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Tango is twenty-seven years old, and he is in the best years of his life.
He lives in a gorgeous house in a gorgeous neighbourhood in a gorgeous city.
He works his dream job, making his dream salary. He’s the employee of the month, the year, even! In fact, he just got a promotion.
He’s got the best friends he could ever ask for. They’re kind and understanding and helpful and perfect.
He loves them, he does.
And he loves his life as well.
He’s doing well; he’s doing the best.
And then, on a Thursday in the middle of March, he picks himself up and moves away.
On the Tuesday, he quits his job, on the Wednesday, he calls his landlord, and on the Thursday, he texts his friends while eating a cold burrito at a petrol station already halfway across the country.
Some may call it a quarter-life crisis, Tango calls it saving his own fucking life.
You know that feeling that’s like a spider crawling up the inside of your spinal cord? Or maybe you feel it differently, is it a colony of ants under your skin? A hive of bees in your eardrums? A centipede creeping its way down your throat?
Maybe you don’t feel any of that. Maybe that’s just a Tango thing, strange and off-putting as ever.
But either way, it’s real, and it’s there, and it’s painful.
He had to leave, he had to get out. He had to save himself, even at the cost of everything else.
***
What do you think is the least likely job for a former engineer to get? Take a moment, don’t be scared, guess.
Was it the groundskeeper for a graveyard? Because that certainly wasn’t Tango’s first idea.
Who even knew a job like that could show up on Jobseeker? With that quick apply button, there like all the rest?
It seemed altogether too… whimsical.
But his resume was already uploaded, and he clicked that quick apply button, and four hours later, they sent him an email.
There was a mansion there once, belonging to one of those old rich families. Then, it was knocked down to build a series of countryside Airbnbs.
The company went bankrupt days after the last wall fell.
Now the family needs someone to keep the former mansion’s small church and attached graveyard intact until they can sell it to the next conglomerate.
And Tango is exactly the man for the job.
***
The house they gave him is nicer than he expected.
It’s run down, sure, and it takes him less than an hour to find the first leak. But it has a dishwasher, a comfy lounge, and two whole bedrooms.
Someone must have come through and cleaned recently; the place smells of bleach. And yet, Tango can see a coffee cup stain on the wooden table, and there are tally marks on the desk in the spare bedroom.
Everything is covered in a fresh layer of paint, hiding any secrets the walls may have held, and yet, it is clear that someone lived here.
Tango wonders who they were.
He combs the property that first day, the locked church, the crumbling graveyard, the rolling hills, and the pine forest in the distance.
He looks forward to a summer's day on those hills.
***
There’s not much to do, really, Tango finds. He weeds the graveyard and the area around the church, he mows the grass around the plot of building land, and he gets to work scrubbing some of the graves, even as it’s not really part of the job description.
It seems like a bit much, really, to hire someone live-on, and a week into the job, Tango finds himself a bit bored.
That afternoon, he gets back to his cabin, dirty hands and a sweaty back, and finds that his shower towel has been moved. Where it once sat folded in the cupboard, it is now on his kitchen floor, soaking up a pool of water on the ground.
Tango mops up the water and hangs up the towel, resolving to buy himself a spare one in town tomorrow.
He decides that it’s probably nothing, and the next day, he can’t seem to find his favourite mug.
***
It only takes Tango until the end of the month to decide that he’s haunted, which is, honestly, far longer than it should have taken.
It’s never been that he hasn’t believed in ghosts; it’s more that ghostly happenings have never really been all that important to his life.
None of his close family is dead, he’s never lived near a graveyard, and as far as he’s concerned, all those commercialised ‘ghost hunters’ would do better to leave well enough alone.
It’s not that surprising, with a graveyard one hundred metres from his doorstep, but haunted isn’t an awfully convenient thing to be.
First the mug, then his torch, then the rock he collected from the creek in the forest.
He comes home to the milk carton half empty, the cupboards left half open, and a half-full cup of Earl Grey on his countertop.
There’s a pillow on the couch cushion he never sits on, and a book he’s never read on the coffee table, and there is popcorn swept under the rug.
It’s like having a particularly busy roommate. You never see them, just the signs of where they were.
And sure, his new roommate is a bit messy, but Tango’s had worse.
Then, the day before he goes to the shops, right when he’s run out of bread, his car keys go missing.
He shouldn’t have had to go looking; he drops them in the same bowl by the door every time he comes home, but he needed to do his due diligence.
Now, having given up hope, Tango stands in the middle of the loungeroom with his hands on his hips. This seems like a pretty typical poltergeist situation. Surely they’ll listen to reason.
“Hey, dude. I’ve been really chill with you drinking my tea and reading my books. I don’t even care about the popcorn on the floor, I swear.”
It feels so stupid. Talking to yourself in your own home, where you undoubtedly do live alone.
