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Lovecraft shuddered and coughed.
It was a guttural, wet noise that John had gotten to know all too well. He kept his eyes on the road as Lovecraft pulled something from his mouth, balled it up, and tossed it out the window.
Whatever it was, it made the cab reek of decay.
"You all right?" John asked, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.
"Yes."
He always said yes. But it didn't keep John from noticing that the coughing had steadily been getting worse.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Lovecraft wipe his mouth. Something dark, like blood or ichor, came away on his hand and left a dull smear across his cheek.
John normally didn't like to pry, especially where Lovecraft was concerned. He was quiet and private. If he wanted to share information, he'd do it without being asked.
But curiosity and concern got the better of him.
"That cough of yours is getting worse."
"Yes."
"Has it got anything to do with you being on land? Lungs drying out or something?"
"No."
John frowned, and glanced over at him again. He was staring out the window, head resting against his hand, looking completely disinterested.
"How come, then?"
"It does not concern you, John. Do not worry."
It was hard not to worry. He'd been told that Lovecraft couldn't get sick, but he sure did seem like he was sick. Ever since they'd met, he'd been having those coughing fits. And then there were the smelly green masses that he hacked up. Lovecraft always disposed of them before John could get a good look, but from what he could see, they were some sort of plant.
Who coughed up plants? Even John, with his ability, had never had that happen.
Maybe it was just something that effected people like Lovecraft. He was so secretive about it, though, that John felt certain there had to be more to it than a simple difference of biology.
He tried a slightly different tactic. "It looks like it hurts."
"It does, but it will not kill me."
"Sure, but don't you want it to stop?"
Lovecraft turned to face him. The defeated set of his face communicated his exhaustion more eloquently than words ever could.
"Sorry. That was a stupid question."
Lovecraft coughed again, the noise thick and rattling. Another thin trickle of something that might have been blood dripped down his chin. His nose crinkled and his brows furrowed as he wiped it away.
"Would it help if you were, you know, less human?" John offered. "I don't mind, if it would help--"
Lovecraft cut him off, his voice weary. "The discomfort is different, but equal, no matter my form."
"Oh."
The cough returned. Lovecraft covered his mouth, and the thick, inky substance oozed between his fingers and dripped down his arm.
John pulled the truck over to the side of the road, alarmed. He'd never seen it quite that bad before. "Lovecraft, are you sure there's not anything--"
"I am sure. It comes and goes. It will subside eventually." He wiped his hand on the inside of his coat, and returned to staring out the window.
The hotel room that Fitzgerald had arranged for them was far too nice, at least by John's standards. The beds were soft, the bathroom enormous, and he was sure it had been expensive. He'd raided the mini bar on principle. Let Fitzgerald pay for that, too, if he was so intent on wasting money.
"For how much it costs, this whiskey sure tastes like shit," he grumbled. "You want some?"
"No, thank you."
Not only could Lovecraft not get drunk, but he knew from experience that alcohol tended to exacerbate the pain inside him. It was bad enough as it was, without adding literal fuel to the fire.
"Suit yourself." John drank until he was tired, then flopped onto one of the beds and passed out.
Lovecraft watched him sleep for awhile. He reeked of alcohol, and left a trail of drool on the pillow. It was adorable.
As soon as he had the thought, he started coughing.
With a sigh, he padded into the bathroom. John needed his sleep, after all. He turned on the shower, both to act as a noise barrier and for whatever slight comfort the cold water could offer.
It wasn't the same as being home. It was hardly even close. Here he stood, a poor imitation of a human, being pelted by an equally poor imitation of rain.
He stood underneath the thin strands of water, and coughed up vegetation. Green strands and tiny white flowers spattered across the shower walls and floor.
They reminded him of countless mistakes. Why did he insist on trying to exist among people? He could dimly remember a time when he hadn't. When they had been nuisances at best, disturbing his slumber and clamoring for his attention.
Then, somehow, he'd grown fond of them. Or at least, some of them. They were curious and entertaining. But they were also delicate creatures, and temperamental. Almost entirely unsuitable to be any sort of companion. Yet here he was. Carefully restraining himself, playing by their rules.
Another cough shook through him, forcing him to his knees. He hacked up clump after clump of the stringy plant until they covered the shower floor.
