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It has been a while since Fitzgerald first called him up, and Lovecraft has already decided that he doesn’t like the Guild. This isn’t unusual, he rarely gets so far as tolerating any group he has to work for simply because of how complicated it gets. But the Guild in particular is quite a mess. Fitzgerald insists (logically and reasonably, Lovecraft reluctantly admits to himself) upon ability user teams working in pairs. This would be fine, were Lovecraft not such a remarkably unlikable individual with a remarkably low motivation. Fitzgerald wants someone to keep an eye on him and ensure he works; the other ability users want to be as far away from him as physically possible. If it isn’t Lovecraft’s misanthropic, anxious personality that shooed them away, it’s the monstrous appearance of his ability (and no one but Fitzgerald and Melville had seen the extent of that ).
Poe likes him alright, but the architect is prone to behind-the-scenes work and turned out to be far too lenient on letting Lovecraft slack off.
So the problem becomes Fitzgerald having this powerful ability user that helped him take and keep power, but really nothing that could be done with him in a simple, easy way. Lovecraft is complicated. (Lovecraft enjoys being complicated, because time spent inconveniencing Fitzgerald is time spent not working on whatever asinine missions the man had for him.)
It became an issue for a couple weeks, until the hiring of three new ability users found on the latest scouting venture along the American countryside. One of them has already been brought in by the perpetually-rushing Harper Lee, and Fitzgerald amuses himself by showing him a brief guide of the office. It’s more to get a read on how the kid reacts to things than it is anything for the kid’s benefit. The kid takes things pretty calmly, despite the ridiculous whirlwind his life seems to be at the moment, and Fitzgerald decides he has a decent job for him.
Fitzgerald finds Lovecraft half on accident, the monstrosity sitting in a dark room, occupied with something on the floor. Might as well warn him, Fitzgerald decides. He flicks on the light, which makes Lovecraft startle and clamber awkwardly to his feet.
“Oh, Lovecraft. I’ve found you someone to be on a team with that might actually turn out decently this time. This is John Steinbeck, who you’ll be working with.”
Lovecraft perks up noticeably at the name, distracted immediately from whatever minutiae he’d found to occupy himself with. Fitzgerald gestures at the kid next to him, whom Lovecraft inspects with the sense of already knowing what he’s going to find.
Ah. The same face again. Roundish, halfway feminine features, bright blue eyes, looks somewhere between ‘pleased to be here’ and ‘up to something nefarious’.
At this point, the usual.
Lovecraft eyes the boy appraisingly. He’s young this time, surprisingly so considering he’s stuck in with a pack of half-criminals and more-than-criminals. But he still has the sense of friendliness overlying a current of determination, and looks back at both Lovecraft and Fitzgerald with confidence that isn’t quite befitting the situation.
Lovecraft doesn’t like this, as it violates one of the few morals he bothers to possess. The problem is that this is a child, and Lovecraft deals in death. “I am not a babysitter, Fitzgerald. Recruiting preteens seems unwise, even for you.”
Fitzgerald inhales, vexed already and about to hand over some calm vitriol, before he’s cut off by a sunny voice from the kid. “If you don’t think I can take care of myself, mister Lovecraft, I can always demonstrate and string you to a tree by your ankles.” He’s cheery despite the threat, and smiles squintily up at Lovecraft, hands in his pockets. It would be an absolutely excellent appearance of innocence if it came from anyone else.
As it is, Lovecraft is annoyed, and he grumbles. It is more important to spare the kid-- what can a child do, anyways? Teens are like that, with bravado and whatever other nonsense. (He never expects John to have an ability-- even though he’s only been assigned with ability users before, it just isn’t standard for this face.)
“You can’t--” and suddenly Lovecraft’s feet don’t exist underneath him any more, and then he’s sitting on the ground, blinking and bewildered. Something green-brown slithers quickly back towards John and disappears.
“You were sayin’ something?” says John. He tucks his hand back into his pocket. “It wasn’t stringing you up, but I can do that too if you really need.”
