// coax me // dont coax me

@salem-saint

Remy and his mother had gotten into the habit of self-care days since he left the hospital, she’d taken a few less shifts, and when he had a day off they indulged in masksaqws, wine, and trash tv, or a romcom, whatever they were feeling that week. There was a knock at his door, and Remy’s mom stood up, “Don’t worry about it, I got it, Ma.” He said, assuming it was the pizza they ordered and fished for the cash in his floral robe. Hand in pocket, swirling around for the contents, successfully digging out the charge plus a decent tip, he pulled open the door triumphantly. “Here’s the m—” Halfway through his sentence Remy stopped in his tracks. Salem was at his door. “You’re not Pizza.” By the lack of any logo or steaming box in his hand that much was safe to say. “How did you find out where I live?” It wasn’t like he lived there his whole life. he assumed no one would think he did and wouldn’t be able to find him, since it had been years. In none of the scenarios he composed when they’d meet again was Remy’s face coated in green goo, but time seemed to rewind as they were standing there.

Salem looked down at himself, in mock surprise as if to say: holy shit, you’re right. I’m not pizza. It was just second nature to him, to make light of things. But as he looked at Remy, really looked at him and allowed memories to filter back in, he found that inclination to make jokes fading away. He looked... well, Salem thought. Better than he’d hoped, wrapped up in a floral robe and half hidden behind a horribly unflattering green face mask. Beneath it was still the soft brown eyes of his old best friend.

“I’d have texted,” he said, folding his arms across himself defensively. “But since you’ve declined to answer any of my messages for however many years, I figured turning up on your doorstep unannounced was the best chance I had of actually catching a glimpse of you. But hey, glimpse caught. You’re alive. That’s all I wanted to know. Consider my worries assuaged - don’t let me disturb your evening.” He took a step back, prepared to leave. Salem had sort of accepted, over the years, that Remy had lost interest. Moved on, as everyone seemed to have done. But Salem was here, in Manhasset, and he wouldn’t sleep right until he at least saw that Remy was okay. He might be mad at the way Remy had let things fade, but his anger was born out of worry.

Jules stared at him, fond expression on his face. “You’re such a nerd, Salem St. Ives. How do you even know all that stuff?” He rolled his eyes at the other’s empty threats. He placed a hand on his chest, pushing him away playfully. “It’s such a burden being your muse, honestly.” 

He handed over the Byron book, observing how reverentially Salem held it, the expression on his face. “Will you let me get that for you?” He offered, tentatively. This could go one of two ways. “I missed a lot of birthdays.” 

Salem looked down, amused, as Jules pushed him. “You’re very violent these days.” He commented. Always pushing him, knocking him into the ocean. It made Salem think of little boys pulling the pigtails of the girl they liked, somehow. “And for the record, anyone with ‘doctor’ in their title doesn’t get to accuse anyone of being a nerd. You stayed up late memorising all the bones in the human body. I stayed up late being the bone in someone’s b-- wait, no, don’t push me again, that was crass. I’m sorry.”

It was clear from his grin that he wasn’t the least bit sorry. The grin faded, just for a moment, when Jules offered to buy the book for him. Salem was touched, more than he would admit. This was a side of Jules he’d never seen in school. Defensive and emotionally repressed as he so often is, though, he was quick to affix a grin back onto his face. “Oh, you wanna be my sugar daddy now?”

He’d already seen, several times, how defensive Jules could get, and half expected the offer to be retracted with an eye roll and a ‘never mind’. Salem didn’t know why it was so hard for him to just say ‘that’s really sweet of you, thank you’. Some part of his subconscious was just hellbent on spoiling things.

She tried to keep a ‘calm and cool’ outer image, but inside, Skylar was truly freaking out a little. She’d admitted things to this character – who, at the time, she had no idea was Salem – that she wouldn’t exactly the random passerby. Skylar didn’t know what to make of it all, she couldn’t quite wrap her brain around or comprehend it all – it hadn’t really hit her that this was really happening right now – but it was obvious that he didn’t exactly want the group to know about this either. Maybe this could be their ‘dirty, little secret’ or something; that was an idea that Skylar could get behind.

