party like a rockstar, c

There aren't many people Salem likes. There aren't many people that Salem can even stand to be around, and its the highest honour, getting invited over, spending time with Salem that was willing on his part.

Truthfully, he's already a bit drunk and a bit lonely when he calls Rhea. He doesn't really do parties - he used to, nonstop, and there's a catalogue of photographs of him stumbling out of clubs and with his hands on the waists of pretty girls at after-parties. Now, he usually drinks alone. He calls it a party if he has one or two guests.

It's a party, the two of them lounging in the tastefully decorated living room, the glass coffee table ringed with cup marks. Rhea's on the floor, and Salem is looking down at her, draped across the couch. They've been mixing drinks, and they're easing down from hard shots with their second bottle of wine now.

His head is on the arm rest, his hair cascading down the side of the couch and onto the floor. Salem scoffs. "I try not to think of 'em." His speech is startlingly clear, still, though sounds amused with himself.

Salem shrugs, though she probably can't see it. He adjusts his grip on the neck of the wine bottle and brings it up to his lips for a swallow, swishes it around, wondering how much is left. Though there's always more.

"I don't even remember the fuckin' lineup anymore." He says, and he's only half joking. "Parade of idiots." He swigs more wine at the mention of Maverick. Even his name on someone else's lips is enough to leave a bad taste in his mouth and he washes it down.

At the mention of Viola, he can only chuckle. Even drunk as he is, Salem can see a reason not to bring it up. It's not a fling to brag about, really, but she's certainly not as shy between the two of them. In sobriety he feels vaguely guilty, maybe even slightly disgusted with himself. But fuck if he's going to think about that now.

Instead, he decided to loop things back to Maverick. That wasn't as bitter a subject. Just an infuriating one. "Do we even need him?"

"I'll look into it." He says gruffly. Truthfully, Salem doesn't get much say in the lineup – because apparently he's never satisfied. Maverick isn't a bad guitarist - as long as everyone can agree that Salem is better, Salem is more experienced, and Salem is the kid's worth critic.

"Actually, it was my bed." Actually, it was more than once. Salem and Viola are no secret, but it's nothing he brags about, maybe for her sake. It's one thing talking about some bitch he met at a club, and it's a different thing to talk about some bitch that's in the band.

Salem props himself up on an elbow, looks at Rhea. Her glass is approaching empty, and so is his bottle. He likes Rhea drunk, he likes Rhea not afraid to say what's on her mind. Salem has learned to always be this way, but some alcohol to help things doesn't hurt. "You sound," he leans over to pour some more wine for her. "Like you want a play by play." He teases, grinning down at her.

If Rhea understands how little influence Salem actually has in the line up, she doesn't mention it. Thankfully. Salem is in a good mood, but drunk is always volatile, prone to flipping to the other side of the coin at a moment's notice, or a moment's mistake.

He decides for the third time that night, he likes Rhea. He hopes she sticks around. He likes her as a friend, the sort he can't imagine fucking around with, the sort who doesn't have any interest in fucking around, not with him, at least.

Though come to think about it, he's never known her to sleep around. Not that Salem's been paying much attention.

"Truth or dare?" He says, before sitting back to knock back some more wine himself. There's a lapse of silence as they both work on their drinks, and then Salem cuts through it with a laugh. They aren't high school students stealing wine coolers, they aren't going to play that dumb game. "No, that's fucking stupid... You pick truth - when's the last time you got fucked?"

@rhea

Rhea isn't a lady, and Salem doesn't feel bad asking her invasive questions. Maybe he's just too drunk to really care. At least, she's just a drunk as he is, enough to answer.

Salem snorts, taking a long draught of wine, draining the last of it while she's thinking. He doesn't try to hide the scoff when she finally answers.

"Was that the first time too? No wonder you're such a bitch- you, you, need to get. fuckin. laid." He advises, waving the empty bottle around with his motions. It's more a joke than anything - Rhea is definitely not bad looking, he just doesn't see what's stopping her - they have fans, plenty that want a piece of her.

He almost goes to take another drink before he remembers its empty, and he puts it down on the ground by the couch. "We're out." He groans. He knows he has more alcohol somewhere, a supply that never ends, he just doesn't know if he can be assed to get up and find it.

@rhea