Lovecraft blinks at him, strikingly resembling a fish fallen out of an upended tank. There is a long stretch as Lovecraft processes his thought through the bewildered staring. “O-kay,” he sounds out. He still doesn’t approve of this, but he’s figured out how it makes sense. Abilities. Alright then.
But even though this is just a kid, he’s John, so Lovecraft knows they’ll likely get along, and he’s John, so Lovecraft can hazard a guess he won’t be completely useless. He exhales slowly and stands back up, brushing his coat back into position. (Not that anything, really, could help his coat at this point. It looks just as bad in position as out.) “We’ll be fine,” he tells Fitzgerald, who is rather bewildered by this unexpected vote of confidence. He’s not going to complain if it means Lovecraft will be with someone he seems to be in control of himself around, however.
So, the issue is settled with a clap on John’s shoulder. “Alright, it’s up to you then, old sport. You’ll be doing an easy mission. Test run, if you will! Supervising and protecting cargo transport. Both of you can meet Joyce at nine tonight for information. And you, old sport,” this time the ‘old sport’ goes to John, and Lovecraft is stuck with his usual wondering if Fitzgerald does that to cover up forgetting someone’s name, “you can continue on with me.”
Lovecraft watches the duo go, gnawing on his lip unhappily. Things will turn out how they’ll turn out, as always, but Lovecraft thinks that he really needs to decide how to feel about this. He doesn’t know if he likes this situation, nor when he’ll be able to form an opinion.
He still hasn’t come to a conclusion when he comes to Joyce’s preferred briefing room about 30 minutes late. Joyce planned for that, as he isn’t there either. Fitzgerald apparently gave John a memo that when he tells Lovecraft “nine P.M.” the real meaning tends to be something closer to “ten or later” and he’d arrived only a minute or so before Lovecraft.
Lovecraft makes his appearance by promptly slouching over the table, world-weary and beleaguered by the offences the Guild slings at him day after day, such as the idea of having to actually do work. John leans over the table and looks at him. “Cheery guy, aint’cha?”
Lovecraft grumbles incoherently in response.
“They can’t work you that hard.” In fact, John has the sneaking suspicion that his new partner just likes to make the worst possible scenario out of things. He is unsure why, exactly, he figures this guy enjoys more than a healthy dose of complaining, but his gut seems very certain on that.
Lovecraft looks up at him. John holds his gaze easily. The purple eyes are pretty weird, but outside of that there doesn’t seem to be anything abnormal or hostile in Lovecraft’s gaze. There barely seems to be anything at all, just a thoughtful cast and a total wall in front of Lovecraft’s thoughts. (John always figured he could get a pretty good read on people, but this guy… he’s left drawing a blank.)
There’s nothing one can read on Lovecraft, nothing but an impassive stare. He speaks, finally, casual conversation at last. “Is your ability grapevines?”
John looks at him with clear surprise scribbled over his face. “You saw it well enough to know?” Here he assumed that the other was a bit too preoccupied for noticing things, especially when it was so easy to take Lovecraft’s feet out from under him.
“No. I had a feeling,” Lovecraft tells him.
John accepts that with a shrug. He’s heard weirder shit than someone he just met guessing the particular species of his ability. (Case in point: the fact he can grow grapes from himself at all is much weirder than the guess.) John hums. “We ever met before?” Maybe they ran into each other some time or other when they were younger and that’s why John’s got such firm feeling about how Lovecraft probably works and why Lovecraft knows his ability.
“Not sure,” Lovecraft grunts.
The door heralds Joyce’s entry and that is that for the time being.
“What are you doing?” someone says as they pop up from behind Lovecraft’s shoulder and lean on the fence overlooking the harbour, greatly startling Lovecraft.
Lovecraft replies warily after calming himself down enough to do so. “Counting pavestones.”
“Oh,” says the stranger, who Lovecraft notes as an incredibly nondescript male in presumably his early twenties, blonde, freckled, and dressed plainly. He’s carrying a bunch of grapes, which he is in the process of eating. The stranger spits a seed over the harbour. “How many are there?”
“I don’t know. ….You made me lose count. More than 63.”