He didn't hear John come in, but there he was, peering into the shower with a look of concern on his face. "Are you okay in here?"
"I am fine."
John turned the water off, and glanced down at the plants. "Where'd all that come from?"
Lovecraft looked at him pointedly as he coughed again.
"Wait, is that what you've been coughing up?"
"Clearly," he gasped.
John's eyes went wide with shock. "Are you serious? That's cowbane. It's poisonous as anything. You sure you're okay?"
"I cannot be poisoned."
"Yeah, but--"
"John, I am fine. There is nothing you, or anyone, can do."
John supposed that if he'd been coughing up cowbane this entire time, that he was probably right, and it wasn't going to hurt him. Still, having that in his system couldn't be doing him any favors.
He extended his hand. "Come on, at least you should get out of the shower and lay down in bed."
Lovecraft took it with a sigh. John's kindness was terrible. He would cough, and John would look so worried. He'd shake, and John would reach over and touch his arm gently, trying to reassure him.
All it did was remind Lovecraft of how alone he truly was. The only one of his kind, as far as he knew. And when he tried to connect with humans, he was punished. By fate or nature or coincidence, it didn't matter. He'd tried to be close to them, and all he was given was this disease, that worsened with every moment of want. It hurt, and the pain left him exhausted.
John looked down at Lovecraft's fingers, entwined in his. "You're warm. You sure you're not sick?"
"I cannot get sick."
"I don't know, maybe you should still go to a doctor. Or I know a few home remedies if you want to try--"
John worried so much that it made Lovecraft ache. "John. Stop it."
"All right," John answered, sullen. "I'm just trying to help."
"I do not require your help."
"Fine." John fell back into bed, muttering to himself. Soon he was asleep, leaving Lovecraft with his thoughts.
Lovecraft lay flat on his back against the ground, and stared up at the sky. The sun was starting to come up. He hadn't slept that night, or the night before, or the night before that. Ever since John had held his hand and offered him help, and he'd refused.
John had stopped asking Lovecraft if he was all right. He was still friendly enough, but a little more distant than he used to be.
And Lovecraft's coughing grew worse.
It was hot. Too hot for such an early hour. He couldn't tell if it was the sun or something inside him that was making him so uncomfortable.
The entire thing was ridiculous. He knew better than this. He and John had nothing in common, save a morbid outlook on life. And that, as pleasant as it was in conversation, was not something that was going to lead to any sort of romantic relationship. He knew that. But John was much easier to be around than most people. And he was kind. Too kind. Even to something like him. His mind danced over the possibilities, and interrupted his attempts to sleep.
Lovesick.
As much as he hated to admit it, that was precisely what he felt.
How many times had it happened? Countless. And every time it made the sickness hurt more. Lovecraft wondered if it would ever become unbearable. If it would ever, could ever, actually kill him.
He clenched his jaw and tried not to cough.
His efforts failed, and he curled up into a ball, hacking and spitting up plants across the dry earth.
John yawned beside him. "I wish you'd tell me what's going on."
"I know."
Lovecraft pulled a strand, green and sickly, from his mouth. He wadded it up and threw it away, wiping his hands on his shirt.
"You wanna talk about it?"
"I do not."
"Ugh." John rolled onto his side and stared at Lovecraft. "Look, I know you said you don't want any help, but trying to ignore it isn't making it any better. I tried to back off, but I'm still worried about you."
"There is nothing you can do, John."
"I know. I know that I can't fix it, but... at least I can be here for you." His voice was soft and a little desperate.
Lovecraft looked at him, curious. "And what does that accomplish?"
"Pain hurts more when you're alone, doesn't it? I've always thought so."
That was a foolish sentiment. Pain was pain, no matter if you had company or not. "You are strange, John."
"Me? I thought you were the strange one." John smiled and scooted closer. "So."
"So?"
"You gonna tell me or not?"
He was so stubborn. But it was endearing, in a way. "Fine. It is a form of illness. Rare, as I understand it. Usually fatal. At least, for humans."
"Is it ever going to go away?"
"That is doubtful."
John's mouth twisted into a scowl. "You keep saying that you can't get sick, though."
"Physical ailments do not effect me. But this, it seems, is more of an emotional distress than a physical one."
"I don't understand."
"That is fine."
