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“Don’t you think this would have been more effective at, like… night?”
“Oh yeah, because the ghosts get so much ghostier when the sun goes away.”
“Shut up. Atmosphere has an impact.”
“The spooky moonlight draws all of the spirits out of their graves. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m gonna attack you.”
Sock laughs, bobbing along at Jonathan’s side. “If all goes to plan, you can.” He shoots Jonathan a crooked grin, pulling his hat down snugly on his head. Jon glances back at him, rolling his eyes in spite of the small smile pulling at his lips.
Touch is hard for Sock. He can’t seem to control it. Sometimes, he can reach out a hand to playfully bat at Jonathan’s arm and it’ll connect as solidly as regular skin-to-skin. Other times, no matter how much effort he puts in or how hard he focuses, he can’t even get their fingers to brush. Jon breezes through him like morning mist with nothing more than a shiver under his flesh.
They’ve tried a few things with inconsistent results. It seems like intense emotions make him more tangible, like all the energy crackling through his body needs to take up space. Not all emotions, though, because when he gets really sad, even the fleeting touches go away. Sometimes it takes weeks to come back, which makes him even sadder, so… The cycle is rough.
Jon tried poking around online for suggestions, but it wasn’t like there was a surplus of people itching to get handsy with their demon boyfriends out there, so the search came up pretty barren. Desperation led them to old ghost movies for research, generating their current half-formed hypothesis.
Sock thought they might have a better chance somewhere “spiritual”, somewhere where the line between living and dead got a little bit blurry, or where ghosts seemed to be more actively present. Jon jokingly suggested a church, but after some scenes of demons bursting aflame after setting foot on “holy ground”, they decided it probably wasn’t worth the risk. It was Sock who had come up with the idea of the graveyard. Even if the thought of three long-forgotten graves (two full and one empty, last he saw them) still made his nonexistent blood run cold, it seemed like the most viable option.
Mind coming back to the present, Sock takes a moment to take in the surrounding graveyard. Poorly maintained tombstones rest just under his floating feet, some covered in thick layers of moss and tangled plant growth. The greenery obscures the names carved deep into the stones, creating a field of anonymous bodies. Sock thinks about his own grave, probably unmaintained and maybe even unmarked, and then decides not to think about it anymore. Not the point of this trip.
He didn’t mention to Jon that this was the graveyard, but he figured the connection and the proximity to his last physical form might have some kind of benefit. It definitely couldn’t hurt, at least. However, as he glances back up at Jon again, he can tell the blond knows something is up with him. He tries to smile again, feeling it pull at his cheeks. Despite his poor grades and short attention span, though, he knows Jon isn't dumb.
“You good?” he asks, raising an eyebrow that disappears up into his messy bangs. Sock nods, though he feels a disquieting inside himself as they near the spot in the graveyard that seems to be calling to him. It’s like static in his gut, with the heavy weight of a magnet at the bottom drawing him in.
“Yeah. Just nervous, I guess.” It’s not the whole truth but it’s also not a lie. What will they do if this doesn’t work? Try something else, he thinks, but it’s not enough to satisfy him. How long will Jonathan be willing to try before he just gives up? On them? On him?
He notices Jon’s hand twitch out of the corner of his eye, rising from his side for a moment before thinking better of it. The intent to comfort is clear on his face. A smile is all Sock gets, with a soft, “Never know until we try, yeah?” He nods in response, looking away before he starts to feel too much. He can’t ruin this opportunity.
Sock holds out a hand a few minutes later to call Jonathan to a stop, a few dozen yards away from the place his body yearns to go. Close but not too close, he thinks, before lowering himself down to the ground and crossing his legs. He pats the grass next to him and looks up at Jon with another small smile. He hopes it conveys more confidence than he feels.
Jon stands at his side, looking around with a sort of grimace. “How do we know we’re not sitting on somebody? This feels kind of fucked up.” Sock can’t help but laugh. So like him to be freaked out by a dead guy six feet beneath him when he’s on a quest to grope a demon.
“Get over it, buddy. You’re gonna be a hell of a lot closer to a dead thing if this actually works.”
Jon rolls his eyes at him again, a conditioned response at this point, and gracelessly flops down next to him. The grass is cold and a bit damp through his jeans, growing colder as the sun fades away. It’s actually kind of pretty out here. The sun is just starting to set, the trip having been delayed by a late bus ride home from school and some reluctant studying to satiate his mother, and it’s giving the sky a pinkish-orange hue. The dark of night is just creeping in on the other side of the sky, tinging the path behind them with purple. He tries to shake the creepy feeling of being in a literal field of dead people and focus on the task at hand, locking his eyes on the small form curled up in front of him.
Sock is wringing his hands nervously. He’d probably be plucking the grass if he could, leaving a little bald patch around their resting place. Jon aches to take those anxious hands in his own and squeeze the worry out of them, but all he can do for now is watch. He lets the image play in his mind for a minute anyway before clearing his throat, pulling the strings of his hoodie a bit tighter against the breeze.