The stranger laughs. His cheeriness isn’t dampened at all by the copious suspicion Lovecraft treats him with. Lovecraft isn’t sure if he’s just stupid or willfully ignoring it. “I could’ve told you that. Are you from one of the ships?”
Lovecraft nods carefully. He is not from the ship, technically, but the person who called him forth is, and he was told to arrive here at the same time the vessel did. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either. John seems to either not notice Lovecraft’s uncertainty or not care about it.
“Tell your crew to buy some wine from my family,” Lovecraft’s companion continues, gesturing at a white building only semi-visible down the street. Lovecraft answers noncommittally. It’s not like he’ll be going back to Constantinople with the ship, he’ll be disappearing back into the sea once his job running errands for idealists is done. He doesn’t have any influence with the crew.
“That’s not resounding. Here, have this.” A spindly, fruit-laden branch gets broken off the bunch of grapes in the man’s hand and handed over to Lovecraft. “We can be friends. ‘M John.”
Lovecraft takes the offering. Most food is good food, free food especially. Halfway to a tribute, he’ll pretend.
Lovecraft eats a grape as John stares expectantly at him. When no reply is forthcoming after some time, John has to prompt. “This is where you tell me your name, and that I have given you the best grapes you have ever eaten and you are eternally grateful,” he says, with more an air of commanding curiosity than requesting. Lovecraft isn’t sure if he’s joking about the last part, but he assumes so. He answers with a vague assent either way, better to be safe.
The name Lovecraft is borrowing this era is somewhat long, vaguely Egyptian in nature since that's where he was last. It will work. He gives it to John as fair exchange for the grapes and John snorts, impressed by the foreign name to a Roman face.
“First time I ever met anyone with that name, you’ll be easy to find again. There’s a lotta Ioanns around here, you’ll probably meet a few others.” For someone so abnormally talkative, at least his voice is nice to listen to. Lovecraft finds that he is a lot less annoyed and anxious from being spoken to, considering this John’s voice is pleasant and Lovecraft's expected role in the conversation seems to be minimal.
John talks further, some ramblings about his tiny family, and Lovecraft listens to the noise of it more then the content. John peters off eventually, and for once Lovecraft takes out upon himself to speak first.
“Why talk to me?” Reasonable question, he thinks, since he does keep it in his best interests to look vaguely unapproachable. It has worked pretty well so far, notwithstanding his relative lack of experience with people.
John chews on a grape as he prepares an answer. He looks thoughtful, as if condensing the ‘why’ is more thought than he or Lovecraft expected. “You looked interesting. And nobody who comes off ships here is alone, yet here you were.” Lonely sailors are unheard of. People wandering the docks with neither purpose nor companionship must surely be having a hard time.
It’s difficult to spend days (weeks, months) on a ship and not emerge with at least one person who tolerates you enough to keep company, or to emerge with a mission in mind. And yet, here stands a lonely guy in black. John feels that he’s entirely within his rights to be curious.
Lovecraft can’t really argue. He gives a noncommittal noise of acceptance, trying to convey that loneliness doesn’t matter to him. John isn’t sure if he wants to believe that (mostly due to how dependent he is on having someone to talk at when he’s bored, if nothing else. By John’s measure, this guy must be bored out of his skull if he’s alone and counting pavement).
“Well, all the same. Stop by our store, if you buy something my charming company’ll come for free when you’re bored.”
Quite a marketer, isn’t he. Lovecraft doesn’t mind. “I’ll consider it,” he says, with full plans to forget this guy immediately after he leaves.
John gives him a wide grin.
Lovecraft does not forget this guy.
Lovecraft ends up staying around Italy’s coast longer than expected. Partly because the business he’s been summoned to do is more complex than anyone knew, partly because if he lurks around this coastline in particular he can validate foraying on to land every so often for a couple extra months to say hello to John under some weak excuse or other. Eventually he stops needing excuses.
Eventually Lovecraft stands at a grave, brows knit, reminding himself of something he had forgotten: humans are mortal and transient, and that is why they are tools and not lovers. He frowns introspectively at the grave and does not return to it again.