“But, I really need those keys back. I need salad, and bread, and I know you’re the one using up the oat milk I bought accidentally, so if you want any more of it, I’m going to have to go shopping.”
Still stupid. Still so stupid. Why did he decide to believe in ghosts in the first place?
“I’m going to go do some weeding, okay? I’ll be back in an hour, and it would be great if I could have my keys back by then.”
Nothing.
“Thanks.”
Idiot.
***
When Tango gets home, he finds his keys placed neatly in his bowl by the door. Above it is the corkboard he’s never gotten around to putting anything on, and pinned to it, a note.
Shopping List:
- Oat Milk
- Red velvet double stuffed oreos
The next afternoon, Tango gets home from the shops and places a packet of red velvet double-stuffed Oreos on the counter.
It’s gone the next morning.
***
That afternoon, Tango gets home from attempting to power wash the cobblestone path leading to the church, to find a man sitting on his couch, eating Oreos.
Tango is wet, and muddy, and feels incredibly gross. It’s not the best circumstance under which to meet your ghost.
“Hey,” Tango says.
The ghost turns, a smile spreading across quite a pretty face. “Tango! It’s great to see you, thanks for the Oreos.”
“No problem, man,” Tango hesitates. “Do you, ah, want some tea?”
“Yes, please.” The ghost seems incredibly happy to see him. “Earl Grey, please, with two sugars and no milk.”
“Sure thing.”
Tango excuses himself to the kitchen to hyperventilate and have a minor existential crisis.
He does make the tea, and the crisis really is quite minor, which he’s proud of.
When he returns, he finds the ghost still sitting on the couch, but now he is cross-legged, hands in his lap like a child. Criss-cross applesauce.
He has teal hair, cut messily and nearly hitting his shoulders, and his eyebrows seem permanently raised in a pleasant, surprised expression.
He’s half translucent, and through him, Tango can see that the cushions he sits on aren’t indented at all.
“Hi,” Tango says hesitantly.
“Hello, Tango,” he’s still smiling.
“How do you, ah, know my name?”
The ghost shrugs, “You talk to yourself sometimes.”
“Oh.”
“And also it’s on your mail.”
Tango glances open to the pile of unopened envelopes on his kitchen counter.
“That makes sense.”
“There are a lot of people sending you letters. Are you going to reply to them?”
Tango winces.
The vast majority of the pile are new residency things, advertisements, and the occasional bill notice. But set in their own separate pile are five others, four from Skizz, one from Impulse.
He’s not sure he’s ever going to reply to them. He should put them in the cupboard somewhere, but instead, he leaves them out.
To torture himself, he guesses.
“Eventually.” Tango shrugs.
“Great,” says the ghost. “Can I read them when you do?”
“No,” Tango says. “No, thank you.”
The ghost frowns, “Really? I’ve been really nice not reading them.”
“I’m sorry, but not doing something someone wouldn't want you to do doesn’t entitle you to it once you ask.”
The ghost looks at him for a long moment. “I suppose that’s fair.”
Tango takes a sip of his tea, the ghost hasn’t touched his own, and just stays watching him.
“So,” Tango hedges. “Are you the one haunting me?”
“Haunting is a really strong word, you know.”
“What would you call it?”
The ghost shrugs his narrow shoulders, “Hanging out? Using your facilities? It’s nice to have someone in the house again.”
“Okay.” Tango runs his hand through his hair. “What’s your name then?”
The ghost smiles again. “Scott! It’s nice of you to ask.”
“Is that passive-aggressive?"
“Only a little.”
“To be fair, you learnt my name by snooping.”
“It would have been hard not to, when you just leave things around like you do.”
“Or,” Tango says, “you could have not haunted me.”
“That seems like a bad idea.”
“Why?”
“It would have been boring.”
Tango smiles, Scott takes a sip of his tea.
“I’m surprised you can drink tea. Or eat Oreos, I guess," he gestures to the packet on the coffee table between them.
“I was surprised too when I found out, it’s a nice addition to the afterlife though. Don’t you think?”
Tango nods, taking one of the Oreos from the packet. “Yeah, being dead would suck if you couldn’t eat cookies.”
***
It’s two days later, just after he finishes making his lunch, that Tango next sees Scott.
He’s not afraid to say that he’s a little sad about how long it takes. Scott had been weird and transparent and presumptuous, but he had also been interesting to talk to.
Tango grabs his lettuce from the counter and brings it over to the fridge to put it away, but when he turns around to do the same with his salami, he finds his ghost on the counter, eating the salami right out of the packet.
“Hi, Scott,” Tango says, switching the direction of his stride to lean back against the opposite counter instead. “Do you have to be eating my salami?”
“Mhm,” Scott nods, slipping another circle into his mouth. His tongue extends to grab it before it passes his lips, which Tango finds himself fixated on.
