( 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?"

Comments

[but_idontlie]

"Quinn," he half-growls as she pulls away, "Come the fuck on. I'll be there, I'm just gonna get him and get our shit and drop it all back off at home, okay? It's not like we're gonna stay home all night and paint our fucking nails and shit. Let me take care of this and then I'll stay with you. Keep you up all fucking night."

[hadtimeofmylife.livejournal.com]

She waved a hand in his general direction that basically meant 'do what you have to do. come over if you want. whatever.' She was pissed and she wasn't in the mood to argue with him right then and there. She suddenly felt like now his friend was above her and she didn't like that feeling. She didn't like feeling she was second in his life. She had felt horrible enough knowing he was screwing groupies and now that he said he was done with that, Sam seemed above her. It didn't sit well with Quinn at all.

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

Sam doesn't know how many shots he's downed, but he's tanked. He's sprawled on his stool, slumped on the bar with his head half resting on one arm, the other idly grasping at the empty shot glasses around him. The fucking bartender told him he wasn't giving him any more. He resents that, like Sam can't take care of himself. He's always taken care of himself, and his family too at one point in his life. He's the very picture of responsibility, except for right now, because he's not sure he can take two steps without planting his face into the grimy floors. Which is why his ass is not leaving this stool until someone (Puck) forcibly carries him home. Or drives. Whatever. His brain is a little foggy.

Speaking of Puck, he's still talking to Quinn just outside the exit. If Sam cranes his neck, he can see the corner of Puck's elbow as he talks animatedly to his beautiful, perfect girlfriend who's wearing a ring that Puck gave her on the first night that Puck left him alone since they moved back to Lima. He didn't tell Sam he was giving her a freaking ring, and Sam doesn't care that it's not an engagement or promise ring, it's still a ring and it means something. Means that Puck loves her enough to buy her meaningful shit. Sam doesn't think he's drunk enough because he can still feel the ache in his chest.

He runs his hands over his face, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling leftover tears cling to his lashes. He's not gonna cry out here in front of everyone, except he totally is because his eyes are warming up again, and Puck is still talking to Quinn, and he's out here by himself, and Puck is probably super annoyed with him for bailing on Quinn, but he didn't want to dance with her in the first place, so this is all Puck's fault anyway. All of this is Puck's fault. It's Puck's fault that Sam fell in love with him. It's Puck's fault the bartender won't give him anymore shots.

Everything is Puck's fault. Sam groans to himself, sliding his hands into his hair. Puck's probably not even coming back for him. He should get up and find his stuff and walk home. Or something. He can hitch a ride with someone. Walking sounds too hard right now. He just wants Puck to come back and put his arms around him and take him home and let Sam fall asleep on him. Sam scrubs at his face again. He needs to pee. He needs Puck to hurry up and get here so he can carry him to the bathroom and maybe have a breakdown on the bathroom floor because Puck loves Quinn, and eventually he's going to have to come to grips with it.

[but_idontlie]

Let's recap the night so far.

Sam's pissed at him.
Sam's getting drunk, if he's not there already.
Sam made Quinn cry.
Puck chased Quinn, soothed her, and then said that he had to bring Sam home - but then he'd go to her place.
Quinn got pissed.
Sam's drunk.

Fucking fantastic.

"I'll call you when I get him home, and then you tell me if you wanna see me tonight," he finally says, exasperated, as Sam nearly falls off the bar stool, looking like shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. "If you decide you wanna come over, that's where I'm gonna be." And Sam's gonna sleep in his motherfucking room for once. "It's your call." He kisses Quinn's forehead quickly, murmuring, "Love you," in her ear [he's said it before, it's not like that's the first time] before turning and heading toward Sam.

"What the fuck, seriously," he growls, bumping Sam with his shoulder as he slides onto an empty bar stool. "She's fuckin' pissed at me 'cuz I wouldn't just leave your drunk ass here. We're going the fuck home, so get your shit together so I can get you in the car and come back for our gear." He shakes his head. "I try to be a good guy and I can't fucking win. Dude, you know how much this sucks." For all of us.

