wanna go over to Quinn's and put your dick in her vagina. You can go if you want. I'll just go to bed... alone... and throw up on your sheets... and cry..."

He stands in the shower, gasping deep breaths as he turns the knob to frigid, allowing himself a few blasts of cold water before returning the temperature to lukewarm. Sam stumbles into the shower soon afterward, naked, and immediately slides his arms around Puck's waist; he stiffens [his body, not his dick, although that's not far behind].

"You're drunk and Q's pissed," he says shortly without turning around, not in the mood. "I get that you wanna have me here but I have to keep her happy, too, dude. And we had plans for tonight. And I had to bail on her 'cuz you got drunk and I'm not just gonna leave you there 'cuz I love you. Dude, this isn't gonna be a fun night. We'll shower and go to sleep, but that's it. You think you'd be happy if I was supposed to have a night with you, but Q got wasted and I had to bail on you to take care of her? You'd be pissed, dude. She's pissed. I have to deal with that. You know what Q's like when she's pissed. I just want everybody to be happy so I don't have to deal with feelings and chick drama."

"Well, then go," Sam says, his mood swinging from melancholia to anger. He throws the shampoo bottle on the floor of the tub. "If you wanna go and have a good time with her and keep her happy so she doesn't cut off your dick while you're asleep then fucking go. Leave me alone." He gets out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his shoulders as he goes to his room, throwing himself on his bed, wetness and all. He pulls the tangled sheets up and buries his face in his pillow, fuming and depressed and nauseous. Of course he'd be pissed if Puck bailed on him to take care of Quinn. But Sam's drunk and he doesn't want to hear any of Puck's logic. He wants it to be just them.

"I'm fucking staying," he retorts, bending to pick up the shampoo bottle and set it on the shelf once more. "I already texted her. It's just like, dude, this isn't a fucking boys' night for us. You're drunk, I'm here. If I went now, I'd just be pissed anyway." Clearly, it's not even worth it to go; he'll probably check his phone before bed, just to check for a reply from Quinn.

Sam steps out of the shower with the water still running, leaving a trail of wet footprints and drips over the floor and down the hallway to his bedroom. Puck waits, actually drying off before following, but turning instead to his bedroom and dressing in a t-shirt and boxers, tossing the towel in the laundry hamper. He grabs the bucket and trash bag from the closet [somebody gets drunk every week, minimum, and he'd learned that it's just smarter to have that shit handy] and sets it by the bed, drawing the covers back before leaving the room to find Sam. Still naked, sopping wet, curled up in his own bed.

"Come on. My bed," he mutters, kicking the box spring lightly with his foot. "I got the bucket and everything."

"No. Leave me alone. I hate you," Sam mumbles tearfully. He lasts all of two seconds before he sits up slowly, drying his face with the corner of his towel. He's totally pouting and he doesn't care. He feels like shit as he crawls out of bed, keeping the towel around his shoulders with one hand and lightly grasping at Puck's hand with the other, walking unsteadily to his room. "I don't want you to stay if you're mad at me. I ruined your night with Quinn, I know. I'm sorry." He's not really. "I can stay in my room. You can call Quinn and make it up to her. I'll be fine." He pauses, then leans against him, a little disgruntled that Puck has clothes on now, but he hugs him softly, his wet hair falling against Puck's shoulder. "I feel shitty. I'm dying. Please don't leave a dying man. I was kidding. Don't call Quinn. Just let me sleep on you." Sam hiccups and sticks his hand down the front of Puck's boxers, wiggling his fingers as he pushes them against the fabric to make a tent. "Look, you're hard."

"Okay, bro." He clearly isn't buying it, waiting until Sam slithers from the bed and dropping his hand in favor of wrapping a strong arm around his waist. It's a fucking good thing he stayed, because Sam looks like shit. "I'm staying 'cuz Q's already pissed and I'm gonna take care of your drunk ass," he points out. "I'll make it up to her another night. Blank check and that shit." Not literally, but... whatever she wants, he'll do it.

He eases Sam into his bed, half-dropping him and inhaling a breath, gritting his teeth as Sam's hand finds its way into his boxers. [He's surprisingly coordinated, at least with those movements, for somebody who's drunk.] "I'm not even close to hard right now," he mutters, frustrated - especially because he's not just close, he's there, increasingly so.

Sam pulls Puck onto the bed, snuggling against him and tugging at his boxers. "Why are you dressed?" he asks in dismay, his fingers pushing inside again and patting Puck's cock, which seems to be pretty interested despite Puck being a big sourpuss about this whole thing. "Let me give you a blowjob to say I'm sorry even though I didn't do anything." He slides lower, intending to reach for Puck's crotch, but he gets distracted and lifts Puck's shirt up slightly, then presses his tongue against his abs. He hugs Puck's leg and licks his side for a while, kissing his skin. "You have a nice tan. Puck, I love you and your tan. You're like, a person made out of gold. Does Quinn ever tell you stuff like that? I bet she doesn't. I bet you say stuff like that about her, though. Like, you say she's a person made out of marshmallows."