“Uh, well… yeah, I guess. Well, kind of. Not really a whole ton when I was going through a hard time,” Skylar cringed a little inside saying those words – this was due to her remembering just how much she’d told Salem (again, unknowingly) about her problems with drinking, smoking, how she felt like a total and complete failure, and how the first two things on that list were what she used to cope with such feelings. “But then when I was trying to get better, that’s what I used to try and do something actually.. fucking.. healthy.” Skylar could barely even look Salem in the face right now. She knew that her feelings were so incredibly conflicted at the moment, it was hard to have a serious conversation, and that made every time she met his eyes, hers go the other way. “I could ask the same to you,” she says, suddenly getting a tiny bit defensive. “Since when have you been Mr. Wordsmith, Salem?”

When I was going through a hard time. Salem’s expression sobered at that. He knew Skylar a lot better than he’d bargained for, it turned out. It wasn’t a good feeling, knowing that an old acquaintance - friend - had been going through such a difficult time, and had found it easier to talk to a presumed-stranger on the internet than reaching out to her actual friends. Then again, at least he had been there for her, even if it was without either of them fully comprehending what was going on.

He should have made more of an effort to keep in touch with Skylar - as Skylar, with him as Salem. Not as two anonymous online strangers. Apparently they had more in common than either of them realised. Salem had never struggled as badly as she had, but he could certainly relate to unhealthy coping mechanisms. The hangovers grew worse each time, the meaningless hookups dented his self esteem, the cigarettes drained him of money he didn’t have. 

“Since forever,” he shrugged. “The only thing holding me back from being a teacher’s pet in English was my... oh, how did Mr. Banks phrase it... ‘disruptive and arrogant attitude in class’. But, y’know, insecurities of youth and all that. Couldn’t have you guys knowing I actually experienced the full spectrum of human emotion, obviously.” He looked at Skylar; the defensive look on her face, the clear discomfort. He nudged her hand with his, trying to catch her gaze even as it darted about. “Hey, I’m not gonna tell anyone the stuff we talked about, okay? It’s nobody else’s business.” 

@salem-saint

“Look, asshole, it’s a picture of your dad.” Jules turned the leather bound book he was inspecting around so Salem could see the moody engraving of Lord Byron in the cover. “How does it feel to be the son of the original brooding literature type? Such a burden on you, I’m sure.” He chuckled - finding himself hilarious, as usual - and snapped the book shut. 

The bookstore cafe was on the edge of town, so it was quiet, despite it being the weekend, and Jules didn’t feel bad pulling title after title from the second-hand corner to flick through the pages. 

“I feel like you’re trying to insult me,” Salem said with a lazy grin, “But you know, if I live a life so thrilling that Westminster Abbey refuses my remains on the grounds of questionable morality, I’d consider it an achievement. Also, for the record, you thought my last poem about you was too personal? Keep trying to attack me, princess, I’ll get really mean in my next one.”

He still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up in an old bookstore, in Manhasset, with Julian Campbell. A month ago, he’d have laughed at the idea. But Jules, it turned out, could be fun when he wanted to be. And Jules had, apparently, honed in on Salem’s weakspot: literature. He took the old leatherbound volume from Jules - carefully, so as not to risk damaging it - and turned through the pages, admiring the copperplate handwriting. It was beautiful.

“Hard emphasis on the ‘if’ in that assumption, babe. But I’d be careful if I were you. I’ve got plenty of blackmail of my own. And I’m not afraid to take you don’t with me.”

Salem put his hand to his heart, as though deeply wounded by her threats. “You’d kick a man while he’s down? My life’s a shambles, and here you are threatening me. I thought you treasured me. Here’s the thanks I get for helping you make friends in high school.”