“Can you do me the favour of not finishing it? I need lunch tomorrow and the next day before I can go for groceries.”
Scott looks at him, and without speaking a word or breaking eye contact, eats another piece of salami.
“Oh, come off it.” He steps towards Scott, reaching out to grab his wrist so he can take the packet from him.
His hand goes right through him, which, honestly, he should have expected. It’s just that Scott sits on countertops, right? He holds bags of salami, he eats the salami itself. He’s a tried and true poltergeist with all the tactile nature at one.
But of course, why should he be able to touch people?
When Tango’s hand comes out the other side, it’s totally numb with cold. He shakes it a few times and then stores it in his armpit in an attempt to warm it up, frowning up at Scott.
“Why would you think that would work?” Scott eats another piece of salami.
“Can you please put down the salami, Scott? I can buy you your own if you want. I’ve been extremely accommodating.”
Scott looks at him, sighs, and puts down the salami. “You just had to ask.”
Tango throws one hand up, grabbing the salami in the other and turning away from Scott and towards the fridge. “I literally did.”
“Surely not.”
Tango looks at him, and Scott rolls his eyes.
“Fine. Do you have Monopoly?”
Tango blinks at the non-sequitor. “Sorry?”
“Do you have Monopoly?” Scott asks again. “I saw a bunch of other board games, which is weird by the way, who did you think you’d be playing them with? But I couldn't see Monopoly.”
“Yeah, Tango says hesitantly, “it’s in the linen cupboard.”
“Linen cupboard,” Scott mutters to himself. “Remember to check the linen cupboard.”
“Why do you want to know?”
Scott looks up, “Oh, do you wanna play with me? I haven’t played it since the last groundskeeper, and that was a few years ago now.”
“You talked to the other groundskeepers?” Yes, you’re not special, Tango, get over it.
“Yeah,” Scott shrugs. “Groundskeeper, singular. But… Monopoly?"
Tango looks at Scott, scrutinising his expression. He looks nice and friendly, with the kind of face that’s always warm and welcoming. Behind that, there’s something else. Tango isn’t getting anything else out of him.
Tango stands up, “Yeah, sure. Only the Lord of the Rings version, though.”
Scott bounces up, landing on the ground softer than would be possible if he were alive. “What's lord of the rings?”
Scott beats him soundly. It takes six hours and is the only time Tango has ever finished a game of Monopoly. They finish after dark, and Tango misses the afternoon of work.
He doesn’t particularly care.
***
Attached to the graveyard is a small, run-down church.
The door is padlocked three times over, even as the wooden walls are so thoroughly rotten that Tango can see through them in some places.
It’s a nice church, the kind that makes him wonder why these kinds of buildings seem to be dedicated purely to religion. Surely houses should look like this.
But, regardless, there are weeds growing up around the church, fertilised by the rotting wood and trying their best to take it over like a strangler fig would a tree. It’s been a long project, the kind he works on for a few hours every day.
As Tango stands up, wiping sweat from his brow with his shirt, he hears a crash from behind him. He turns to see that a stack of empty crates, leaning against the outside wall, has fallen over.
It’s been long enough that he knows what that means.
“Scott?” He calls, dropping his shirt and placing his hands on his hips.
The ghost becomes progressively more opaque as he materialises seated next to the now toppled stack of boxes, a guilty expression plastered on his face.
“Sorry,” Scott says.
“Were you watching me?”
Scott shrugs, “Not much else to do, is there? Being dead and all.”
“I suppose not. Though I would prefer to know when you are, none of this invisibility stuff.”
Scott frowns, “That’s no fun.”
“It’s no fun not knowing whether you're being watched or not.”
“Fine,” Scott says, standing up. “You were being boring anyway. I’ll go.”
“I mean,” Tango starts. “I don’t mind if you stay. Just do it visible, yeah?”
Scott brightens, getting inexplicably larger, taking up more space.
“Okay, really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Do you…” Scott studies him. “Do you want to see inside the church?”
Tango laughs. “Already can, buddy, the termites made us windows,” he says, gesturing to the wall.
“No,” Scott pouts. “Do you wanna really see inside? I know where they hid the keys.”
Tango pauses for a moment. “Yeah, ok then, you’ll just have to let me finish up on this first.”
“Okay,” Scott nods. “If you’re quick.”
“I’ll be quick.”
It only takes another fifteen minutes for Tango to finish up. Scott stays visible throughout it, and he stays talkative. He tells him about how, during the autumn, the butterfly migrations happen, thousands of orange and brown wings covering every surface.
He explains it wistfully, like something from a long time ago. It’s nearing summer now, and Tango hopes he’ll still be here to see them.
When Tango finally finishes, standing up and taking off his sweaty gardening gloves, he smiles at Scott.
“All done?” Scott asks.
“All done.”
The church’s front door is a huge thing, stained glass detailing a cross in shades of blue and green. One of these days, Tango should get around to cleaning it.