He leisurely grasps Puck's cock, playing with it in his hand. He thinks about Quinn, and how Puck's probably going to have to spend a whole day or more with her to make up for this, and he frowns, pressing his face into Puck's side. He misses him already. "Can you come down here and kiss me?"

BEEEEEP. He checks his phone even as Sam works his fingers into the elastic of his boxers, muttering his displeasure and slurring something about a blowjob.

Text Message To: noah puckerman
From: quinn fabray

Not happy. Don't call me, I'll call you.

Fuck. In some ways, this could be a good thing masquerading as a bad one; if Quinn calls it quits and leaves him, that means - he can be with Sam. Quinn is impulsive and rash enough to do something like that, thinking that it's easier to ~~ask forgiveness~~ pretend you don't care than it is to ask permission. If he loses her, though, if she walks away, then he's lost his tie to Beth and one of his best friends, and the woman he loves.

He does love her; he just loves Sam more.

Dropping the phone off the side of the bed, he reaches down, sliding his fingers into Sam's silky hair, damp from the shower, as he wraps his hand around Puck's bare length and strokes his thumb across the top. [He shivers anyway; it figures that Sam's drunk and still knows the spots that get him every fucking time.] "Dude, get up here. And you're not gonna blow me. If my dick's in your mouth and you puke, that's gonna hurt. Get your ass up here and go to fuckin' sleep."

Sam lets out a loud half-grumble, half-growl, abandoning Puck's abs and dick and coming back up to push his way onto Puck's pillow. He grabs Puck's arm and forcibly winds it around his waist, burrowing into his warm body. Puck smells nice and clean like their shampoo, his skin soft beneath his fingertips. He presses a sloppy kiss to Puck's cheek. "I still think we should have slept in your truck." Sam yawns, resting his head on Puck's chest. He closes his eyes, grasping Puck's hip absently as he sighs, feeling that familiar sadness weighing down on him again. "Thanks for staying with me," he mumbles. "I know you don't want to be here, but I'm glad you are. I love you so much."

He takes a tremulous breath, then pushes away suddenly, turning away so his back is to Puck. He curls up on his own pillow, squeezing his eyes shut as his tired mind sluggishly tries to make sense of what's going on, but all he can think of is that Puck is going off with Quinn tomorrow or the next day or whenever she demands it, and the thought of being alone in the house makes him want to scream. He swallows down the lump in his throat, pulling the sheets up to his chin and keeping his eyes closed. He lets out a wet little whimpering sigh before he swallows again. "G'night, Puck," he whispers thickly. "And... sorry. I'm sorry. I won't do this again. I promise I'll start being better at this whole Quinn thing. I promise."

Edited 2011-08-26 06:46 (UTC)

Despite the bullshit, despite how fucking dramatic he knows shit with Quinn will end up being, despite how what was supposed to be a good night ended up fucking ruined - he wraps his arms around Sam, brushing the tip of his snub nose along Sam's cheekbone, dropping a slow kiss on his lips. "I love you," he mutters. "I was gonna get your ass in bed and then leave for Q's. S'why no truck. I'm staying, so just, like, sleep." Even as Sam turns to his own pillow, Puck wraps his arms around his slender waist [the muscles are hard beneath his fingertips, and he fucking loves the texture of Sam's skin, dappled with a light coating of fine blond hair that he kisses on his way down to his knees when he sucks him down] and hauls him closer. "Wanna hold you, bro. If I'm gonna sleep with you, s'least not going to be weird. We never sleep, you know, apart." Truthfully, they're always tangled in each other [always naked], arms and legs and everything wrapped together. "I know it sucks," he exhales, suddenly exhausted. "I hate it. Lying to her, knowing it hurts you. I'm too old for that shit."

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.

He can hear the tears in Sam's voice as he murmurs, burying his face in the pillow; they're probably half-alcohol and half-Sam, because his bro is definitely more of a vagina than he is.

And that's okay. Puck loves him regardless.

"S'okay, babe," he murmurs, his voice gentler now that they're lying together in bed and Sam's pillow is soaked with tears. "Turn around." He tugs without noticing the firm grip Sam maintains on his forearm, encouraging him to turn over with gentle caresses and brushed kisses, trails of his mouth over the shell of Sam's ear and the slightly-sweaty hairline at his temple. "I got you. Relax, s'okay." It's as close to comforting as he'll get, and he wriggles in the bed to hook one finger in the elastic of his own boxers and ease them off. He's not so much pissed anymore as he is tired and unable to hold a grudge, just wanting to curl naked in bed with the guy he loves.

Sam turns eventually, closing his eyes as Puck's soft mouth touches his ear and his face. He wraps his arm around Puck's waist, burrowing into him as his sniffles cease, vaguely registering his boxers sliding down, the fabric brushing his leg. He would start groping Puck again if his brain hadn't suddenly turned to exhausted mush. Sam lets out a tired sigh, another apology on his tongue, but it never makes it past his lips because he presses his face into the crook of Puck's shoulder and promptly loses his train of thought. The room feels like it's tilting once again, so he holds Puck tighter and lets sleep take him under.

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( puck/sam verse: lima gig )

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