Excited was an understatement. Skylar had been talking online with a fellow writer she’d met online for quite a while now and the fact that they were finally meeting was almost surreal. What took the longest was decide on what to wear, which was atypical for Skylar on any otherwise given day. They’d both decided to wear certain things so they could distinguish one another from the inevitable crowd that would probably be harboring the space (which ended up being correct, the usual for coffee shops these days and the twenty-somethings), but Skylar couldn’t figure out for the life of her an outfit that she felt both comfortable and confident in. Eventually, the task was done, but the mix of excitement and underlying nerves didn’t leave when the day finally rolled around despite her feeling better about her looks.

Skylar opens the door to the place and smooths her hands off on her jeans. They’re a little sweaty in the palms, but she hopes her cup of coffee will help ease that. There was nothing worse than shaking someone’s hand and feeling the moisture of someone else’s nerves. “Hi, yes, just a cup of black coffee, please.” Skylar pays the barista and waits off to the side for her name to be called. Soon, she gets her cardboard in her hand and turns around, looking for the person with the clothing she was meant to be looking for… and when he eyes eventually land on who it is, Skylar is shocked. And that was saying the least. “Salem?” she says, surprise incredibly evident in her voice, and eyebrows raising on the brunette’s forehead. “You’re the one I’ve been talking to all this time?” The chair rubs uncomfortably against the floor and Skylar cringes to herself, quickly sitting down to stop the noise. She sets her cup down in front of her and hangs her bag on the corner of the chair. “I’m not going to lie, I’m very surprised right now.” Skylar tries to laugh it off and make her words seem less harsh (although, she was probably just overthinking that), but she still hopes they don’t come off badly.

"Good, I’d hope this is a surprise.” He grinned. He wasn’t embarrassed - surprised, yes, intrigued, but clearly his secret was out. No point getting worked up about it. “Doesn’t exactly fit in with my edgy bad boy image, I’m aware. But I’m sure you’ll keep my secret, since I now have dirt on you. Well, that and you’re not a horrible gossip, unlike certain others at this table. Did you always write? I had no idea, back in school.”

He had no idea of much at all, when it came to Skylar. Quiet as she was, Salem hadn’t paid her much attention - but he was paying attention now. This reunion of old friends was teaching him a lot about himself. A lot of ugly truths. Today, he learned that ignoring people because they were quiet was only going to cause him to miss out.

“No, no, I’m fine I promise,” Miguel insisted, even though that probably wasn’t true. It wasn’t as if he’d ever stayed up for a day or so straight before. At least he wasn’t on the road anymore, and he’d taken naps anyway. That was good enough for him. Please drive responsibly, children.

“Besides, I’m still working out the bed situation, coffee is in the very immediate future.” As if on the cue the barista called his name, and placed his coffee on the counter. He didn’t argue about paying, but he did make a mental note to get him something later. Honestly, Miguel is just happy that Salem seems to be in good spirits. The other man’s smile makes his brighten, just a touch more than it had been. He spoke again, with his usually sincerity, “It’s nice to see you again, Salem. How have you been? I hope you’ve been doing well…”

Miguel’s high spirits do little to assuage Salem’s guilt. They make it a little worse, actually, as he realised that Miguel clearly didn’t hold grudges. Salem did - but not against Miguel, who had done nothing but try to fit in.

“Bold move, driving all that way without even knowing you’ve got a bed at the end of it,” he commented, setting down some cash for Miguel’s coffee and grabbing his own. “I’m crashing in a motel right now, feel free to use my couch tonight if you’re desperate - and also if you don’t mind stains of uncertain origin. It might be mayo. And I’ve been... decent. Still getting used to having the whole squad back together. A lot’s changed, y’know. How’ve you been? What’ve you been up to all these years?” --Although Salem had tried to keep in touch with most of them, he’d never made that effort with Miguel. At first because he’d not really cared to, and then because he’d felt guilty for that carelessness.

He had a pretty sizeable circle of online friends in the writing community. He felt more comfortable being himself there, posting from the alias he publishes his poems under: Baptiste Benoit. He was in pretty frequent contact with most of them, though he’d not spent much time online since the funeral. When he flew back from France, it was in a hurry. Now that he’s a little more settled, he’d started chatting with his friends again.