Lovecraft, to his own confusion, meets John again in the dream realm that runs parallel to Earth. His appearance hadn’t changed aside from now looking to be about 35 instead of 22, despite the fact that judging from the last time Lovecraft surfaced it was at least 1435 and the Italian John should be long dead by now. Still a jovially youthful man, blonde haired and blue-eyed, eternally talkative. The only difference is dress, he wears the earth-toned clothing common in the area and a purple cloak (something else drifts through Lovecraft’s head-- looks like a fairy tale, just as real-unreal as the gossip of the wanderers.)
He was a traveler; Lovecraft ran into him in a mariner’s tavern where he was attempting to trade passage on a merchant’s ship for his work assistance on said ship.
He was reminiscent enough of the first John to spark Lovecraft’s curiosity, prompting him to go approach the man and sit next to him at the bar (this man, fortunately, was not so suspicious of him as everyone else in the building was. Lovecraft sat in the corner and the captain the mystery man was speaking to still edged a few seats away).
“Who are you,” Lovecraft asks, in such a tome that implies there are right and wrong answers to this question.
The man looks at him, evaluating for a second, then shrugs. “Don’t really know myself, just someone who woke up here one day. Decided to go by John Aria, though.” He leans toward Lovecraft, attitude switching into something a tad more like he’s discussing business. “You look like you’ve been in this country a while, you wouldn’t happen to know anyone who needs a shiphand or anything, would you? Don’t have much experience that I can recall, but I gotta find somewhere to live and something to do.”
Lovecraft regards him ponderously, which John allows. Finally, he speaks up. “There’s somewhere you should be.” Probably the Byzantine Empire’s timeline, but he’ll not get into that. The universe shall be as weird as it likes and he’ll refrain from questioning it, especially as it’s giving him an odd echo of someone he actually likes. Dead souls do come into the dreamlands at times, but they tend to know who they are. This dimension can create its own citizens, too, and it seems it has with this one. “The people of Caephalis are generally accepting enough and the king needs castle hands.”
John brightens up immediately. “Thanks, mister…?”
“Lovecraft.” Very silly of him to assume that he’d be recognized just because Lovecraft found his companion familiar. Coincidences aren’t so fortunate.
“Mr. Lovecraft it is.” John claps a hand on Lovecraft's shoulder in amicable greeting, still grinning. “You seem like an alright guy.”
Lovecraft’s halfway amused. Everyone else sitting in the vague vicinity of him would probably beg to differ. Not that he’s done anything to anyone in this tavern, just that he has rumors (true and otherwise; his connection with the crawling chaos is not unknown) clinging to his shadow, and he is not quite so good a shapeshifter as certain other gods. Unreality lurks in his presence. John doesn’t seem to mind, a fact Lovecraft is oddly grateful for due to reasons he pointedly does not call sentimentality.
“Maybe. Do not take the black ships and you will be alright.” Lovecraft nods, signifying goodbye. Instead of letting him leave, John enthusiastically pats the seat next to him in a clear signal that he's decided Lovecraft is his friend now.
Lovecraft stares at him, understanding only with half of himself.
“Sit,” John leads.
Lovecraft sits, feeling strangely self conscious.
“You’re one of the few around here that’s helpful. I got warned about this port, but,” John shrugs, “I end up where I end up.” He isn’t very troubled by it, though his appreciation for someone’s company isn’t kept subtle. Lovecraft finds himself entrapped in conversation without realizing it.
(Though perhaps entrapped is a bit hersh, he thinks to himself, if it is a trap it’s one he walked into intentionally.)
From the way his speech turns, John wants to know who it is he has sitting next to him in this bar. A turn of who-are-you’s, where-have-you-been and the like, which Lovecraft answers with practiced vagueness and ambivalence. Few lies pepper his speech (he is very bad at lying), but honesty isn’t his friend in the populated areas of the dreamscape. It’s rather difficult to tell people what he is and have them react helpfully, so John is left with his new friend simply being a traveler and not much else.
Lovecraft doesn’t remember when the wine started appearing in front of them, nor does he remember if the cup in his hand is the first or not. Not that it matters for him-- he can’t get drunk off of this. John, on the other hand, is having a more difficult time with the concept of complete sobriety.
