Sam wakes up feeling so fucking, so gloriously relaxed. His head feels distinctly clear, which makes sense because he drank just enough to only get blissfully tipsy at Rachel and St. James’ first ever a-year-and-we’re-still-living-together bash. It’s cold. He’s aware of that because it’s New York in mid-January and he can feel the chill against the tip of his nose since Rachel and St. James keep the heating system at their loft on some too low setting, probably to keep their pores as tiny as possible or something equally ridiculous. And still his body is too warm, his skin buzzing with very much welcome contact under nicely thick and fuzzy covers, — and he doesn’t have to work hard at all to know what’s happened through his so thin morning haze.
Mercedes is nestled against him. He cracks an eye open just to verify that he is, in fact, correct, a too wide grin curving his mouth up when he sees her dark, dark hair spilling wildly over the futon's creamy leather, a wonderful curly halo trailing her beautiful, smooth cocoa profile. His memories are clear: she’d been wrestling with sleepiness as she valiantly tried to continue their impromptu, alcohol-spiked Brooklyn Nine-Nine mini marathon over the din of ex-Glee Club members from both New Directions and Vocal Adrenaline listening to music, walking and dancing, catching up. So he’d just put his arm around her, framed her face with his other hand and guided her snug against his side, over against the crook of his neck, surprised when, following a beat of staying too still, Mercedes slid her arm around his waist and remained put. Her arm around him went slack not too long after a Jake quip, signaling that she’d given up the battle against her tiredness after what Sam had been aware was a chaotic week of performing to hype a second album that kept racking up oodles of well deserved, positive buzz.
How they’d gone from sleeping upright on the cushy pale futon to laying down all tangled up in each other with covers thrown over them is a total mystery, though, knowing their friends, Sam could come up with several possibilities for who’d helped them in getting to a more comfortable position for getting their shut-eye.
Try as he might to ignore it (not that he ever does manage a lot of actively trying, like, at all), a simple fact remains: Sam never wakes up feeling as syrupy awesome (like a huge vat of honey set to absorbing heat under some high, far from cruel summer sun), never wakes up feeling as anchored and right as he does when he’s fallen asleep with Mercedes, so his current state of mellow gleefulness would’ve been clue enough to piece together at least some of what had happened even if he’d drank himself past shitfaced silly and didn’t have the mental tools to arrive at a clear enough recollection of what had gone on the previous night. Licking his bottom lip, he pulls on a deep breath, inevitably searches for the faded scent of her perfume (which, he’d noticed at some point yesterday, is still Sheer by Burberry, the same she’d used when they lived together here in the city). And, just as inevitably, … — Sam does his level best not to move even a single centimeter, doesn’t hesitate for even a fraction of a second in willing himself back to sleeping so that he can stay right where he is, so tangled up with Mercedes that he can feel the motion of it as she breathes all snuggled up against his torso, her leg more than insinuated between both of his.