It's a lonely Christmas. Finn thought it wasn't fair for him to be lonely on his favorite holiday of the year. He'd probably call Rachel, see if he could lie about butt dialling her, but Rachel's on some cruise (isn't cruising a gay thing? Kurt had said it was a gay thing. Wait, is Rachel gay now?) Burt is with Kurt. His mom has a shift on Christmas Day and yeah. Finn is alone. With nothing but his pale blue walls and his old football trophies and xBox for company. Sure, Burt and his mom had saved up and got him a 5th gen iPod touch for Christmas, but was a 5th gen iPod touch really enough to erase the sheer frisson of abandonment he has experienced from the Berrys, and the Hudsons, and the Hummels?
No, Finn thought. It wasn't.
All he had to do, though, was reach for his iPhone and hit that familiar button and within ten minutes? Puck was there.
Three beers, and a spinning room later, and the hot and heavy hand presses deep inside him, makes him tilt his hips up to stop his hard dick rubbing against his bedsheets because - god - he'll come like this with the friction alone, and now?
Yeah.
Puck is here. Right with him.
In him.
Puck's breath, tinged mossy and earth damp with beer hits the back of the former Quarterback's broad neck in heaving pelts as his beer-slick, spit-slick fingers scissor and glide and turn and twist into Finn's twitching, pulsing channel. Finn groans, his hole gripping Puck's digits like the tightest wrench in Hummel Tires and Lube.
"Wait!" It's a great idea. God, the beers they've had seems to be making him as foggy as the amber liquid contained within those dangerous bottles. "Lube? Don't we need?"
"Ssh," Puck groans, sliding his hand to cup Finn's ten inch erection with his other hand as he squeezes, Finn groaning as he's fully hard in his best friend's delicious fist. "No, no, we're good."
"Oh." Finn's voice floats in front of him like a ghost. "Oh. Okay then. Can you - uh, condom?"
"Yeah, dude. Yeah."
There's a rip. It makes Finn's back arch like a jungle cat, makes him shake and makes him shudder, and then Puck is inside him. Inside him, not fingers now but his dick, and it's been inside so many other asses, but now it's his. It's truly his. It's his for the taking.
"Puck! Puck! Puck!" he chants.
Drunk. Disconnected. His mouth somehow meets Puck, sloppy and sweet and slick as they slide together on Finn's target bedsheets, his Hudson Bay Company blanket scratching the soft skin of Finn's back, but it feels good, it all feels good, and he's so fucking drunk what does it even matter now anyway?
Puck matters.
This matters.
Getting off. Getting one over.
He wraps his legs around Puck's back, crossing them at the ankle as he comes wet and messy in ropes against his stomach. With a groan, a stutter and a weak cry, he winces as he feels Puck fill up the condom, the warmth of his essence searing hot like a brand through the latex barrier.
"Oh god," Finn groans. He slaps his hand to his forehead, his dick flopping like a fallen sundial against his toned stomach. "Oh god, oh god."
The room spins. He hears noises. He won't look up. He won't look at Puck. He can't tell him. No.
No, no, no.
Then, Finn's room is silent. Maybe he's asleep? Passed out? Blacked out so he won't remember, and how did he even get undressed? Only the sounds of an old chip packet rustling across the floor are audible as it scatters across the beige carpet and hits the pale blue wall with a gust of wind from the wide-open window. Suddenly, Finn wraps his large arms around his broad, toned chest, his tiny nipples hardening into cherry red peaks, matching the cherry red blush on his face. It's so cold. So, so cold. Physically and emotionally. His heart aches like it's wrapped tightly in a funeral shroud as he makes a choked-out sob and stands up, pushing his bedsheets to the floor.
"Puck."
He walks over to the other man who is staring out the window. He's dressed, somehow. Twin globes of his ass clad in his Star Wars briefs and a white tank top clinging to strong, broad, tanned, ropes of muscle. It makes Finn's dick twitch again in interest. Not now, he tells himself. Not now.
"Puck!" Finn repeats.
When Puck turns around, his face is a sketch of shame and regret. Tears from down from his hazelnut eyes, forming twin snail trails of sorrow, the salty liquid falling into his downturned mouth which Finn wants to lick and kiss away so badly, taste the sadness, erase the salt. Erase the hurt on his best friend's face.
"I'm sorry," Puck mutters. "We fucked up. I fucked up. Leaving Cali, there's -"
"No!" Finn protests. "No, you didn't. We didn't fuck anything up."
"There's nothing for me here," Puck repeats. "I'm nothing."
"Then let's be nothing together."
"Don't go!" Finn blurts out, knocking over an errant bottle of PBR with his clumsy, large foot. The liquid sizzles over his foot like some sort of brand, grounding him in the moment. "Puck, don't go! Please!"
Puck's eyes glisten like the Star of David hanging around his neck as he takes the larger Quarterback's hands in his, rubbing his guitar-calloused thumbs over Finn's knuckles. "I won't," he repeats, a litany falling over his tongue like the finest cocoon of silk threads. "I won't, I won't, I won't."
"I love you man!" Finn wraps his arms tightly around Puck, running his large maws up and down the thin fabric of Puck's tank top, the sweat still palpable through the gossamer threads. "I love you! I love you so much. I don't want to lose you, ever."
"Love you too, man," Puck sobs back. "Oh, and bro?"
Finn smiles his characteristic lopsided smile. "Yea?"
"Call me Noah."