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

Puck's back and he's saying something about shit and car and winning. Sam looks at him with big sorrowful eyes, slumping against Puck's shoulder. "I didn't do anything," he whines, his words slurring together. "You made me dance with her. I didn't wanna. Then she told me all about the fancy ring her big strapping boyfriend got her while his equally attractive boyfriend sat at home by himself. I didn't make Quinn cry either. I didn't do anything to her. What did you tell her?"

Sam grabs an empty shot glass and holds it in front of Puck's face. "Look. The bartender won't give me anymore shots. Tell him I need more. I need to pee. Just take me home, I want to sleep on you." The glass slips from his hand and shatters on the floor, leaving Sam dumbfounded as he stares at the shards. "I'll clean this up." He gets off his stool, then promptly falls. He breaks his fall with one hand, then hisses as a piece of glass slices his finger. Sam holds up his hand for Puck to see, watching blood well up in the shallow cut on his index finger. "Ow. I'm sorry. Puck, I'm sorry." Sam swipes his free hand over his eyes, sighing shakily, leaning his back against the bar, still sitting on the floor. "I'm sorry about Quinn even though I didn't do anything. I'm sorry this is so hard. I wish I could be enough for you, but I can't, so I'm sorry. I won't mess things up for you and Quinn. I promise. You're a good man, Puck." Sam looks down, his vision blurry with tears as he wipes his bleeding finger on his shirt. He can sleep under the bar tonight. He can't picture a scenario in which he actually gets up and walks far enough to get to Puck's car. The room is spinning and he just wants to crash.

[but_idontlie]

Sam is fucking drunk, and his night went from good to bad to worse because now he has to figure out how in the fuck he's going to get Sam home without Quinn wanting to rip off his balls and bury them in the backyard.

Shit wasn't this complicated in high school when he was doing, like, five people at the same time.

"Not here," he growls in Sam's ear, the bartender grimacing as he watches, slapping a napkin and an ice cube on the bar in front of them before coming out from behind the bar with a broom and dustpan. Puck takes the ice cube and wraps it in the napkin, pressing it against Sam's finger and squeezing tight. "Get your ass up, we're going home." He squats, wrapping an arm around Sam's ribs and hauling him up to stand with a grunt. "I'm getting your ass to the car and then coming back for our shit and you're gonna stay there. Motherfucker. The fuck am I, everybody's mother?"

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

"Don't wanna go," Sam says, whining again as he stumbles alongside Puck, his hand held against his chest with the ice and napkin. "I can help you get our stuff. Where's Quinn? Why did you buy her a ring? Stop walking so fast. Puck, are you mad at me?" Sam leans over and tries to lick Puck's ear. "Don't be mad at me. I love you. Please. You're a jerk. Let's go home and sleep." The cool night air hits Sam when they finally get outside, making him feel slightly less nauseous. "Did Quinn go home? Did she leave because of me?" He stops talking when he gets dumped unceremoniously into Puck's car, but only for a moment. He grabs Puck's arm and tries to pull him inside with him. "Come here. I miss you. You're so hot."

[but_idontlie]

"You're fucking drunk and I'm taking your ass home. You can't even fucking walk," Puck half-mutters, half-growls, still hugging Sam around the ribs and nearly dragging him out to the car. He doesn't fucking care if Sam doesn't want to go, and he flinches when he feels the press of Sam's tongue to his ear in a moist swipe, the slurred murmurs of love that he really can't hear right now. Puck doesn't answer any of the questions; he tosses the keys to the bouncer following them, who opens his truck helpfully so that he can shove Sam inside.

He pulls away as Sam tries to lean for him, nearly falling out of the truck in the process. "Fucking stay in there," he gasps, raking his hands over his close-cropped hair. "I'm going to get our shit and then I'm taking you back to the house. We'll deal with shit there." He's angry, and uncertain, and feeling fucking trapped because any decision he makes is going to result in somebody getting hurt, somebody unhappy, somebody feeling the sting of betrayal and he's this close to dumping Sam off at the house and just showing up at his mother's to sleep.

