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Steinbeck found himself dragged to another party hosted by Lord Fitzgerald, and so far he was wholly unimpressed with the spectacle. He and the other members of The Guild were meant to act as “representatives”, however that title had a very vague meaning and a purpose that was even more vague than that, and thus he was left to awkwardly wander through the crowds of people. He was having a drink with Twain just a moment before, but he had yelled something inarticulate and as soon as Steinbeck turned to ask what the hell he had just said, he already disappeared.
Steinbeck was not having a fun time.
In all honesty, he never did. His eyes had glazed over a long time ago, standing in the same spot and watching representatives of other groups clamor at the idea of meeting with Fitzgerald to discuss matters that were technically important to Steinbeck as a member of The Guild, but he couldn’t care less for the fine details. In fact, Fitzgerald was nowhere to be seen, and Steinbeck assumed that if he really wanted to, he could just walk out and nobody would even notice. The idea was tempting.
He turned, and heard the clacking of pearls behind him.
“Isn’t it all just gorgeous, darling?”
He previously stood alone before hearing the honey-sweet voice of Mitchell behind him, accompanied by the rattling of her many pearl necklaces as she strolled down the stairs to meet him, a corner of her dress brushing against his leg. He looked past his shoulder to see her walking down from a crowd of guests, hardly making out her voice between the bustling of voices around them. He crossed his arms and clicked his tongue, looking back to the crowd in front of them.
“I ‘spose it's nice.” He stood up straighter, attempting to make his voice sound at least somewhat enthused (didn’t work). He looked back to Mitchell, gaudy, dangling earrings that reflected the moving chandelier lights above them, and a billowing dress that covered the stairs, embellished with gold and white jewels. “An’ you look lovely, kinda like one of those performer girls.” He almost went to tip his hat, forgetting he wasn’t currently wearing one.
“Oh, goodness no,” She flipped her hair back and sighed dramatically, “As if I’d perform for such churlish people who let themselves in uninvited. Besides, I fare better acting as a representative, it makes me look important among them.” She stood in a similar position, a shared look to tell him that she was also annoyed beyond comprehension. “I’d like to tell a few of them off, it's a shame I can’t.”
“That it is,” Steinbeck hardly made out silhouettes of the performers outside from a window that was guarded by drunks who refused to move, hollering above the obnoxiously loud music playing over someone’s car stereo.
“An’ what happened to those guys you were talkin’ to earlier?”
“Oh don’t even,” She took a drink from the strawberry daiquiri in her hand, “They were shitfaced the second they got here, they hardly got any better.”
“Aren't they all?” Steinbeck replied, caught off guard by the sudden laughter from a group right behind them.
“You ain’t wrong,” Mitchell frowned, smoothing out her dress and looking to a few ladies who had just entered the building, “Say, it's rare to see you alone, did your friend run off too?” She stopped for a moment and laughed to herself, “That’s quite unlike him.”
“Huh?” Steinbeck faced Mitchell with his complete attention. “You mean Mark?”
She let out another laugh, this time haughty and loud as she patted Steinbeck’s shoulder, “No, doll, I mean Lovecraft. It’s quite a sight to not see you two together.”
“What?” He paused as he suddenly felt hot. He had lost Lovecraft long before the crowds even arrived, it was typical– even expected of him to run off. Lovecraft despised the idea of being in such a place, and Steinbeck was very jealous of his ability to disappear into thin air, the thin air in question most often being Steinbeck’s hotel room. This was easily excused, but sometimes Steinbeck had to wonder if Fitzgerald ever even noticed that Lovecraft refused to attend. “I mean, he ain’t ever here anyways.”
“I don’t blame him, but I figured I’d see you both outside maybe,” Mitchell turned her head to look at a man who was mouthing her name, and she waved a hand dismissively. “I said I’d meet with you in a minute!” She shouted. “I apologize dear, I’ll talk again with you later.” She strolled up the stairs and into the crowd, out of sight before he could say anything.