Scott stands on his toes, which seems unnecessary considering he's a ghost, and reaches up to the gutter above them, pulling down a small, moldy key on a piece of rope.
“Ew,” Scott says. “I forgot the spring rain would do that.”
“Why do they still have a spare key here?” Tango asks.
“I suppose they forgot about it.”
Scott unlocks the door and steps aside, gesturing for Tango to step in front of him.
“Guests first.”
Tango steps inside, turning back to look at Scott.
“You don't need the key, do you?”
“Nope,” Scott shakes his head. “Being dead has its perks.” He reaches for the door as if to close it, and his hand goes through the doorknob, once, twice. On the third try, he closes it with a smile.
“I suppose so,” Tango agrees, before spinning to regard the room in front of him.
The church is one of those places that look bigger on the inside than on the outside. Maybe it's the glass, or the dirty mirrors, or the mould-covered canvas paintings. They serve to make the space feel so much more than it really is.
The rafters are far above them, and the walls are made of dark spruce, and somehow, the holes in the walls only serve to create better airflow. It rained yesterday, and there’s a small puddle in the middle of the room, so he supposes airflow has its downfalls.
He imagines the people sitting here, once. He has no idea how long ago it would have been. The pews would have been lined with the devoted, a priest or pastor standing at the front of the room.
Scott walks past him towards the front of the room, and Tango takes a seat in one of the surprisingly sturdy wooden pews and watches him.
Scott climbs onto the pulpit, standing behind the altar. He lifts his arms up in a mimicry of the portrait behind him.
Scott lolls his head back. “Do I look crucified enough?”
His voice echoes loudly through the room.
“Exactly the right amount of crucifixion.”
Scott grins at him, dropping his arms. “I feel like being dead just brings me closer to Jesus, don’t you think?” He asks.
“Wait,” Tango points at him. “You’re dead. Tell me, is there an afterlife?”
Disappointingly, Scott shrugs. “How the hell would I know? I’m a ghost. Obviously, I’m not in it.”
“Dammit.”
“I mean, obviously not everyone is a ghost, so they need to go somewhere, but who knows? Maybe they just disappear."
Tango studies him. “Do you like being a ghost?”
Scott steps down from the pulpit, walking over to examine one of the windows instead. “I don’t know. I guess it’s better than being proper dead.”
“Yeah?” He prompts.
“It gets boring sometimes.”
“I can imagine.”
Scott, uncharacteristically, doesn’t reply.
“When did you die? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Oh,” Scott shrugs. “No, not really. It would have been over a hundred years ago now. I’m over it.”
“Getting over your death doesn’t feel like a small task.”
Scott is still facing the glass, but Tango gets the impression he’s not looking at it.
“I was sad for a long time, but Cleo helped.”
“Cleo?”
Scott turns around to look at Tango, and he wonders if ghosts can cry.
“They were the custodian before you. They died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Tango tells him. “Are they… here?”
Scott shakes his head, “Not enough unfinished business, I guess.”
“You’ve got unfinished business?"
Scott walks towards him, taking a seat on the pew in front of Tango and spinning around with his legs crossed to face him.
“None that I can find, and I’ve spent half my death looking.”
“Do you want to, like, die die?”
Scott shrugs again, “I don’t know. It’s nicer with you here. I’d much prefer to live, but it doesn’t quite seem like that's an option.”
“Oh,” Tango says, unable to stop the sorrow from creeping into his voice.
Scott blinks a few times and then stands up abruptly. “Anyway, enough about me. How do you like the church?”
Tango looks around the room, the glass, the murals, the wooden beams above them. Then, he looks back at Scott’s face. “It’s beautiful,” he says, and he means it.
Scott smiles.
***
It rains that afternoon, and Scott ends up at Tango's house, where Tango makes them spaghetti and lets Scott pick any show he wants.
They watch the first three episodes of a sitcom that Tango doesn’t recognise. He’s never seen anyone laugh as hard as Scott does at their stupid jokes.
Tango catches Scott looking at him throughout the show, making sure he’s smiling, making sure he’s laughing as he is. He makes sure to laugh extra hard, just to calm the ghost’s nerves.
Tango doesn’t go to sleep until late that night, sitting and talking with Scott about things less serious than either of their old lives (another letter has arrived, it stares at him from the pile on the counter). He doesn’t know if ghosts need to sleep, but he quite suddenly decides that he doesn’t care whether or not humans do either.
Over the next few days, the moisture from the storm seeps into the walls, causing the paint in the hallway to peel in thick, white stripes, like the wax over one of those little cheeses Scott recently requested he keep his fridge stocked with.
Underneath the paint, he finds a worn mural painted onto the wall. It’s the graveyard, depicted in the shades of blue you find just after sunset, when the sky is no longer pink but still glows with light.
