believe in ghosts? — salem. & lysander.

A few weeks into meeting this guy and here they were, in the forest, hunting for fireflies.

Salem’s hand kept reaching for the little dagger he carried in his bag, and it was getting painstakingly annoying. No matter how hard he battled the urge, his fingertips trailed up and up, desperate for the comfort his body knew the blade would offer. He wouldn’t call the urge unreasonable, too. If anything, it was the contrary—it was purely reasonable. The other male was someone he had only known for a weeks because of a shared interest in the supernatural.

Well, somewhat of a shared interest.

Lysander believed there were ghosts in the world and came to Salem’s apothecary with questions; Salem capitalized said belief by saying they would have to hunt fireflies because only their lights would reveal ghosts after he performed a somewhat costly ritual on them.

Costly, as in a pouch worth of coins.

Costly, as in gourmet meals for weeks.

He had no guilt about lying.

Well, maybe some guilt but it was ultimately trampled by the prospect of luxurious dinners, by the prospect of caramelized onions with buttered, well-done steak, charred artichoke hearts, pasta smoldered in glossy tomato sauce, pie for breakfast. God, he could even buy the expensive wines that somewhat smelled summery.

Salem skidded to a halt as his stomach growled loudly.

As his cheeks flushed from embarrassment, he was suddenly thankful for the soft darkness that flowed around them. “Eh, we should be around the spot soon. Hopefully, ‘soon’ should be before it starts raining,” his brown eyes glanced skyward at the darkening clouds that were slowly engulfing the silver moon, “or, ha-ha, if something in the woods tries to eat us!” A snort of laughter left Salem before he continued trudging onward, dancing away from gnarled woods, leaping over mushroom stools.

“So what’s your deal, blondie? Is there a particular ghost you want to see?” He spun around on a heel, and began to walk backwards, grinning at Lysander in the dark. “Is it a ghost loooover? God, that’s so edg—”

Salem never finished the word, because suddenly he was down on the grass, having tripped over a root.

“I am fine.” He was not fine. “I am fine, I am fine.”

He feebly tugged himself back onto his feet with the grace of a newborn fawn, then patted the dirt away from his trousers. As Salem spun back around, facing the forest with renewed determined, of course he stumbled back again as an owl descended from the trees and flew over his head. This time though, it was accompanied by a blood-curdling scream that could had effortlessly come from a gothic horror heroine. This time, he rocked back, foot caught in another wretched tangle of roots, and this time, he stumbled into Lysander’s form, taking the male down with him.

The thought Salem had as they fell was a plea for ghosts to not be real, because he knew with iron certainty that they would be giggling at him in ghostly crackles.