[To a regular person, feeling worried over something as eldritch as Lovecraft might be foolish. To Steinbeck, it comes naturally. Lovecraft might be a whole bunch of tentacles in a human suit, but he's never seen him as more than something simple, indeed: his friend. And to hear that waver in his voice makes his own expression melt into something sincerely concerned.]

[He reaches out to gently press his fingers over the other's shoulder, as if to anchor him.]

I don't like it that much, either. [He had expressed it to Ori, before, though. That conflicted feeling of losing something that had been such a large part of who he was, gone in an instant. His situation is different from Lovecraft, of course. Losing the ability to breathe underwater...that would be like losing the keys to one's home for good.] I haven't gotten back mine, yet. I guess you could...ask the goddess. Since she's sort of the one behind this whole mess.