Scott shows up that evening to ask if they can watch the next episode of the show, and they do, but Tango asks him about the mural.
Cleo painted it.
They prided themself in their artwork before they prided themselves in their gardening. A painter and, before even that, a sculptor.
As Scott talks, his eyes fill with the same kind of sadness they did in the church.
She died while completing it, never getting to finish the boy seated on one of the gravestones, with blue hair and a smile that seemed to include all his teeth.
Scott’s face looks like it’s falling into pieces, and Tango can’t even touch him. It hurts and it hurts and it hurts.
They never do finish the episode, but the next day Scott helps him peel the rest of the paint off the wall.
***
Tango has never been a good cook.
He’s a passable cook. He’s been making his own meals for a decade and has discovered his own multitude of over and undercookings the hard way.
Regardless, he feels like he can manage a picnic.
He packs little sandwich triangles and two punnets of strawberries. He doesn’t have a basket, but he finds a relatively nice cardboard box to pack it all away in.
On the way to his destination on the hill overlooking the graveyard, Tango picks a bundle of flowers for presentation.
He sits down and he sets it all up, laying out a picnic mat and the food. He pulls out a bottle of ice water and two glasses as well. It looks nice with the flowers; he’s glad he picked them.
Then, he waits.
The graves look beautiful as he does.
Scott materialises slowly next to him. Usually, it’s a quick thing, a surprise, often intended to scare Tango, to make him stumble or trip or fall out of his seat. Often it succeeds.
But, this time, Tango is permitted to watch as the man first appears as an outline, and then a translucent form, and then finally as a largely opaque person, leaning back on the mat with his hand over his eyes as a sun visor.
“Good morning,” Scott says.
“Afternoon,” Tango corrects.
“Oh, I suppose time flies when you’re dead, doesn’t it?”
Tango smiles at him. “I would expect so.”
Scott leans forwards over the arrangement of food, picking up one of the pieces of sandwich with ham, cheese, tomato, and lettuce.
“Good choice,” he tells Tango. “This looks really lovely.”
“Thanks,” Tango says. “I tried.”
Scott takes a bite, making a pornographic sound at the taste. Tango blushes.
“Goodness,” he says. “It’s been a while since I had a sandwich. You should make these more often.”
Admittedly, Tango rarely finds himself with the energy to make himself a sandwich for lunch.
“You could make them yourself.”
Scott wrinkles his nose, “No, thank you. I like them better like this.”
Tango laughs and picks up one of his own. They do taste particularly good.
“Do you think food tastes better or worse now that you don’t actually need it to live?”
Scott frowns, looking down at the view in front of them.
“Well, it is quite nice that I only have to eat things I like now. And I don’t have to worry about nutrition. But I suppose not experiencing hunger means I can’t experience the joys of eating when I need it.” Scott shrugs, “So, a bit of both, I guess.”
“I think I would miss being hungry.”
Scott nods, “It’s the bad things that don’t really occur to you. You know, I can’t feel pain. I guess there’s no reason to feel it considering I can’t be injured, but it would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“I wish I could pinch you to test it.”
Scott reaches to pinch his own arm, “Did it for you.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Nope.”
“I suppose we could have predicted as much.”
Scott smiles, “It’s always worth another test. Who knows? Maybe one day it’ll be different.”
“I hope so,” Tango tells him.
He reaches down to pick up one of the ripe strawberries, holding it out to Scott. “Try a strawberry?” He asks. “I promise they’re good.”
Instead of reaching for it in his hand, Scott leans forwards and opens his mouth invitingly, a smile still managing to play at his lips.
Hesitantly, Tango moves his hand forwards until the ripeness of the strawberry sits just between Scott’s lips, his teeth grazing the edges of it.
Scott takes a bite, and Tango feels it. The pressure goes through the strawberry and up his arm and straight to his gut.
He can’t touch Scott, but this is just about as close as it gets. Maybe this is enough.
Scott smiles at him with his teeth, juice staining his canines. “You’re right,” he says. “The market has really stepped up its game since those terrible kiwis from last month.”
Tango leans back, ignoring the heart trying to beat its way out of his chest in favour of rolling his eyes at Scott. “They weren’t in season.”
Scott shrugs. “Neither are strawberries.”
“Fair enough.”
“There used to be a patch of strawberries down there, you know,” Scott says, pointing down at the graveyard below them. “They were wild ones, not super cultivated like these. They were really sour, but I loved them.”
“How long ago was that? Tango asks him.
Scott leans back, looking up at the sky. “It would have had to be when I was alive, I think. I haven’t been able to eat for too long. It was only once Cleo arrived.”
“So people have an effect on your capacity as a ghost?”
Scott shrugs, smiling at Tango over his shoulder. He looks gorgeous, the picturesque landscape acting as his backdrop. “I guess so. I was more of a spirit for a long time before her; I couldn't even touch things.”
