fic: when I retreat
Title: When I Retreat
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG, at the most.
Warnings: None, really, unless you count boykisses and lots of fluff and awkwardness.
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Rory, mentions of Sam/Quinn, Sam/Santana, and Sam/Mercedes
Summary: "Advice" turns out to be a little more complicated than Sam first imagined, especially when it comes to first kisses.
Author Notes: Basically Sam and Rory had all this CHEMISTRY and all these FEELS in 3x09 and now I ship it quite a lot mmhm. I've never written Sam or Rory before, so I'm still settling into these characters and concrit is luurrrvely as usual. I'm also looking for a beta at the moment, so if you'd be willing then please mention that in a comment :3 thank you, and enjoy :3 Feedback is always wonderful.
When Rory had asked Sam to help him get a "snog or two" on Valentines' Day, Sam had been expecting to be standing five feet away with a prompt for an impression and a hamburger if it didn't work out well, not pressed up against the wall behind Breadstix.
He thinks Rory must have thought the same thing two months ago when they were clutching bells and blinking snowflakes out of their eyes, but the kid's staring at him with his big eyes and flushed cheeks and his gaze keeps flickering to Sam's mouth. Which is slightly terrifying. Rory had called him earlier, sounding quite breathless, promising to pay for a shared platter of Breadstix' best lasagne in return for some advice. Everyone loves Breadstix, and Sam hadn't been there for a while, so he'd agreed.
He's kind of regretting his love of cheap, cook-from-frozen pasta.
Rory hasn't spoken a word for two whole minutes; his hands press into Sam's shoulders with a surprising strength (and stripping really doesn't take much out of him so he's not as fit, and it would be a little bit harder to push him away, and that's totally why he can't move) and his scarf is brushing against Sam's jacket. The proximity sets a weight low in Sam's abdomen and he can't help but stare right back.
"Um." The wall behind Sam scrapes his palms, but it's something to hold on to. "What - what are you doing?"
Rory bites his lip and leans a tiny fraction closer, eyes still huge and shining. "Can I tell you a secret?"
"S-sure," Sam stammers, heart starting to pound. "I mean, you could tell me this anywhere, dude."
"No," Rory mumbles, face going even redder and finally turning away from him. "It's - it's silly."
"Hey." Sam swallows and pats Rory's arm. "It's not stupid."
"I haven't even told you what it is yet," Rory whispers, puzzled.
"Secrets aren't stupid," Sam replies, offering Rory a shaky grin. "Are you gonna let me up yet?"
"No," Rory says again, gaze drifting briefly upwards before dropping to his feet again.. "I've never kissed anyone, Sam."
"Dude." Sam claps him on the shoulder. "There's no rush."
"But I want to have kissed somebody," Rory says plaintively. "It sounds - fun. And stuff."
"It is." Rory's tongue traces his bottom lip and heat floods Sam's neck, so he looks away. February nights are still cold and dark, dragging out the winter as long as possible, and Sam can see cars rocketing past on the freeway, lights tiny pinpricks in the blackness.
"Sam." Rory's voice is barely there, only just carrying on the icy wind whistling through the twisting, empty branches of the trees around them. Sam turns to face him, still held against the wall by Rory's gloved hands, and finds himself sliding his own hands over the crook of each of Rory's elbows because Rory is looking at him again. "Can I ask something of you?"
"Go ahead," Sam says, a hush settling over them as the traffic dies down.
"Would you mind-" Rory stops and lets go of Sam's shoulders, folding in on himself. "Nah. I shouldn't have called you, Sam, you're after Mercedes, it isn't right."
"What do you mean - oh."
Well.
Sam Evans likes girls, really - was head over heels for Quinn, liked to watch Santana's hips move while she danced with him and thinks about Mercedes more than anybody else - but there's something about the way Rory tucks his hands under his armpits and stares resolutely at the ground that tugs at him; his heart, the pit of his stomach, his fingertips. Said fingertips are reaching out, touching Rory's cheek and tilting his chin up.
"It's okay," Sam murmurs, stepping minutely closer (there was never much space between them to begin with) and inclining his head slightly. "I'll kiss you, Rory."
Rory flushes bright red and his mouth drops open, and Sam takes the opportunity to lean down and press his own to Rory's bottom lip. Rory squeaks and goes still, unresponsive, but when Sam pulls away after a second he follows him, tongue peeking out slightly from inside his mouth. Sam exhales heavily and lets go of his cheek, gaze averted.
"Wait," Rory catches Sam's hand and hesitates for a moment, but then pulls him back towards him. There's very little difference in height; Rory's nose pushes into Sam's cheek, but his mouth is soft and warm and eager, pressing insistently and very messily. Sam smiles and his thumb brushes over Rory's cheekbone before he moves away.
"Oh." Rory clutches the front of Sam's jacket for a second before coming back to himself and letting go, stuffing his hands into his pockets and rotating slowly on the spot. "Right."
Sam clears his throat and indicates the restaurant with his head. "So. You owe me some lasagne, dude."
"You kissed me and you're asking me to pay for lasagne," Rory deadpans, brows furrowed under his beanie.
"Yeah." Sam shrugs. "You promised."
"But I didn't even ask for any advice."
"I thought that was pretty good advice," Sam quips, grinning at Rory's instant blush. "Come on, I'm hungry."
"Oh - okay." Rory goes to move past Sam and trips over his own feet, grumbling at Sam's badly muffled laughter. "Shut up."
"About what?"
"Two things," Rory hisses. "I might not buy you any breadsticks if you aren't careful."