"What? No, it's not. I want to understand. What kind of emotional distress?"
Lovecraft had avoided putting it into words for many years. And suddenly he couldn't remember why. Not speaking of it didn't make it any less real; that was the sort of pathetic attempt at avoidance that a human might try.
"It has to do with love. Unrequited love."
John's eyes went wide, but before he could ask any questions, Lovecraft began his story. He stared up at the sky while he spoke, as if he could see his past playing out before him.
"Many years ago, long before you were born, I was summoned to the home of a very powerful man. He dabbled in the occult, and wished, in the manner of very powerful men, to become even more powerful. Such a thing is a simple request, and, pleased with my service, he decided to keep me for a time. I completed the tasks he gave me, and in between them, I was housed in a cell.
"He only spoke with me to give me orders. When I was in the cell, I was attended to by a servant. He was young, quiet. Very polite, very observant. He treated me as if I was under his care. Full of kindness. He was careful around me, but not afraid.
"Over time, I found myself becoming fond of him. I did not often have extended contact with individuals, and this feeling was surprising in its novelty.
"When the day came that I was to be set free, I found myself oddly melancholic. As much as I detested being bound and forced to serve, there was a part of me that hesitated to leave. The young man stood before me, key in hand, and told me to go. But I thought that perhaps if I explained the fondness I had for him, he would leave with me.
"Of course, it was a foolish thought. When I told him, he looked at me with horror. It was a look I recognized all too well, a look that said I was nothing more than a monster. He spat at me and told me to leave and never return. And then, in my shock, I..."
His voice trailed off, and he sighed heavily. "You are such a fragile species."
"You killed him." John's voice was dull.
"Regrettably, yes. It was not my intention." He fell quiet, studying John's face for a reaction.
"What was your intention, then?" John asked, an edge to his voice that Lovecraft had never heard before.
It made his lungs burn. A moment passed before he could bring himself to answer. "Make him."
"Make him what?"
"Return my fondness."
John glared at him, eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"It seemed so simple. If he did not naturally feel inclined to favor me, I would persuade him as best I could. And I can be very persuasive."
John was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, the edge in his voice was sharp. "You think of people like toys, don't you?"
"It was a mistake I made a very long time ago, John."
"I don't care. That's messed up, Lovecraft. I don't care what you are. That's... that's not right." The pain and disgust in his voice shot through Lovecraft's stomach and curled up in his chest.
It was too much to bear, and he coughed and coughed. The tiny white flowers covered his hands.
John looked at them, all compassion gone. "And that's when you started coughing?"
"Yes."
"Good. You deserve it."
John stood up, and walked away.
Lovecraft didn't see John for a long time after that. They didn't get assigned to any missions, and neither of them sought out the other.
Days turned into weeks. Most of Lovecraft's time was spent in his room, coughing and wishing he'd explained himself differently. He did not begrudge John his anger; he knew very well that his nature was incompatible with that of humans.
Still, he missed John's company.
The cough subsided a little. Lovecraft had no idea why, but he welcomed the respite.
And then one afternoon, John came in.
"You really should lock your door."
"Why?"
"Fair enough." He shrugged and slumped into a chair.
Lovecraft stared at him, curious and surprised. "Why are you here?"
John couldn't quite look at him. "I just came by to say... Well. That story, it was a lot to take in. And what you did wasn't okay. You know that, right?"
"Yes. It was an act of foolish desperation. I have had centuries to reflect on my error."
"And you haven't done that to anybody since?"
"I have not."
"Good." John scratched at the back of his head and looked up at the ceiling. "I was real mad. I told the boss I needed some time off. I didn't want to have to be around you."
"Yes. That is what I assumed. It was very unusual to not be given any work."
John's legs bounced nervously as he spoke, "But after awhile, I stopped being so mad and I started thinking. I guess I'll never really understand what it's like for you, but I know lonesome and I know heartache. You don't deserve that. I'm sorry that I said you did."
Lovecraft shrugged.
"Look," he continued, "I was thinking about what you said. About how that cough's from being lovesick. You're trying to tell me that in all the time between then and now, nobody's ever loved you back? That's got to be bullshit."
"There have been occasions. But they are not a cure. While it eases the pain somewhat if my feelings are reciprocated, it is also a great risk. If they go unreturned, the disease grows in its intensity."
