Contact (Welcome to Hell Fan-Fiction)
"Jonathan, come on, a little death never killed anybody!" Sock exclaimed, almost in an annoyed tone.
"For the last time, stop talking to yourself and get out of my house!" he replied, as was the usual. The two looked at each other, human and demon, then both burst out laughing. This had become somewhat of a routine for them, well, maybe more of an inside joke. It was Sock's job to push Jonathan into killing himself, but, of course, he never wanted to. It was a difficult duty, especially when the demon and victim had bonded and formed a friendship. Hopefully Mephistopheles wouldn't fire Sock... the worry gnawed at the back of his mind all the time, even then.
The laughter eventually died away. The two heaved a few breathes to regain the oxygen they had lost. Actually, only Jonathan did this... for obvious reasons. He shoved Sock's shoulder playfully, a rare smile upon his pale face. As a result of this, Sock lost his balance momentarily, but quickly righted himself in the air, floating a few inches above the ground. Almost automatically, he jutted his hand forward towards Jonathan to push him back. Too late, he remembered that he could not touch him, as well as the many other things in the mortal world. Sock's hand slid right through Jonathan's chest, as if it were nothing more than air.
The two stood stock-still, as if frozen, Sock's hand still hidden within the human. The joyous atmosphere from before had departed suddenly, replaced by widened eyes and a chilly touch.
As soon as Sock regained his thoughts, he swiftly drew back his hand, as if Jonathan were a fire scorching him. The opposite was true for Jonathan, and he was visibly shivering. This had happened a few times before, with the same conclusion. For some reason, Jonathan could touch Sock, but Sock could touch almost nothing. Not even his best friend.
Jonathan drew his baggy jacket tighter around himself, and bunched up his sleeves around his hands in an attempt to warm them. His smile was long gone, and Jonathan was back in his shell. "You need to stop doing that," he murmured. He trudged over to the worn couch and plopped down onto the cushion, a sullen expression on his face. His hands were somewhat warmer by now, so he brought them out from his jacket, only to push his headphones from around his neck, over his ears. Then into the pockets they went.
Sock had rotated around in midair to look at Jonathan, and although it wasn't as rare, his grin was gone as well. "Sorry," he said, drawling out the end. He tried to play it off, as if he didn't actually care, and was nonchalant. Maybe he actually didn't care. Sock's job was to get Jonathan to kill himself anyway. Perhaps this incident would lead to Sock's success. Guilt wormed it's way back into Sock's mind, and he floated over to the couch to hover beside Jonathan.
"Sorry," he repeated.
The answer came after many minutes of silence:
"S' okay."
Mephistopheles would have to wait.