“Yeah…” He said, lowering his voice. The crowds were beginning to overwhelm him, and now all of the lights started to blend together. To hell with it, he figured. He’ll go back to Lovecraft and if Fitzgerald even notices, he’ll come up with an excuse on the spot that he’ll be forced to take.
He began to wade through the crowds, yellow and white kaleidoscopic lights flickered in his eyes, only stopping to decline small talk and offers of cocktails. He stepped awkwardly through a bustling crowd that blocked the entryway, the crowd in question most likely being too drunk to notice his existence. Steinbeck was a bit drunk himself, and was trying to make sense of where he even was. It’s harder to tell what room you’re in when it's covered in people who refuse to move.
Once outside he took a moment to readjust his vision, offset by the sudden shift that was excessively bright lights to almost complete darkness only illuminated by the mansion lights behind him. He squinted, making out the headlights of cars that were still driving up to invite themselves in. He figured he’d check the places that Lovecraft occasionally rested that didn’t consist of their hotel rooms, as Steinbeck hated the idea of driving back to the hotel only to find absolutely nothing of worth.
A sudden interjection had entered his mind, and he immediately knew where to find Lovecraft. At the dock, beside the ocean. He’d seen him there more than once.
A sight to not see us together?
That thought had curled itself around Steinbeck’s mind, he tried to figure out why Margaret would make a comment like that. Truthfully though, there wasn’t much thought to give to it. He truly did never find himself alone– and it was now strange, even unnatural to imagine his partnership with Lovecraft from another perspective. Still, somehow, it bothered him and he couldn’t reason with himself why.
He came to the edge of the water and sure enough, he could spot Lovecraft’s silhouette hunched over on the edge of the dock, only illuminated by the moon. He could just barely catch him looking back, as if anticipating Steinbeck’s visit. He strolled forward, hands in his pockets and a stupidly large grin that now covered his face.
“You ran off!” He called out, running to Lovecraft. He turned back to the ocean, a vague look of anxiety on his face, transfixed on a shining green light that could be seen from across the dock. It lit up his eyes, revealing their typical dullness. Steinbeck rested his arm on Lovecraft’s shoulder (not that he noticed) trying to find what he was so fixated on.
Lovecraft sat up straighter and closed his eyes. “You startled me.”
“Yeah, I figured.” He sat himself down next to Lovecraft, and took an estimated guess that he had probably woken him up. Looking out at the same view, he also found himself strangely enamored with the view in front of them. “You really like this place, huh? You haven’t been back at the hotel the last few times.”
He paused for a minute. “It is nice here, it’s quiet.”
“Well I can’t blame you there.” The only answer he expected. Steinbeck rested his chin in his hands, staring down Lovecraft. He still wore the black flannel suit that Fitzgerald insisted he wear, except now the tie was loosened (Steinbeck figured that Lovecraft found it tight and uncomfortable, another thing he couldn’t blame him for).
They watched the water lap in comfortable silence, Steinbeck shifted cross-legged and leaned his head against Lovecraft, who paid no attention towards the gesture. He then turned to look at Lovecraft, who seemed to have relaxed and had a softer expression on his face.
“I hate going to these.” He stated abruptly.
“You’re lucky you don’t have to stay,” Steinbeck gave an awkward laugh, knitting his brows and crossing his arms. “Fitzgerald doesn’t even notice you running off.”
“I am glad.” Lovecraft’s eyes followed the lapping waves beneath the dock. “I do not think he would notice you either.”
“Yeah, I ‘spose so,” He loosened his own tie, becoming more comfortable, “An’ that’s why I came lookin’ for you, figured I’d finally just leave.”
Lovecraft had a vague sense that he wasn’t supposed to do that. “Will you get caught?”
“Doubt it,” He looked back to the mansion, now a speck in the dark. “An’ if I do it ain’t anyone’s problem, I’m good at coming up with excuses.” He gave Lovecraft his best grin. Lovecraft wasn’t convinced.
Steinbeck noticed his look of dissatisfaction, and broke out into laughter. Lovecraft was, again, startled, and wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Don’t worry about me too much,” He reassured, lightly elbowing him.