"So why do you even deal with it any more? Why don't you just stay in the ocean?"
"When I am away from people, it does become easier to bear. I can sleep, and forget, and it subsides."
"That sounds like your solution, then."
A rueful smile crossed his face. "Yes. And yet here I am."
"Only because you got summoned, though. Tell the boss to let you go. I'll tell him. He shouldn't keep you here when it hurts you like that."
There was an odd determination in John's voice. As if he was trying to convince the both of them. He was clearly struggling with something, but Lovecraft wasn't sure what it could be.
"I must serve out the duration of my contract."
"And how long's that?"
"My contract with Fitzgerald is for life."
"Oh." John paused for a few moments, deep in thought. Finally, he took a deep breath, and stood up and crossed the room to where Lovecraft sat. "Stand up for me?"
Lovecraft tilted his head, confused, but complied.
"Thanks. Anyway, like I said, I've been doing some thinking. About you, mostly. I came up with a plan, but I wasn't sure if it would work. But listening to what you said just now... well, it might."
"A plan?"
"Yeah. I told you months ago that I wanted to help you, and that's exactly what I'm gonna do."
"I do not understand."
John smiled, a fire in his eyes. "Join the club." He stretched up on his toes and softly kissed Lovecraft's cheek.
Lovecraft blinked at him. "John?"
"Yeah?"
"Why did you do that?"
John rolled his eyes. "For something as old as you are, you sure can be stupid."
"That is true."
He laughed, and ran his thumb over Lovecraft's cheek. "C'mon, why does a guy usually kiss somebody?"
Lovecraft wasn't quite sure what to think. John had been so angry, and then he told him he should go back to the ocean, and now this? How was he supposed to make sense of that? He frowned, thoroughly confused.
John saw his expression change and pulled his hand away. "Shit, I messed up, didn't I? I thought... I... shit."
"John?"
"I guess I'll probably start hacking up plants soon, too."
Lovecraft's frown deepened. "Why?"
"Oh come on, you're gonna make me say it? That's just cruel."
Lovecraft's fingers traced where John's had been a moment ago. "You do not have to say anything. But I do not understand."
John prayed silently for whatever strength he could muster. "You talk to me, and you hardly talk to anybody else. I've seen you around other people, and you get all tense and cautious. But you're different when we're together, and that makes me proud as anything. I feel like I'm protecting you. I know that sounds stupid, but I thought I was helping make your time here easier. And I guess I thought you liked that. Liked me. Do you understand that?"
"I do like you, John. We are friends."
John sighed, and it was heartrendingly sad. "I don't just like you as a friend, though. I care about you a lot, okay?" His voice caught a bit, and he finished his announcement staring up at him, his eyes red and watery.
"John?"
"What?"
"I do not think you will start coughing."
John laughed bitterly, and kicked at the floor. "Yeah, you said it was rare. I'll probably be okay. Plenty of people get rejected every day."
"That is not why." Lovecraft said quietly, brushing his thumb across John's cheek.
His touch was cold and it made John shudder, but it also brought a terrible hope to his heart. "Huh?"
Lovecraft leaned down and placed a light, careful kiss against John's forehead. "You have no reason for heartache."
A smile broke out across John's face. "And why's that? If I had to say it, you do too."
"You are very kind, John. Kind and stubborn and recklessly fearless. I would like to protect you from hurt, as well."
John was grinning despite the tears in his eyes. "Promise?"
"Yes. I cannot make a formal contract with you, but--"
"Lovecraft."
"You have my word, John. I am very fond of you." A faint smile crept onto Lovecraft's face.
John pulled him into a hug. "Look, you come back with me to my room tonight. I'll fix you some soup and make you some tea or something."
"All right."
"And you say that cough isn't ever gonna go away?"
"It is unlikely."
"Well then I guess I'm gonna be making you tea every night."
"If you insist," Lovecraft laughed. The laugh, even though it was soft and quiet, turned into a cough.
Concern flashed across John's face. "You okay?"
"Yes." It was already more bearable than it had been: the pain was nearly overwhelmed by the warmth inside him. He hadn't felt this sort of relief in a very long time. "Thank you."
John grinned at him again, chin resting against his chest. "I told you I could help."