( puck/sam verse: lima gig )

[lormenari]

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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[but_idontlie]

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."

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

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.

[but_idontlie]

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.

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

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.