Hey guise! TOMORROW IS SUPERBOWL GLEE SUNDAY! Finally after what, two months we'll finally have a new episode! I'm pretty exciteeed!
In this chapter we'll dive a little deeper into Sam's character. Not too much but just enough to leave you wanting more!
Thank you all for reading, reviewing and favoriting!
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.
This was so ridiculous.
He was feeling like this over another boy.
A freaking boy.
He wasn't gay.
Samuel Evans wasn't-
…
Who was he kidding, honestly?
He wasn't gay, that was for sure.
But these feelings that manifested whenever Kurt was around…
He just wanted to kiss the boy and in the heat of passion throw him onto the nearest bed. He wanted to feel Kurt writhing underneath him, his hot breath in Sam's ear as he begged Sam 'please'. Their groins pressed together as Sam pressed another desperate kiss against Kurt's lips and his hands searched wildly for the handle on life but only finding Kurt's soft, feathery hair. To feel the tight fabric rip underneath his searching hands and free Kurt of the binds of brand names and for their skin to embrace and their lips meet each other once more. Sam pressing himself inside of Kurt's tightness and they become one, breathing for the first time and being born again in the arms of one another.
That wasn't gay.
Totally.
Sam had never been attracted to any male in his entire life.
He didn't think twice about being gay.
Why did he have to?
Sure he didn't interact with many girls but that didn't mean he was gay.
He was just different.
But Kurt…he turned the entire world upside down.
He sat up on his bed and glanced over to the lamp in the closet.
The shade was slightly tilted from being pressed against the wall, and the cord had become loose from the neck and was starting to slowly slide down the base. It was one of those grandma lamps with water color flowers painted on the white base. The shade was probably white in the first World War but now it was a sickly yellow.
Fucking lamp.
He hated it.
He hated that fucking lamp.
Why was it even here? There was a room light on the ceiling.
Weren't lamps condemned to hotel rooms?
Then again this room was sort of like a hotel room. Sam wondered how many Secret Service agents had stayed here before him. How many men slept in this bed, in these sheets? How many suits had that closet seen? How many pairs of feet had walked over this carpet? How many pairs of dull eyes watched the old television with feigned interest? How many men cried into this pillow at night?
How many people made love in this bed?
None, Sam guessed.
He got up and brought the lamp back onto the nightstand before lying on his stomach and watching the lamp.
The cord hung even looser now around the base and it was slowly sneaking down to rest on the nightstand.
Fucker.
It was mocking him.
It all was.
This room was mocking him.
It screamed his fate of forever being alone. He was going to be just another suit in the closet, literally.
But he didn't want to be.
He wanted to be different. He didn't want his name in history books he wanted his name in the memories of people he affected. People he helped. He didn't want glory. He wanted appreciation for the things he did for others. He wanted to be recognized by his peers for his work.
He wanted love.
That was new.
He thought he'd forgotten what love was years ago.
He thought love died with his mother.
Maybe it died with his innocence.
Who knows.
Maybe it died twice.
The second time was a little more final than the first.
The stinging on his cheek seemed to be the last nail in the coffin.
Humans died only once. Love seemed to die a little more every day.
Why was he doing this to himself?
This position.
The lamp in front of him.
His hands curled under his chest and his head tilted, resting against the headboard.
His legs slightly spread apart behind him.
Right down to the ache on his cheek.
It seemed that history didn't care about traumatizing events, it would repeat anyway.
He was seven when it happened. When he happened.
Sam's grandfather had been in the Secret Service as well. It was a noble tradition and every man in his family had been a member. It was the family tradition for men, and somehow the women in the family were found in the same way.
Sam's mother was a secretary at the White House and often brought Sam's father coffee with a light blush on her cheeks. It had taken Sam's father years to figure out that she was flirting.
Sam's grandmother was a nurse at the hospital his grandfather landed in after an attempt at the president's life. Sam's grandfather took the bullet and he was a hero for it.
Everyone loved a hero right?
A hero was praised and given medals, awards, recognitions. A hero got free meals wherever he went. Stores wanted heroes to promote their products. People wanted pictures and autographs. A hero got only the best.
He also got what he wanted.
Even if Sam wasn't willing to give it.
He was seven. Seven.
Sam's grandfather had been his hero besides his dad. He saw the way people looked at him. Respected him and loved him. He was a hero to Sam.
He begged and begged and finally Sam's grandfather gave in. He was going to a conference to be recognized with another award and Sam wanted to go. He wanted to sit there in the front and be proud to say that the man being honored was his grandpa. His.
He remembered sitting on his mother's lap, his father on his side. Everyone was dressed up in their best in the hotel ballroom. There were hundreds of people there with smiles. They all walked over to Sam and his parents and told them how lucky they were to have such a fantastic man in their lives. Some teased Sam how he had some big shoes to fill and Sam smiled politely. He only wished to be half the man his grandfather was.
Now he wanted no part in that.
He was going to be his own man. He was going to create his own legacy and he was going to do it on his own terms.
But first he had to figure out who he was.
He was Sam Evans, youngest Secret Service member in history.
He was a son.
A grandson.
A friend.
A singer.
Could he be a lover?
…he was going to damn well try to be.