Tango picks up another strawberry, taking a bite of it himself.
“This feels like a point in favour of our Scott might be able to one day feel pain hypothesis.”
“I suppose you’re right. Oh, the things to look forward to.” Scott’s voice is filled with dry humour as he says his final statement.
“Oh shut up, you were the one who said you missed it.”
“Well,” Scott says. “I just think it’s interesting how quickly you jumped on the idea. Is there something you need to tell me?”
“You’re right,” Tango says with exaggerated seriousness. “When I kill you a second time, I want you to feel it.”
Scott laughs, throwing his head back in mirth. The movement highlights the long line of his neck, and Tango finds himself unable to look away.
“Oh, Tango,” Scott tells him. “No need to lie, I know you adore me.”
Tango gasps. “No!”
“Yes,” Scott assures him. “It's quite evident, actually.”
“I suppose I need to work on my subtlety."
“Don’t bother,” Scott tells him. “Flattery gets you everywhere with me; soon enough, you’ll be hearing my love confession.”
“I look forward to it, and I expect no fewer than four pages.”
“You’re pushing it.”
“Fine, three.”
Deal.
Eventually, they both end up sprawled on the ground, stuffed full with berries and sandwiches, and their heads almost close enough to touch. If Scott had been alive, of course.
Tango has his eyes closed, listening to the world. His own breathing, birdsong in the forest, the rustle of wind in the trees.
The sound of Scott’s fingernails scratching along the stitching of the picnic rug.
“Tango?” He asks, voice quiet.
Tango breathes in, smelling grass and the pollen-filled spring air. Not for the first time, he wishes he knew what Scott smelled like.
“Yeah?” He prompts.
“Can I show you my grave?”
Scott’s grave, despite its cracked stone and mossy surface, is one of the newest graves in the graveyard.
It’s a beautiful white marble, the ornate sides carved with a scene of a stag in a forest. Its head is held high and proud, but its nose is tilted up in curiosity.
Tango wonders what he’s smelling.
On the grave, in neat cursive lettering, now encrusted with dark grime and mold, are the words:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF
SCOTT SMAJOR
1892-1916
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
Tango takes a step closer to the grave, crouching in front of it and running his fingers over the lettering.
“You were only twenty-four.”
“How do you think I look this good?”
Scott’s voice is light; Tango doesn’t turn to check if his face conveys the same message.
“That’s very young to die.”
“It could have been worse. Back then, we were all dying as infants.”
“I suppose so.”
There’s a long period of silence. Tango reads the words again, and again, and again.
Gone but not forgotten.
Tango doesn’t know about the people who commissioned this gravestone, but right now, today, Tango will remember him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sure I’m not supposed to ask, but-”
Scott’s sigh interrupts Tango’s sentence.
“It’s fine. I was going to have to tell you eventually.”
Tango doesn’t look over, letting Scott have his privacy behind him. He gingerly sits down on the edge of the gravestone.
“I was actually twenty-three; my birthday was two months away. And I was in the house, you know, the one that used to be here? I was running, I don’t really remember why, and I slipped over some carpet.” Scott pauses for a long moment. “And I fell down the stairs. I broke my neck, it was quick, I don’t even remember the pain.”
“You died because you tripped and fell down the stairs?”
It’s a serious topic, and Tango can hear the pain in Scott’s voice, but he can’t help but find humour in the mundanity of it.
“I know it’s a stupid death, please don’t mock me.”
“I’ve never died,” Tango tells him. “And I’m sure I will do so in a far lamer way. It would be rather insensitive of me to make fun, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m glad you think yourself as ridiculous as I am.”
“It’s not ridiculous," Tango tells him. “Did you live in the mansion?”
Tango turns around to look at Scott, finding him sitting cross-legged on his own grave, staring down as if he can look through the soil and to his long decomposed body.
Scott nods, looking up at him. “With my family. It was my parent's. I was leaving for university on the continent in three months. And then I died.”
“Could you talk to them? As a ghost?”
Scott shakes his head. “When I woke up, they'd left. They buried me and packed and took whatever they felt with them. I don’t even have proof they were sad.”
“I don’t think they would have moved if your death didn’t have an impact on them.”
Scott shrugs. “You never know.”
Tango looks at him, shuffling closer on the gravestone until they’re only a foot away from each other.
Scott looks so sad, eyes downcast, hands clasped tightly together in his lap.
“I wish I could hug you,” Tango tells him.
Scott still doesn’t make eye contact. “I wish I could be hugged.”
They’re silent for a moment as the tears that have welled in Scott’s eyes refuse to fall.
“They never resold the house anyway,” Scott says quickly. “I think it was passed down to someone in the line a little over six years ago when they knocked it down. That’s when they hired Cleo.”
“And before that you were…”
“Very, very alone.”