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

Puck looks a little manic, or at least Sam thinks he does. The world is still tilting all around him. "You're mad, I know. I'll make you feel better. With my mouth." He smiles sloppily, then closes the door because he needs something to lean on. He opens the window and dangles his arm out, his fingertips brushing Puck's stomach. "Hurry up and come back, I have a great idea for us. I can drive us home." He scoots into the driver's seat, but he doesn't have the keys so he just rests against the steering wheel and closes his eyes. He's sleepy, but he needs to stay awake so he can tell Puck his Super Awesome Plan that'll end all their hiding. "Hurry up. I miss you already," he mumbles. "I love you more than Quinn, okay? I do."

[but_idontlie]

It takes him two trips to load everything into the truck, because he's not only having to grab his shit and maneuver it out of the club, but he also needs to go back for Sam's. He does his best to outright ignore Sam and the way he's nearly melting into the seat of his truck, hoping that he doesn't vomit [he doesn't let people puke in his truck, no way in fucking hell... and the one time that happened was when Quinn was pregnant, so she got a pass on that].

Plans made when drunk are never Super Awesome; they're always Super Stupid, and he smacks the glass of the driver's side window to startle Sam when the truck is loaded up and they're ready to get out of there. [But first, he takes a picture of Sam, sprawled out half-drooling and dazed against the window, just in case he needs to quickie-text it to Quinn later as an explanation of why he's not at her place.] "Hey!" he barks sharply. "Move your ass over." He could shove Sam into the passenger seat, but that would involve first opening the door, and he doesn't want roughly 180 pounds of Sam falling out of the truck and onto him. [Okay, to be fair, he doesn't want Sam to hit the pavement, either.]

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

The sound of Puck's palm against the window makes Sam look up, and he smiles when he sees Puck, reaching up and pressing his own hand against the glass. "High five me." He forgets about it within the next few seconds, unlocking the door and opening it, and only almost tipping out of the car before he rights himself and scoots over to make room. "Hi." Puck slides in, and Sam snuggles against him quickly, planting a wet kiss on his arm.

"Listen to my idea, okay? It's awesome. Just turn on the car..." Sam grabs Puck's hand and sloppily places it on the steering wheel. "And drive. That's it! That's my whole plan. Isn't it awesome? But there's a part two. Are you ready for part two?" Sam doesn't wait for Puck to reply. He sits up and scuttles back into the passenger seat, grabbing his seat belt and taking a few moments to buckle it. He looks up and beams. "Part two is this. We keep driving. Like, all the way out of Lima and somewhere way less lame. We just drive and drive and drive, forever, and we never settle down because settling is for lame people, and we kiss a lot, and we can be together all the time, and we don't have to hide anymore because we'll go places where no one knows who we are. I'm totally okay with it, it'll be perfect. It'll be like an extended tour, except it'll be forever. And then I won't be sad anymore because I won't have to share you, and you don't have to worry about Quinn finding out about us because you can break up with her, right? Because I love you more than her anyway, and I love you enough that I can leave everything in my life behind if it means I get to be with you all the time. It's awesome, right? You would do it for me too, right? Because you love me? Right? Puck? Can we do it? Can we just go? Please? If you say yes, you don't have to explain about the ring or anything. I'll forget it. I don't care about anything but being with you."

[but_idontlie]

That first epic night of just you and me at the hotel began with both of them drunk; Puck had been the random drunk and Sam had been the angry drunk, which reminded him weirdly of Santana the night of Rachel's slightly-less-epic party. Now, Sam is the happy-giddy-random-love-professing drunk, and Puckerman... really just wants to drop Sam off at home and crash at Puckermom's for the night. [Is it worth pissing off Quinn and likely Sam? He's still trying to decide.] High five me! Uh, hell to the no. As soon as he climbs into the truck, Sam is on him, pressed to his side with lips dragging over his bicep. "No. Fuck, no, dude," he growls, exasperated. He pulls his hand away from the steering wheel - gotta put the keys in the ignition and turn the truck and the headlights on, bro - and Sam is just way too fucking happy as he throws the truck into reverse and steps on the gas.