“It is hard not to,” Lovecraft shifted, putting his head back in his hands. He’d like to be able to trust Steinbeck’s word, but knowing him it didn’t mean too much.
A sight to not see us together.
“Hey-” He interrupted the silence again. Lovecraft gave him a low hum of acknowledgement, probably because he didn’t want to have to carry on a second conversation (not that the last one was very long). Steinbeck toiled with his thoughts for a minute, and then stuck his hand in the water, changing his mind. “It’s cold.”
“It is always cold.” Lovecraft replied absently.
“Wouldn’t you know?”
Steinbeck stopped and squinted, looking out to the lighthouse in the far distance. “Missing home again aren’t you?”
It was always a good guess, as Lovecraft nodded his head. The obscured look of dissatisfaction never quite left, and Steinbeck could make it out even now that the clouds hung over the moon and casted away its light. The look was particularly contagious that night, and he wasn’t having it. Steinbeck hopped up with a sudden bounce in his step, and gestured for Lovecraft to take his hand.
“Can’t have you running off too far.”
Lovecraft glared at his hand in utter confusion, and Steinbeck waved it with a greater intensity.
“What are we doing?” He asked, highkey concerned at his sudden excitement.
“We’re having our own party,” He finally got Lovecraft to take his hand, and his face beamed. “And you’re gonna dance with me.”
Lovecraft stood up, almost falling on the way (he had been sitting in the exact same spot for who knows how long) with a look of even greater concern. “I do not know how.”
“I know,” It was a painfully obvious fact, barring the fact that he had little understanding of what dancing even was, he was horribly uncoordinated. “I’ll teach you.”
Even Lovecraft was aware of this fact, and yet he let himself be whisked away by Steinbeck’s whim.
Steinbeck sorts out their position the best he can, the dock wasn’t the widest and Lovecraft stood over him gauntly. He whistled quietly to himself, tightening his grip on Lovecraft’s hand while figuring out a spot that he would call somewhat feasible.
“Put your hand here,” He guided Lovecraft’s hand to his shoulder, “It ain’t too hard once you know what you’re doing.”
Lovecraft, who had no idea what he was doing, was not put at ease by this statement, but he trusted Steinbeck anyways and followed his lead.
“Just follow along with what I’m doing.”
Steinbeck began humming to keep up with his own steps; it was difficult to tell where he was moving adjacent to Lovecraft in the dark. It probably wasn’t the best idea to start this on the dock, Steinbeck was now thinking that maybe he should’ve just taken them to his hotel room first. However now he was dead set on completing a dance that he could consider satisfying enough, and it was poor Lovecraft who had to follow through with his idea.
After a minute, it turns out that it wasn’t going terribly, considering their condition. Steinbeck only had his toes stepped on a few times, and was enjoying himself. Both had gotten into a moderate rhythm, Lovecraft only copying what Steinbeck had shown him, not caring if he wavered but still doing an alright job.
“Not bad!” Steinbeck looked up at Lovecraft who no longer had an uneasy look, and he was satisfied with this. “See, it’s not too hard once you actually do it.”
“I guess not,” Lovecraft wanted to object, but he couldn’t find anything to point out. He continued.
Steinbeck had the idea that Lovecraft was done, and he slowed them down. “Thanks.”
“For what..?”
Steinbeck actually had no reason why he was thanking him, he guessed it was just for putting up with whatever antics he forced Lovecraft into, but now he had to give him an actual answer.
“I dunno, for staying I guess.”
“I have to.” Lovecraft answered plainly.
“No- I mean,” They still stood in the same position, with their arms now lowered but their hands still gripped. “For staying with me.”
He wouldn’t let Lovecraft leave him, not yet at least. Margaret’s statement rang true, they were hardly apart, and Steinbeck realized that he wanted it to stay that way for as long as he had control over it. He relaxed his shoulders and melted into an embrace. He’d make this a home for him, even if it meant protest from Lovecraft. Both of them were stubborn, and Steinbeck liked the challenge of getting him to stay.
They stayed together throughout the whole night on the dock, enveloped in darkness and only illuminated by the distant green light until the sun rose.