John doesn’t get obnoxious, he simply gets happier to be here by the time he finishes the second glass (second since Lovecraft remembered to pay attention to things other than the noise of being spoken to and the body doing the speaking).
Lovecraft manages to pay attention to the world in a small sphere around John, at least. He is a functional conversation partner and John decides that he likes this guy-- he already did, but now it is a certainty. The strange distrust most people show to Lovecraft is utterly incomprehensible to John. Sure, the guy isn’t the life of the party, but he’s not bad . He’s pretty close to nice, actually.
He even pays the bill for John at the bar, with insincere grumbling and telling John he shouldn’t drink so much (without leaving opportunity for John to pull out his own meagre supply of coins). As far as John is concerned, his new best friend of the week is this mysterious guy who wears too much black and knows all the island cities.
As far as Lovecraft is concerned, it wasn’t exactly what he is supposed to be doing this evening, but it’s not bad . It’s gotten late, though, and there is work to be done and places he must be, lest he have to explain himself. Lovecraft glances out the window to check the stars, frowning uselessly at what they tell him, and does not return to sitting. John’s put out by the indication that his company is over. (Unless he wants to see what he can cajole the company into staying with, but that seems unlikely.) He hoists himself up as well, with only some help gaining footing. Alas, all fun things must end.
“You should sleep,” Lovecraft says. John assents lazily and unenthusiastically, not keen that Lovecraft’s nodding a farewell.
“Yes, yes. Are you leaving town, or staying?”
“There are things I must do elsewhere.”
John’s pleased to note that Lovecraft doesn’t sound eager to escape him, at least. He grins at that. “Night, then. Fare thee well, stranger.” A giggle at his own joke. But Lovecraft lets the vaguest smile ghost over his expression. A success.
Lovecraft leaving is not so much of a success, though, there is still something John wants to add before the other disappears into the night. John catches him after a few paces, steps taken while John considered things. He skips to catch up, making Lovecraft turn just before the door. “Wait a second.” John grabs Lovecraft’s wrist to hold him still as he rocks up on his tiptoes to press a wine-edged kiss to the corner of Lovecraft’s mouth.
Lovecraft stares at him. There is something he doesn’t know how to name in his expression. “What was that for?”
John grins widely again. “Felt like it? Call it good luck for your travels and a farewell from me.”
“... Ah.”
The grin sticks with him long after John disappears back into the bar’s hostel. The spirit of the kiss does, too. Those are all that sticks, though. Lovecraft does not see this John again, and in the following months could never make up his mind if he wants to check Caephalis to see if the mysterious soul managed to settle there.
The fifth iteration of John and Lovecraft stops asking questions, just accepts that this is a thing that is happening to him. It’s probably better not to ask when there’s nothing that could give him a sensical response.
The times he meets John aren’t temporally consistent, sometimes there’s a neighbourhood toddler that watches him from around corners with wide eyes and gives Lovecraft the children’s kind of unconditional trust that is generally reserved only for parents and particularly well-liked babysitters. In return, Lovecraft attempts to keep the kid out of whatever trouble the person who summoned him is inevitably embroiled in. Sometimes it’s an adult who has more fun dragging Lovecraft about than one would expect, and Lovecraft indulges him too much. Sometimes he’s greeted by an old man who reminisces at him as Lovecraft happens to provide an ear when family isn’t around. John is inevitably good company regardless.
There is no reason to ask questions or to complain. Lovecraft will adjust to what the Universe gives him.
And besides, the deities that supervise earth can be too greedy when they find things that are bright and shining; Lovecraft shall keep the knowledge of what this soul is to himself lest something else decide to challenge him. He has enough things to deal with whenever he ends up navigating earth proper, gods meddling more deeply than usual in his affairs shouldn’t be necessary.
Along with having enough to deal with, on an intellectual level Lovecraft realizes he shouldn’t spend any spare thoughts for if he’ll run into his temporally-inconsistent friend every time he hauls himself onto dry land, but thinking something and enacting it are very different things. No matter how much of a drain it may be, at least the chance of running across someone he likes (whether they remember Lovecraft or not, which they almost never do) is something to look forward to.
