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There was a dead man on the floor. It wasn't the first time Lovecraft had killed someone, of course, and he was certain that under no circumstances would it be the last. This time was different, though. He hesitated to call it special, but he had a sense that this was an occasion. Something to remember.
The body lay in a crumpled heap, stripped of the things that had made it human. Blood pooled around it, spreading a dark stain across the white tile.
There was no more light in its eyes, or in its smile. No more air in the lungs to create the laugh that would echo down the hallway. All things ended. Lovecraft knew that better than anyone.
Weeping over the dead was not in his nature. Many had, and still more would, call him cold for that. Cold as his borrowed form, cold as his empty veins. It mattered little. If he were to mourn each death, there would be no end of mourning. And truly, wasn't the passage of time troublesome enough, without adding such weight to it?
Still, he took a moment to kneel beside the body. Soon, it too would be cold, even colder than he was. For now, there was still the faintest touch of warmth, the last vestige of a life lived. His fingers curled through golden hair, then he stood. There was no need for words. He had said his goodbyes and his apologies when the body had still been human.
For a time, he would remember how John's clear blue eyes had widened in shock, then narrowed in understanding and determination. The steadiness in his voice; the familiar way he hid his fear. "I won't go quietly. Not even for you."
Lovecraft had nodded. He had expected nothing else. John would die as he had lived, stubbornly. Violently.
Nevertheless, he had tried to be merciful. He intended to make the man's passage into nothingness as clean as he could.
John had fought harder than Lovecraft expected. He supposed it was part of human nature to cling to life.
It only took a short time to wear out John's stamina. Within minutes, he was bleeding profusely from a collection of wounds; they were not all Lovecraft's doing, some were the curious self-inflicted seed beds that were part of his ability. In the hands of another human, who knew what such a gift might have given rise to? In John's control, it had been honed to a weapon, an impressive tool of destruction.
It had been one of the more beautiful things about him, in Lovecraft's opinion. All that potential twisted into something most would shy away from. Much like John's life itself, it brought pain and ruin in the name of perseverance.
Lovecraft allowed himself a smile, remembering the madness that would appear deep in the man's eyes sometimes, in the heat of battle. It was normally buried deep in the core of his heart, a burning desperation that had singed away the edges of his decency. That had been another of the beautiful things about him, that essential perversion in his soul that made him amenable to accepting something like Lovecraft. Something not quite human.
"You know," John had said, barely able to stand, gasping for breath. "I always figured it'd be you."
He had nodded. Yes. It was something they had both understood from the moment John's heart had offered itself to him. With that, their unspoken pact had been sealed, and John's fate had been bound.
There had been no struggle then, only a tacit understanding that he would be granted any number of desires, that he would be held responsible for granting them equally, and that one day, be it tomorrow or many years in the future, his life would be forfeit.
Contrary to what many believed, Lovecraft gained nothing from a human's death. Nothing except the blunt pain of loss, and sudden loneliness. John would not die for his benefit; he would die because he allowed himself to become close to the unnatural.
Lovecraft was used to it. He had had such a very long time to become used to it.
And so he smiled when humans called him cold. Callous. Cruel. Uncaring. Unfeeling. Their lives, their emotions, were burning and urgent. His, and only his, were slow. Inexorable. Tedious. Those who loved him would die. Everything did.
Lovecraft felt few things keenly anymore. There had been a point, long ago, when he too had burned. But the fire had dimmed over time, and he was careful now to tend to whatever embers were left, lest the humans' words become true. He held the pain of loss in his heart, and embraced it as a sign that there were still some things in the world that he could love enough to hurt him.
They had stood, facing each other. John's knife was in his hand, and he had smiled. "Why are you so hard to kill?"
Lovecraft had shrugged, and extended a hand to the man who had filled many roles during their short time together: companion, friend, lover, and now foe.
John took his hand, and stepped closer, shaking--he had already lost so much blood--and collapsed against Lovecraft's chest.
He was so warm, and even weak and battered as he was, he was still beautiful. And still so stubborn. That very stubbornness had led to this encounter in the hallway, had convinced John to chase after Fitzgerald in a vain attempt to win what he thought of as his freedom. Then Fitzgerald had pulled on the reins of Lovecraft's contract, and he was bound to obey.
"I take no pleasure in this," Lovecraft had said, raising John's head carefully with a hand.
"I know."
Supporting John's weight without hurting him further was difficult. He waited until the man seemed more stable, then leaned down, and their lips sought each other almost reflexively. John's were dry, cracked, and his mouth tasted of blood. They stopped only when John withdrew with a racking cough.
He had laughed bitterly, wiping the blood off his lips with the back of a sleeve. "Guess you win," he said, with as much of a smile as he could muster. "Look out for everybody for me." His breathing became shallow and weak, and he was clearly in a great deal of pain.
"I will do what I can."
John nodded. Their lips met again as he said weakly, "I loved you." He punctuated it by using the last trace of his strength to drive the blade of his knife into Lovecraft's chest.
Lovecraft had glanced down at it, and gently pried John's fingers from the handle. Cupping John's chin in his hands, he whispered, "Yes. I have loved you as well." The faintest trace of a smile appeared on John's face just before Lovecraft snapped his neck, and his body crumpled to the floor.
Years later, when his name was a faint memory on the tongues of those who had known him, the creature known as Lovecraft surfaced of his own will, driven by a gnawing need. It wasn't revenge, exactly. It was something more akin to consequence. And although he knew better, he allowed himself to believe that the action he was about to take would bring a dead man one last shred of joy.
He found his target with a half-empty bottle of wine, sitting alone on the balcony of a lavishly appointed penthouse, overlooking the ocean.
Lovecraft's shadow distorted as it fell across the figure.
There was a laugh. "I wondered when you'd finally show up. Took your time, eh, old sport?"
Fitzgerald didn't turn around, and Lovecraft said nothing.
There was a sickening, damp thud, and then silence.
Lovecraft took no delight in killing. And yet, as fate played out once again, and a human lost their life for the sin of knowing him, he smiled.