“I’m sorry you died, Scott,” Tango tells him quite genuinely. “This would have been a lot nicer of a time if you were alive.”
Scott looks at him. “How do you imagine that going?”
Tango smiles at him. “I don’t know, maybe the mansion is still standing, and you hire me as your gardener.”
Scott sits up straighter. “And I come down and sit with you while you work.”
“And you never shut up.”
“And I show you the church. It’s still in use, and the stained glass is even more beautiful.”
“And someone makes even better sandwiches than I made for us, and we take them and sit on the hill and have a picnic.”
“And you feed me strawberries.”
“And I feed your strawberries.”
“We could go to the markets,” Scott tells him. “They used to have really lovely ones on Sundays.”
“They have a farmer's one on Saturday now,” Tango tells him. “But there’s a craft one on the first Tuesday of the month, a town over.”
“Hillary?”
Tango shakes his head, “It’s Newhill now. They got touristy and rebranded about fifteen years ago.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“I know.”
Scott is smiling now, his hands behind him to support his weight as he leans back instead of fiddling in his lap. It only serves to make Tango happier, and he finds himself leaning into his orbit.
He wonders if ghosts have mass. Can they have gravitational pull?
“Regardless,” Tango tells him. “There’s far more to do now, isn’t there? Any warmer than this and we’ll be able to go swimming in the lake. Wait.” He points at Scott. “Can you get wet?”
“No,” Scott says, shaking his head. “But, water has a funny feeling while I’m in it. And besides, you need to stay for the butterflies in Autumn.”
Tango nods, “And the days have been getting clearer, we’ll be able to see the stars properly soon.”
“And the blackberries ripen at the end of summer.”
“And you were going to teach me how to make flower crowns.”
“And we still haven’t finished the first season of that show.”
Tango laughs, doubling over until his forehead presses lightly into the cold marble of the gravestone. When he sits back up, Scott is grinning.
“See? There’s a lot to look forward to. Even when you’re dead.”
“I guess so,” Scott agrees. “It's better with you.”
Tango smiles, “It’s better with you, too.”
***
The next day, when Tango goes shopping, he checks his mailbox and finds a new letter. He doesn’t even look at who sent it before shoving it in the same pile under a stack of books.
***
Two weeks later, they go stargazing on the new moon.
It’s the perfect temperature, the kind of delightful middle ground you can only find in spring and autumn. The weather where you can wear anything you’d like and neither overheat nor get too cold.
It’s dark outside, but Scott meets Tango at the door, and Tango brings his head torch.
Tango stumbles through the forest while Scott walks with the practiced grace of someone who can simply phase through any inconvenient root he wishes.
“You look like an idiot with that torch,” Scott tells him.
“You look like an idiot with that face.”
Finally, they exit the treeline into a small clearing. It’s like one huge clover patch, a layer of the plant so thick that when Tango steps on it, he swears he feels recoil.
Tango switches off his torch, and despite the moon’s departure, the cloudless sky leaves the stars bright enough to light their way.
Scott walks in front of him, careful as he steps through the clover.
“This place wasn’t here when I was alive,” he tells Tango. “There was this huge tree. I swear it was the biggest in the forest. I loved to climb it when I was a child, but my parents wouldn’t let me go this far out without an adult. About fifty years ago, it fell, and someone called in some lumberjacks, and they took it away. Nothing had grown around the tree; the canopy had been too thick for it, but when it fell, a flood came through. Clover loves when it's damp.”
They've reached the centre of the clearing, and Tango tilts his head back, looking up at the sky above them.
Beautiful. Scott was right.
When Tango looks back down, Scott is already lying down, head pillowed on his arm and his gaze fixed on Tango above him.
“Hi,” Tango tells him.
“Hi,” Scott replies. “Come sit down.”
Tango joins him, letting himself lean back on the clover until he’s lying parallel to Scott.
It’s ridiculously comfy.
“You make a great tour guide,” he tells Scott. “I would never have found half of these places if it weren’t for you.”
“You learn a thing or two when you’ve lived in the same place for over a century.”
“Mmm,” Tango agrees. “A unique advantage there.”
“Add it to the list of cool things about being dead.”
“Remind me when we get home.”
“Of course.”
Every day, Tango finds himself falling that little bit more in love with this life. The one with the church and the graveyard and the forest and Scott. It’s something he couldn't have imagined before, wouldn’t even have considered a possibility.
But now every morning he wakes up to the sound of birdsong, and four times out of five he thinks today is going to be a good day.
Which, if he really thinks about it, is the best he could ever hope for.
He gets up and makes breakfast, and then he goes out into the countryside. He does some weeding or some scrubbing or some planting, and eventually Scott shows up.
Scott asks him to do something, something that’s not his job but sounds far more appealing than it. Sometimes Tango agrees, and sometimes he doesn’t, but every time he smiles.
He smiles every day.
