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It could not stay. It had always known as much, and had taken every step with that fact in mind. It would have to return home, and it would sleep until the stars were right. By then, John would be long gone. It was inevitable, and so it felt no need to change it. No matter how strongly both of them wished to stay together, Lovecraft could never remain on the surface, and John would not be happy underwater. And yet, the man still held onto the feeble hope that, through some miracle, he and Lovecraft could remain together, sitting side by side on the beach for the rest of their days. That he could defy death, and join Lovecraft in its slumber. It was a foolish hope, of course, but it could not blame him. Had it had the capacity for hope, it would have done so too.
It had promised to bury him. Right on that beach, sitting in silence, it had promised to return and make the waters a grave for him, a final place of rest so they could be near. John did not feel himself worthy of being buried next to his family, of returning to them and growing old along with his siblings, of watching their children grow. But he feared dying alone, and there was no one else he loved so dearly. So, he asked it to bury him, and it accepted. It could do nothing to keep them together, but at least it would be there for him in death, give him a merciful, loving end. There would be nothing to remember him, no gravestone to mark his existence on Earth, no proof that a man named John Steinbeck had once sat on this beach and done bad impressions of his boss and given away his slices of pie for his younger sisters. But Lovecraft would remember. It would remember every single word he had said to it, every smile he had given it, every moment together. It would remember how warm he always was, how he’d wake up just as the sun rose every single day, how he liked running his fingers through Lovecraft’s hair. Even if this planet never spoke of John Steinbeck again, the seas would mark his grave and remember his existence with fondness. The ocean would grant him a last loving embrace, a farewell kiss, and it would mourn him until the end of everything.
Even if Lovecraft could not give him a happy life, it would give him a loving death, and that seemed to be enough for John. He smiled up at it, a melancholy in his ocean eyes, and it committed that smile to its memory as well.