“So how do we wanna do this?”
Sock looks up at him, thinking for a second. “I’m… not sure. I don’t think touching objects or whatever is gonna cut it, because we already know that’s inconsistent. I think we have to touch.”
“Like you want me to grab your hand? You want a high five?” Jon’s mouth twists in a crooked grin. “What kind of touch?”
“I don’t know! Let’s see what works.” Sock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath - pointless, probably, because it’s not like he can breathe anyway but it feels like it’s doing something and that counts, doesn’t it? What did Jonathan say about aesthetics? He squeezes his own hands together, focusing on that staticky feeling at his core, and tries to think about holding it in his palms. For a second, whether he imagines it or not, it feels like there’s resistance, like his hands are pressing back against each other. Seizing the moment, his eyes shoot open and he reaches out to grab Jonathan’s hands.
For a flash - probably a couple of milliseconds - he can feel it. Feel Jon’s wrists in his grip. Feel his fluttering pulse under his skin where the grey sleeves have fallen down. It’s gone as soon as it comes, but their faces both light up.
“Holy shit-”
“We did it!” Sock exclaims, laughing in bemusement. “Okay, wait, wait, I don’t want to lose it. Keep your hands there.” He closes his eyes again, chasing the feeling. Even as he tries to call it back, he can feel it fading away. Oh, no you don’t, he thinks, sucking in another breath. He squeezes his hands into fists this time, and as soon as he feels the tension in his fingers again, he reaches forward and sandwiches Jon’s hand between both of his. He can feel it, really feel it. He can make out the ridges of his palm, the lines of his fingerprints, the warmth, even a slight tremble. He doesn’t want to open his eyes lest he lose his focus, but he can hear Jon exhale. He’s so close, so close he can almost feel the breath graze across his face, and he wants it. He wants it so bad it hurts.
The static, instead of fading this time, feels like it’s growing stronger. He remembers holding his hand near the TV as a kid, feeling the crackle against his fingertips, testing how close you can get before it shocks you. He can feel himself at the precipice of that shock, toeing a potentially dangerous line, but he can’t stop. He can’t lose this. He’ll take the shock, take the pain, take whatever, if it means he can just feel.
He steadies himself. “Okay,” he says, and it comes out in a whisper, all of his focus on Jonathan’s hand between his own. “Okay. I’m gonna… Okay.”
Jon says nothing, just continues to sit in silence, afraid to disturb his focus. Sock doesn’t dare open his eyes, but he can imagine the look on his face. He pictures it: chapped lips slightly parted, wide blue eyes, those stupid shaggy bangs hanging in his face, his chest rising and falling with the same shallow, awestricken breaths Sock can’t stop taking himself. He can see it clear as day behind his eyelids. He squeezes Jon’s hand for strength and holds that picture as tightly as he can before letting out a final, “Okay.” With one more quick inhale, Sock forces his eyes open and surges forward, dropping Jonathan’s hand to grab his face and smash their lips together.
There’s the shock.
He feels it jolt through his body like a lightning strike, rattling down his spine. He feels like a house in a hurricane, foundation rattling against the wind, struggling to stay upright. It takes everything in him to hold on, but when the pain fades, he realizes he is holding on. He can feel Jon’s cheeks under his hands, quickly growing hotter under his touch. He can feel their lips, feel his own muscles quaking, feel the sharp exhale from Jon’s nose over his face. He can feel it, holy shit can he feel it, when Jon’s hands race to his sides, grabbing him by the hips and pulling him closer. He feels everything, and it’s too much and not enough and everything he could have wanted all at the same time.
It feels like it lasts a lifetime but it fades quicker than Sock would have liked. It comes gradually, Jon’s firm grip on his waist becoming shaky as his body starts to lose form. The consistent pressure of his mouth becomes a whisper, and Sock can’t help the whine that leaves his lips. He pulls away an inch, desperate to burn the image into his mind as his hands retain their grip on Jon’s face. The blond looks just as wild, leaning his hand into the wavering presence of the palm on his cheek, and Sock will remember that face until… well, not until he dies, but the sentiment is there. The last bit of static rushes out like the tide and Sock feels himself fall forward, phasing through Jonathan in a shiver and winding up almost facedown in the grass.
They’re both silent for a long second. The wind whispers through the grass, brushing against the tombstones. Sock is taking heavy, labored breaths, mind blank except for the remnants of Jon’s face plastered in his field of view like a transparency from those old school projectors. Then, Jonathan starts to laugh. It’s a deep, heavy laugh, echoing through the empty cemetery. As Sock pulls himself back up, he feels himself join in without thought. They laugh as the last strands of the sun drag themselves under the horizon and the graveyard grows dark.
Jon eventually leans back, holding a hand over his aching stomach, a brilliant grin glowing on his face. Sock feels the tiniest twitch of that static feeling in his gut.
“We’ll work on it,” the demon promises.