They eat lunch together, and then maybe they’ll watch a movie or play a board game, or talk on the couch. And Tango will do more work, and Scott will follow him home for dinner, and the whole time he will think, I am happy, I am happy, I am happy.
He never wants it to end.
And it won’t have to, if you keep it together.
Tango feels pressure against his hand, resting gently on the ground by his side. Slowly, he opens his palm, allowing Scott’s fingers to slip gently in between his own.
You know how your body can’t feel wetness? Only the change in temperature? How if you put your hand into a bucket of water the same temperature as you, you wouldn't be able to feel it?
That’s nothing like how Scott feels, but it’s the closest thing Tango can think of to compare it to.
He’s either no temperature or the same temperature as Tango; he has no texture or sensation apart from that Tango knows that he’s touching him. He can feel the pressure, his presence.
He squeezes Scott’s hand, and Scott gasps.
“You’re holding my hand,” Tango tells him.
“I am,” Scott agrees. “I didn’t expect it to work.”
Neither of them is looking at the other.
“I’m glad,” Tango says. “Thank you.”
“I can’t tell you how badly I’ve wanted to touch you,” Scott says. “I thought I was going to die.”
“When we sat on your grave, and you looked so sad. I would have done anything to be able to hug you.”
“Can you hug me now?”
Tango rolls over to find Scott with tears in his eyes, already watching him. He throws his arm over the ghost‘s body, and it works. Scott moves so that he’s curled into himself, head under Tango’s chin, and his forehead pressed against Tango’s chest.
Tango breathes in, and Scott smells like wildflowers, the same ones that grow around his grave.
He has never been more grateful for anything in his life.
“You know I love you, right?” Scott asks him.
Tango holds him tighter, “Mostly. I hoped so.”
“You hoped so?” Scott’s voice is muffled.
“Because I love you too.”
I am happy, I am happy, I am happy.
“Really?” Scott asks. “You’ve got the whole world out there.”
“Really,” Tango tells him. “These have been the best months of my life.”
Scott pulls away slightly so that he can look up at Tango, making eye contact.
“I didn’t think they’d hire someone else. I thought I would just be here forever, alone.”
“I’m sorry you thought that. And I’m glad it didn’t have to happen.”
“Can I-” Scott stops himself. “Do you think I’d be able to kiss you, Tango?”
“Of course you can,” Tango tells him. “I’d love that.”
Slowly, Scott reaches up until his palm cups Tango’s face, the sensation unfamiliar but undoubtedly comforting. Tango closes his eyes, trying to feel as much as possible.
Gone but not forgotten.
Don’t forget this. Don’t forget him.
Soft lips press against his. Scott’s mouth parted so that Tango’s bottom lip slips slightly between both of his.
Scott pulls away, and Tango opens his eyes. He’s sure he’s red in the face; he hopes the dim light of the stars doesn’t betray him.
“Thank you,” he tells Scott, finding his own hand resting on the man’s neck. “Can I-?”
Scott nods.
Tango leans forwards, taking care to kiss Scott in the same gentle way he had him.
It’s soft, and it’s beautiful, and it’s perfect.
And Scott is solid.
And Tango has never been happier.
***
One morning, months later, Scott finds Tango sitting at his kitchen bench, letters sprawled out around him, and his pencil on a currently blank page of his notebook.
Scott sits down on the chair beside him, leaning heavily against his side. Tango revels in the touch, how secure it feels.
He feels Scott watching him as he pens the letter’s first words.
Dear Impulse and Skizz,
“Did you read the letters?” Scott asks.
Tango nods.
“They’ll appreciate it.”
“Unless they already hate me.”
“They’ll still appreciate it. They can throw darts at it, pinned to the wall.”
“The dream.”
“I’d love to have an enemy that’s that passionate.”
Tango laughs, a slightly pained sound. “I don’t know how to explain myself in a letter. I’m better in person.”
“Invite them here,” Scott says simply. “It’s nice. It could be a holiday for them. And besides, the butterfly migration is coming soon.”
Tango reaches over to wrap an arm around his waist, laying his head on his shoulder.
“And you won’t mind them visiting?”
“I’d like to meet your friends."
“Okay,” Tango says. “Okay then.”
***
Dear Impulse and Skizz,
I’m sorry I left, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your letters.
Skizz, I love you, man, and me leaving had everything to do with me and nothing to do with you. And I know that’s the weird breakup line, but I promise I’m telling the truth.
I’m working as a gardener, looking after an old graveyard. It’s really beautiful here, and I’d love for you guys to come visit. There’s a butterfly migration in a few weeks that would be great to see. I have a spare bedroom.
If you don’t want to come, I totally understand. I would, however, appreciate it if you sent a rejection letter so I don’t freak out about it.
Lots of love,
Tango
PS: I have a boyfriend now. He’s a ghost. Please withhold your judgment.