#limitless.

chapter nineteen.

wc: 1,974. original publish date: november 20, 2020. 

There is an inevitable happiness that comes with falling in love. When all the worries and doubts and insecurities are stripped away, what is left is the knee-shaking nervousness, the stomach-wrenching elation, the childishly giddy happiness. Sometimes it feels like falling asleep at midnight or waking up with a smile. Sometimes it feels like standing thigh-deep in an icy ocean, waiting for a wave that never crashes. Sometimes all there is to be done is to wait for the wave to crash.

JFK's smile falls, but he tries to hide it from Van Gogh. Why didn't he say it back? Is he going to say it back?

All Van Gogh can do is stare up into JFK's green eyes, waiting for him to say something else. To change the subject. To take his response as something positive. To let it satisfy him. To move on.

A weak wave fizzes against the shoreline. The ocean draws back and the world is silent.

"I love you, Vincent," Kennedy says again, less sure of himself this time.

Van Gogh swallows, and there is a pause in conversation. "I am falling down a rabbit hole that I didn't even know existed and it's longer and darker than the one I fell through to get here."

Sometimes answers only make half a bit of sense. Sometimes that has to be good enough.

"And what's it like?" John asks. "The rabbit hole, that is."

"It's dark," Vincent replies on an exhale, never breaking eye contact.

Now Kennedy swallows. His grip on Van Gogh never loosens. "Do you like it there?"

"No," Vincent replies too quickly. "I want to fall through it. To feel my feet on the ground."

"You're afraid of the dark," JFK states.

"I'm afraid of the dark," Vinnie agrees.

A wave slams up against the boys' legs, more powerful than the first one. It fizzes out against the shore, spitting sea foam across the sand.

"Kiss me," Vincent says. "Kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me like we're in love."

"We are in love," JFK protests, but his voice is small.

Van Gogh stares up at John, his eye contact so intense that JFK thinks about breaking it. He blinks, and for a split second, he considers turning his head away. But he doesn't. He sees it through.

"It's really dark in here."

"And you're afraid of the dark."

Van Gogh wraps his arms around the taller boy's neck and pulls his face down so their lips meet. He doesn't pull back when he should. He waits to break the kiss until he's sucked every last bit of saltwater off of JFK's lips. He only opens his eyes when he hears another wave fizz against the sand.

"Do you want to leave?" Jack asks when Van Gogh finally lets him go.

Vincent breaks eye contact for the first time. "I want my sketchbook."

JFK's lips twitch. All of this, and it's still not enough for him. All of this, and all he wants is his fucking sketchbook.

"I don't know where it is," John replies.

Van Gogh looks out across the water. He mumbles in response. "But I know that's not true."

"I think we should go," JFK suggests, ignoring the boy's comment.

"Go where?"

"Home."

Vincent sticks his gaze back onto JFK. "Do you even still want our home?"

JFK furrows his eyebrows. "Of course I do."

Van Gogh retreats his touch from JFK and wraps his arms around himself. "And I want out of this rabbit hole."

"So come home," Kennedy begs.

"Do you want me there?"

Kennedy sighs, realising too late how exasperated he sounds. "Yes, Vinnie, I want you there. After all of this, and you think I'd just cast you aside?"

Vincent takes a second to find his voice. "Yes."

JFK lets his guard down, suddenly remembering who he's dealing with. He was given half a person to work with. He'd thought he was special enough to make the boy whole. But it's not like anyone sells missing pieces for people. The ocean draws back after a wave, and an undercurrent tugs against the hem of JFK's t-shirt.

"You said you believed me when I told you I wouldn't leave."

Van Gogh inhales. "You don't get to be mad at me over this."

"I'm not-" JFK sighs. "I'm not mad at you. I just think you could make this a little easier on me."

Vincent scoffs. "A little easier on you? Are you fucking kidding me? You're Mr. Big Shot Jock! Everyone is in love with you! I mean- god! You're ten times more attractive than me! We don't look like a couple! We don't look like we belong together! You have so many other options, and you're mad at me because I can't trust that you're different from everyone else? That you won't pick up and leave when I become too much to handle? When you decide you don't want me anymore? Jesus Christ, Jack. I thought you knew better. I thought you said you could do this. I thought you knew what you were getting yourself into, but I guess not."

