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Lovecraft and John had wrapped up the job Fitzgerald pressed upon them— quick and clean. Some desperate nobody had robbed a few thousands worth of supplies from the Guild. The loss itself barely made Fitzgerald blink— it was a trivial sum to someone of his means. But reputation was another matter entirely. He made sure the message was clear— anyone who crossed the Guild would face complete and utter ruin. John’s conscience tugged at him before the job, just enough to feel the weight of it. But once it was done, that quiet unease began to fade. By the time it was over, the unease had dulled, slipping into the quiet part of his conscience where regrets go to rot.
The sun had begun to set, casting the sky in deep orange tones that faded into shades of purple and blue. The duo eventually came across a rundown motel tucked away in the forgotten stretches of the countryside. It was rusted and worn, but decent enough— a roof over their heads and beds to crash on for the night.
The blonde stood at the cracked porcelain sink, dim yellow light flickering overhead as he hummed a quiet tune— casual and off-key, while he picked away at the crusted blood lodged beneath his nails. After showering and scrubbing away the dried sweat, dirt, and maybe a faint trace of blood, he finally stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling out behind him. A damp towel hung low on his hips, clinging slightly to his skin. His golden hair, wet and unkempt, dripped slowly down to his flushed ears, the strands sticking to his neck and temples. The scent of soap still clung to him, faintly floral under the fading sting of heat.
“Hey Love, bathroom’s yours now.” The sharpness of the young man’s nasal, rhotic accent broke through the silence, pulling the pale, slender figure from his drowsy haze. Lovecraft turned toward him slowly, his gaze unsettlingly direct. The blonde rummaged through his bag and pulled out a pair of boxers and a clean but ragged shirt to sleep in. He didn’t mind changing in front of Lovecraft— he was long used to the hollow, unblinking stare the lanky man gave him.
Once he finished running his fingers through his damp hair, John collapsed onto the bed, the springs creaking beneath him. The room fell silent for a moment, before Lovecraft’s voice, deep and guttural, filled the space .
“Sleepy”
“I know, buddy. Let’s get our goodnight’s sleep now.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, carrying an unspoken comfort that filled the quiet space.
“No, John… I will sleep… there.” Lovecraft paused for a moment, then slowly extended his index finger toward the bathroom, earning a confused glance from John.
The blonde's eyebrows twitched slightly as a cough escaped his throat, eventually morphing into a stuttered, continuous laugh. He was accustomed to Lovecraft's peculiar nature, but this one was entirely new coming from him.
“Whatcha mean, Love?” John’s eyes squinted as he struggled to keep his composure, the quiet giggles threatening to escape him despite his best effort.
“The tub”
It finally clicked. John immediately understood that Lovecraft wanted to sleep in the tub filled with water, and without hesitation, he helped him. The image brought back memories of the time he had found Lovecraft asleep by the Guild’s pool, his body at rest, undisturbed by the chaos around him. It wasn’t anywhere near Lovecraft’s home, but it held a quiet familiarity— like the soothing waves of the sea that had always brought him comfort in this loud, overwhelming world.
When Lovecraft finally settled into the tub, John couldn’t help but smile fondly, letting out a soft yawn. He turned, ready to drift off to sleep, but a tentacle gently halted him. Confused, he looked back at Lovecraft, his gaze tender and full of quiet curiosity, silently asking what it meant.
“Sleep with me.” Lovecraft’s tone was flat, almost demanding. His dark, half-lidded eyes fixed on John with an unwavering gaze, patiently waiting, almost expectantly, for an answer.
“Oh uhh m’sorry, Love—“ John began, hesitating as he tried to explain how much of a hassle it would be to get wet again. But his words trailed off when he saw the unmistakable look of disappointment flicker across Lovecraft’s face.
“Alright, alright— just gimme a minute to take these off.”
The blonde tossed his boxers onto the counter beside the sink, followed quickly by his shirt. No sooner had the shirt touched the counter when Lovecraft’s tentacles shot out, coiling around him with swift, almost frantic urgency. Before John could react, he was yanked from the ground and forcefully placed on Lovecraft's lap, the immovable grip unmistakable, as if the lanky figure couldn’t wait another moment to claim him.
When John finally sank into the cold water, it rose sharply, spilling over the edge in heavy waves. The chill bit at his skin, seeping into his muscles as the water overflowed, spilling onto the tiled floor with a loud, wet slap. John flinched at the sudden chill of the water against Lovecraft’s skin, the cold biting into him like needles. But slowly, the sting faded, dulled into something soothing. He relaxed into Lovecraft’s arms, the stillness wrapping around him like a quiet reassurance, steady and familiar.
When John felt the taller man’s slender nose trail slowly from his neck to his shoulder, his pulse quickened, a subtle heat blooming beneath his skin. Lovecraft was now inhaling his scent with quiet persistence— a small, indulgent act he had treasured ever since taking on a human form.
Lovecraft rested his head in the crook of John’s shoulder, silently savoring the comforting, addictive scent that clung to the blonde’s skin. But slowly, he noticed a change— the steady rhythm of John’s pulse had quickened, a subtle shift that stirred a flicker of concern in him.
“John”
“Hm?” John gently lifted his head to meet Lovecraft’s gaze— dark, hollow eyes that had a trace of concern.
“You’re not sick, are you?” the dark-haired man asked, his voice low and even. He studied John for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as concern crept across his features, lingering there for a brief second before he straightened.
“What?— Course not, buddy,” John chuckled, surprised by the sudden concern, quickly reassuring the uneasy man in front of him that he was perfectly fine.
Lovecraft hummed softly in response, pulling the freckled man closer into his embrace. His tendrils gently wrapped around John’s scarred, sun-kissed body, holding him with a calm, quiet ease. As they settled together, their pulses slowly synced, a gentle rhythm that felt natural and deeply comforting, providing a comfortable rhythm as they simply stayed together.