"We can't fucking do that," he says shortly, because any part of Puck that might have laughed and hugged Sam is no longer present; he's just irritated that what could have been a fun night turned into something that might require a beer and/or some painkillers to knock the headache he's pretty sure he'll have when this is all said and done. "We have to work to fucking feed ourselves and we can't just hide and shit. I can't do this shit now, okay? I'm bringing you home. You can sleep this off or whatever. Just don't puke in my bed." His concentration is on the road, and the fact that Sam is currently buckled into the passenger seat and has the fine motor skills of a sugar-laden preschooler is one of the few things relaxing him at the moment. Ain't no way Sam's getting out of that seat belt without assistance. Nope. Because you love me? Right? "Yeah, I fuckin' love you, but we can't do that," he repeats, his voice gentler.

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

Puck shoots him down so abruptly that Sam just sits still and blinks for a few moments, processing. His idea is so good. What's the problem? "We can work. Like, we can get jobs along the way, and we can sing for people. We can perform roadside. Come on, please? We can do it, we can make it work. I don't want to stay here anymore, Puck, I hate it here. Okay? It sucks here. Everything sucks. Lima sucks. I just want to be with you. I don't care if we lose everything. I'd still choose you. If it means being with you, then fuck the rest. I don't need it." Sam's starting to feel a little desperate. He needs Puck to listen to him. "Even if it meant losing everything, wouldn't you still choose me, too? You'd choose me over Quinn, right? I love you more than her. How many times do I have to tell you? Keep driving, Puck. Just keep driving until we're not here anymore." Sam leans over and touches his arm, poking him incessantly. His ice and napkin are gone, and his finger has an angry scratch over it that kind of itches. "Please, Puck. Answer me. Answer my questions. Are you listening to me?"

[but_idontlie]

"I can't, okay?" he finally blurts out, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles whiten. Sam becomes more and more petulant, begging and pleading and whining about being together and how much Lima, Ohio, sucks balls, and how they could have this perfect fucking fantasy life where they play their guitars in gas stations for a couple of bucks to get to the next city where they'll do it all over again, and they'll sleep in the back of the pickup truck wrapped in each other's arms, and eat peanut butter sandwiches and apples and water all day every day. That's not the kind of life he ever wanted for himself; sure, it means that they're no longer beholden to anyone or anything, and nothing is expected of them, but maybe he's getting older in that he wants a little more from life besides freedom to do what he wants.

"You're drunk, Sam," he says, gritting his teeth against the pokes. He's trying to get them home, and then he's going to make sure Sam's okay, and then he's leaving him a note and texting Quinn and basically saying, Not sleeping at home, not cheating, need a break for the night. "I'm taking you home and you're gonna sleep this shit off." Dropping him off at Quinn's for the night is a bad idea, given the things that Sam is saying. Bad, bad, bad idea. "I'll talk to you about this shit tomorrow." If you remember it. He concentrates on the road, intent on driving until he can park in their driveway and get Sam out of the car and into the house.

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

Sam waits for a reply, and when Puck finally blurts out that he can't, it's like something just clicks. Sam stops poking, slowly pulling his hand back, and for a long moment he doesn't do anything but sit still, blinking slowly as his muddled brain tries to make sense of what's going on. "You can't, because... you wouldn't," he says slowly. "I'd leave this all behind for you, and you... wouldn't." It makes sense now, sort of. Puck's not answering his questions, and he's not jumping for joy at his brilliant plan for their future, and... he'd probably choose Quinn. Oh.

He puts his hands in his lap, looking down awkwardly. He's always expected this, in a way, even after everything's that happened. Before they got together, he knew it was always Quinn. Maybe nothing's really changed there. It's still Quinn. Sam's lip starts quivering, and he bites down on it hard, moving as far away from Puck as possible. He rests against the door, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. "Um. Sorry," he whispers. "We can go home." He turns his face away from Puck, looking out the window. He feels shitty, and he's only 70% sure he knows what's going on, but now he has the distinct impression that he loves Puck more than Puck loves him. Sure, Puck loves him, but Sam loves him, and he has for a long time, and he doesn't know how he'll ever stop loving him even if this all ends as soon as they get home.