The fact that one of them was in Manhasset, too, was too great of a chance to pass up. They’d made plans to meet up at a local bar, exchanging information on what they’d be wearing and what time they’d meet up - and Salem was excited. He rarely talked much about his writing in person, except occasionally with Armelle. She loved poetry. He settled himself at the bar, fruity cocktail in hand (Salem never really acquired a taste for beer, and had no shame in enjoying pina coladas, sex on the beaches, strawberry daiquiris, whatever was colourful and delicious), when the door opened and Skylar walked in. For a second he thought it was a coincidence, but she was wearing the same clothes his online friend had said she’d be wearing. No fucking way.

“Well, shit,” Salem said, brows shooting up. She must have realised, too. “Guess I better stop bitching about how none of you kept in touch all these years, huh?" Christ, the internet was a small place. Had he really been talking to Skylar through internet chatrooms and email for all these years? 

“That cannot possibly be my fault.”

“Well, no, it’s my fault, but you’re currently acting way more suspiciously than I am, so I’m pretty sure you’re gonna get the blame anyway.”

“Oh come on. It’s been over a decade and you still won’t let that go?”

"Absolutely fucking not. I was never your friend because I wanted to have mercy on you, Chuck, I was your friend because we had a beautiful symbiotic relationship of drug and alcohol related experimentation for which we wouldn’t judge each other. If you get married, this photo is coming out at the wedding.”

Moving from one side of the country to the other was not a simple task for anyone. It likely wasn’t something just anyone would be willing to do. But he was here. He’d let the rest of the Squad know that, and if they wanted to check in with him where he could be found if they wanted to come and see him. At least while he sorted things out, and got settled in. Moving from California, back to Manhasset was a bit of a journey, after all. 

So, he took a break before going to fully immerse himself in The Squad’s culture as it were. Coffee sounded like a great idea anyway. He didn’t expect seeing anyone he knew, so when he looked up from his phone as the door to the cafe opened and spotted one of his friends he gave an excited wave. “Hey,” Miguel called. He forwent any awkward ‘oh it’s been so long, how are you doing?’ moment and jumped right into it, “so I just drove 43 hours to get here, and haven’t slept yet. You want a coffee?”

Oh, shit. Miguel was so reliably goddamn sweet. Salem had definitely... taken advantage of that throughout high school. He’d never pretended to be a good person: low hanging fruit was good enough for him. Miguel was dumb, the punching bag was an easy target, and they put up with a lot of his shit as a consequence. His nastiness towards Miguel had never been personal, particularly. It had been down to Salem’s own insecurities, fearing that Miguel’s arrival was going to change the dynamic between him and his friends.

But here they are, ten years on, and Miguel clearly still doesn’t hold a grudge. The smile is definitely more than Salem deserves. He hesitates, wondering if he can really refuse. He didn’t want to be faced with the memories of his own bullying tendencies, but he also didn’t want Miguel to think that he was still out to hurt his feelings. So after a moment, Salem smiles: it’s less relaxed than Miguel’s, but he does try. “Forty three hours? Fuck, Miguel, you don’t need coffee, you need a bed. But sure - I’m buying.” He’d just gotten his paycheck from his publisher, and it was better than he’d hoped. Salem’s still far from financially stable, but he’s not worried about making it through the month, at least.

Skylar couldn’t help but chuckle at that. And she would have tried to make a witty comment in response, but suddenly the conversation was switched quickly to her hair. Although the girl had just thought about what had happened before coming down to the pool, the act had slipped her mind whilst talking to Salem. Now that he’d brought it up again and brought the thought back to mind, Skylar had no choice but to think about it again. What’s worse, she blushed at his compliment, looking down at the water – flowing peacefully below her. “Oh, God, don’t even that to herself,” she laughs, looking back at him again (with hopes that her face had returned back to its natural color from the slight pink that it’d become). “I’m no hairdresser, I was just doing what I’ve seen in videos and shit.” She takes a hand through the side of her head. The new length and lightness of it all did feel good; maybe she should do stuff like this more often. Skylar had always wanted to get a piercing – maybe now that she had a little savings and could control more of what she did thanks to her life not revolving around her family anymore, she should make an appointment to do that. She’d have to think about it a little more. For now, the brunette kept the idea in mind while focusing again on talking. “Anyway, thanks though. I appreciate the compliment.” She smiles a little, then splashes the water with her toe. “At least it turned out good and not, like, completely fucked up.”