‘John’ is an irritatingly common name, and Lovecraft gets increasingly exasperated with himself every time he gets disappointed upon hearing someone being called John but not carrying the face and demeanor of the individual he’s regrettably come to refer to as his John.
Please, he mutters at himself every so often, you aren’t supposed to like people. They’re temporary, temporary (but if all humanity is temporary, what is this man doing reappearing?, is the immediate mental counter. He’s got no self-thwarting reply to that one yet).
Sometimes it gets very exhausting having to keep reintroducing himself and testing boundaries of what different iterations of John will allow. Most of them are lenient and forgiving of his whims, some to a fault. Sometimes Lovecraft’s indulged for too much for what he considers his own good, but he simultaneously figures that he’s allowed to be haphazard with himself. (Some iterations know him; they may forget Lovecraft’s name but they know him, and some are all too keen to kiss him after a glass too many of wine, to the point where the taste of grape and alcohol comes to mean something far too significant to Lovecraft.)
But nonetheless, it gets to Lovecraft sometimes. There’s pretty much no human, continually reincarnated or otherwise, that would accept a technically-somewhat-unknown elder god leaning against them after fifteen seconds of introduction saying please remember me in my entirety for once, it’s been so long and at this point I think I love you a little and I think this is starting to drive me a little bit insane out of sheer frustration .
Lovecraft almost wishes he’d stop running into this unusually persistent soul, but knowing John’s presence were entirely and forever inaccessible would bother him even more. There’s not many chances he gets for human friends when most every human feels instinctual fear towards him.
(He runs into two different instances of John in the the busy century of the 1900s, one in the U.S. in the ‘20s and another in Sweden in the ‘50s. He’s amazed and bewildered that both of them seem to have some vague recollection of him from times that aren’t their own, and allows himself to think that maybe things will eventually get a little easier.
The sentiment loses a bit of its luster when he gets to watch the latter die prematurely.)
He lost track of the latest John, the Guilded (gilded) John, for four years after the first few missions. When Lovecraft returned, called up to prepare for the trip to Yokohama and almost inevitable war, he felt as if he had been blindsided.
Some part of Lovecraft had hoped that John wouldn't be there, because John deserves better than the blood of the Guild, and because he was just a kid, and kids shouldn't need to kill people for a living. But when Lovecraft returned, John was there. And it was his John, and he had grown too fast and directed Lovecraft to follow along behind him and somehow (despite his best efforts) Lovecraft let himself be convinced to love John Steinbeck. Again.
He could have put up more of a fight to it, but he was too lazy. Laziness does him in very easily, it seems.
This is what he thinks about, half-asleep on the floor of Rocinante. Lovecraft stares at the ceiling, gnaws absently on a mysteriously flavoured lollipop he’d found in his coat pocket, and thinks. The thinking seems to function as a call, or maybe John’s just coincidentally bored, but either way there is the sound of familiar footsteps before John falls into a sitting position next to him. Lovecraft doesn’t react, even when John scoots to be sitting neatly against the curve of his side, gaze on Lovecraft’s face.
Lovecraft chews on his candy.
“Hey,” John starts, voice thoughtful. “D’you ever feel older than you are?”
Lovecraft casts a skeptical stare in John Steinbeck’s direction, the usual dry response that follows a stupidly nonsensical question. “I’m immortal. I don’t have a real age.”
“I know . That’s why I asked you.” John reaches over and flicks Lovecraft’s cheek as admonishment without any particular bite behind it. “I keep trying to figure out how long I’ve known you and the times I think of don’t make any sense. It’s six years, but it’s not. You’re too familiar.”
“Mn,” Lovecraft hums absently. “The world’s weird.”
John groans in exasperation at the lack of help he’s getting-- oh, the trials and tribulations of trying to get straight information out of Lovecraft. This is why he hardly ever bothers with such futile activities. Instead of pressing (since he knows that’s useless), he flops back to lie next to Lovecraft, commandeering his arm as a uniquely uncomfortable pillow. “You know something, don’t you?”
“I rarely know anything about anything, John.”