( 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

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

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?"

[but_idontlie]

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."

[lormenari.livejournal.com]

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."

[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.