He swallows again, still keeping his gaze averted. "I just." He sniffs, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. "Why aren't I enough for you? I know Quinn can give you, like, security and babies and stuff, even though you can't have kids anymore, but I... I try to give you everything you want. I know this isn't perfect, but I try. I try to keep you happy." He turns around, looking at Puck with dewy eyes. "I still want it to be just you and me. But. That's... stupid." He stops talking, leaning against the window again. It's never going to be just them. There's always Quinn to come before him, and then there's their career that also comes before him, and he feels stupid for not realizing this until right now. Puck's just being realistic. He can't blame him. Now his chest hurts along with his head. He feels unbearably sad, and he doesn't know how much of it is just the alcohol.

[but_idontlie]

It's not just that he can't. In less than a few months, he's morphed from a fucks anything that moves kind of guy into a boyfriend. Not only a boyfriend, but a boyfriend to two different people, one of whom is his best friend and the other half of his band [his business partner, so to speak]. Quinn expects more of him because he was stupid enough to tell her that he was done with the groupies, and it feels as though Sam is constantly trying to make him choose the winner of Sam vs. Quinn, and that's a game that nobody can really win. When he chooses Quinn, it's public, and it's safe, because nobody is gonna fault him for being with the chick who had his baby back in high school. She's cute and respectable and supportive. When he stops choosing Quinn and publicly chooses Sam, all of that goes away. Maybe everybody is about It Gets Better and Acceptance and No H8, but he knows that if word got out, they wouldn't be their band anymore. They'd be Homo Explosion.

There goes the fame. There goes doing what they love and getting paid for it. There goes that big break that they were lucky enough to get, that most people - people with talent bigger than they have - don't ever get. There goes everything that they've worked so hard to accomplish. They'll be a joke. Maybe he'd been a delinquent at McKinley, not worth much, but time and opportunity has made him more dedicated to his music, to his future, to giving money to his mom so that she doesn't have to work her ass off anymore the way she did when he and Hannah were kids.

There it all goes for something that might not even last them. Rachel, Quinn, everybody... they all bailed eventually.

On top of it all, Sam is drunk, so it's not even worth arguing with him.

I can't. He can't for so many reasons.

"You're drunk," he counters, his voice short. "Look, we can talk about this when you're not poking me and telling me how much you love me and trying to kiss me in front of fuckin' everybody. You're drunk, and Q took off 'cuz she's pissed at me, and I had to carry you out of there, and my head is fucking killing me and I need it to stop. If you remember any of this shit in the morning, we can talk about it, but I can't do this tonight. I can't do this right now. Tomorrow, dude. We gotta just sleep it off. Almost home, and then I'll get your ass into the shower and get you into bed, okay?"

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

Sam blows out his breath noisily, his bangs flying up. "I don't wanna sleep it off. I don't wanna sleep. I don't need a shower. I don't wanna go home." He unbuckles his seat belt. "I'm not going inside. I'm sleeping in the car." Sam pushes himself up unsteadily, turning around and crawling into the backseat, his arms and legs knocking into Puck as he goes. He lands headfirst into the backseat, and he struggles for a moment to get the rest of his body in the back. He manages to only accidentally kick Puck twice before he gets all the way in. "I'm sleeping here. When you park, come here and sleep with me. You can keep me warm."

Sam lies on his back, feeling all the bumps in the road as Puck drives. He still feels sad, but he'll feel better when Puck snuggles against him in the backseat. The car is so much cozier than the house because Sam's too used to sleeping on the tour bus and in hotels. Having an actual, stationary, permanent bedroom is lame. "We don't have to talk. I just want you with me. I need to fall asleep on you. I don't want to go to the house, I want to stay out here, with you. I wanna be with you forever. I wanna grow old with you, man." He gestures messily with his hands to emphasize his point, even though he's pretty sure Puck isn't looking at him.

[but_idontlie]

"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."

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

"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.

[but_idontlie]

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.

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

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."

[but_idontlie]

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.

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

"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?"

[but_idontlie]

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.

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

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..."