She really wasn’t confident. Sometimes Salem wondered how badly high school had fucked them all up. Was it their fault, for not encouraging Skylar to participate more, that she struggled to hear a compliment without ducking her head? When she looked up, her cheeks were flushed. It made him smile. She was cute. There was something very sweet in her shy acceptance of the compliment. At the same time, it made him feel bad, because it was just a small, passing comment, really. He regretted not being nicer to all of them; he hadn’t known how to deal with his feelings, how to admit that he relied on his friends, so he’d ended up treating most of them badly. As if it was their fault he was uncertain with his feelings.

“You’re either very lucky, or harbouring hitherto unsuspected talents. Wouldn’t surprise me - Kai makes the fucking best scrambled eggs, it turns out, and I wouldn’t have guessed that. Frankly, when Kota turned up looking like Mr. Universe I realised I never knew any of you at all. I’m glad we did this, drunk mistakes aside.” Everyone could have done without the sight of him in a crop top, he was fairly sure.

Jules glanced back over at Salem. The more he was seeing of him, the more Jules was becoming convinced that Salem was playing the part expected of him for everyone’s benefit apart from his own. He didn’t spit out the mocking nickname ‘princess’ with any malice, Jules didn’t believe it was the last apology he’d be receiving. It sounded rather well practiced, when he thought about it. With great struggle, he dragged himself up, only to sit back down at the edge of the pool next to Salem, letting his legs dangle in the pool. The water made him feel slightly less grotty.

He felt his face burning at the reference to the lap dance that Jenny had made him give Salem last night. His other option was to confess that he’d had a crush on the other man to the whole room, which had not appealed to him in the least – he realised, with a sigh, that in choosing Salem he’d essentially played himself anyway, it must have been obvious. “Can we not talk about that please,” he requested, staring at the water. “I’m not much of a dancer.” Salem was really taking the whole ‘pretend nothing was said to save Jules’ feelings’ a bit far, Jules thought. It was bordering on sarcasm now.

“I’m sure you can’t think of any other reasons,” he rolled his eyes. Best to leave it. He didn’t want to talk about it with Salem of all people. They both seemed to be pointedly avoiding the topic. “I’m not actually going to leave - I do have to go into the city to work for a bit - I just thought it would be more dramatic if I pretended I was, you know? See if everyone was just pretending to want me gone, or if they really mean it…” 

Jules was very cagey about the dance, brushing the topic off as if it made him uncomfortable. Which, on the one hand, was fair. But on the other hand, they’d all done stupid things last night. Salem had improvised a poem on the spot while wearing Cleo’s clothes. Pride and dignity were long gone concepts, by this point.

He considered telling Jules that he’d enjoyed the dance, but he didn’t want to push his luck. His compliments were often misread, interpreted as teasing rather than genuine, so he decides to let it go. Much like Jules’ reasons for wanting to leave - Salem couldn’t think of any other reasons, truly. He must have missed something, or forgotten. It didn’t seem too unlikely, given how drunk he’d been. His head was still pounding, and he rested it briefly against the cool, wet tiles on the ground before turning his head back to Jules, cheek resting on his hands.

“You do have a flair for drama,” he said, flicking water at Jules. “I’m sorry, was that supposed to be the part where I begged you to stay? Please, Jules, we’re all having so much fun, it won’t be the same without you, we love you, all that jazz? Sorry. Brain’s a little slow right now. I might still be a little drunk, frankly. Wait--” he blinked, frowning thoughtfully as Jules’ words processed in his mind. “Who wants you gone? Sammy’s not still giving you a hard time, is he?” Samuel had always been a little... resentful of Jules’ presence, but he hadn’t realised that grudge had carried forward into adult life.