JFK goes silent for longer than he knows he should. A wave crashes, stubborn enough to make Van Gogh wobble. The calm before the storm is ending.

"I do know what I'm getting into. But I wish you had a little more faith in yourself."

"Self-doubt is taught," Vincent counters.

Kennedy shrugs. "Maybe. But it's also fixable."

Van Gogh scoffs again, looking away from the boy. "You say fixable like you mean curable. Like it's a disease."

"Change is a choice."

"I know that."

JFK sighs. "So are you going to make it?"

Vincent swallows, returning his attention to John. His quicksand eyes are full, and not of light. His lip quivers. His skin goes pale, but it's not because of the water. His gaze is glossed over, like he's not really here. Like he's thinking. Like he's remembering.

"No one else ever made that choice for me. I was always the one who had to make the choice for them."

JFK nods. "So you're tired of making it."

"So I don't think I should have to."

"You're better than them."

Van Gogh shivers. "I'm freezing."

"Let's get out of the water."

Vincent agrees, and JFK guides him back to land. He holds the shorter boy's shoulder, pulling him close and making sure he doesn't fall in any holes. The ocean's currents are unpredictable. The sand beneath their feet could give out at any moment.

The boys step out of the water, their legs pale and bumpy from the cold. The sand is rough against their ankles, harsher than when they were in the water. Van Gogh bends down to pick up a seashell discarded onto the shoreline by the waves, a jagged crack etched down the middle. He bends it until he breaks. Vincent keeps one half of the shell and gives the other to JFK.

"What do you want me to do with this?"

Van Gogh answers in a low voice, "Just hold it."

John obeys, too nervous to say anything else. It shocks him that he'd forgotten about this part of his best friend -- the part where he withholds details, doesn't share everything that's on his mind. Vincent never gives out the final puzzle piece. Not anymore, at least. He used to give it out, but he never got it back. It was taken away from him, like all the people who ever left.

They walk down the beach, the foamy waves licking at their feet. They keep a foot in between them -- just enough distance to be separate but not enough to feel alone. JFK bends down after walking a few more yards. His eye is caught by a smooth and shiny black rock, flat enough to close his hand around.

"What's that?" Vincent asks, holding his seashell half close to his chest.

Kennedy's gaze flicks over to the boy. "It's a skipping stone."

Van Gogh chuckles. "I never learned how to skip."

JFK examines the rock in his hand, holding it close to his face and turning it over before his eyes. "Me neither. I just always sort of knew."

Vincent shrugs. "Could you show me?"

Something inside JFK lurches and tells him not to say anything. Going down to the river just outside of town to skip stones with his foster dads was part of his childhood. He hadn't met Van Gogh yet. Doesn't he have to keep their lives separate somehow?

But Vincent looks so hopeful, so genuinely interested. JFK nods softly.

"To be honest, I don't know how to explain it," John admits.

Van Gogh smiles politely. "You never were very good at explaining."

Kennedy nods in agreement. "I'm trying to get better," he replies, begging Vincent to meet his gaze.

The shorter boy locks his eyes with JFK's. "Are you trying for me, or for you?"

"Does it matter?"

Van Gogh takes a deep breath. "I guess not."

JFK nods, satisfied with the boy's answer. He turns toward the water, and Vincent does the same. "Okay, so first, you've gotta get a flat rock."

"Like the one you have," Van Gogh comments.

"Exactly. And then, you sort of hold it in between your thumb and your middle finger, like this," he shows the boy. "And, like, rest the rock on your index finger. But bend it. See how I'm doing that?"

Vincent nods to show that he understands.

"And then you wanna face the water, but angle your body the slightest bit. And really what you're doing is flicking your wrist. It doesn't come from your hand. It's from your wrist."

JFK lets the rock fly, and both boys watch as it skips over the water three times. It probably would've gone farther, had they been standing closer to the water. It's still impressive to Van Gogh, though, who's never seen anyone do that before. He seems to be bewildered by everything the boy does.

"You wanna try now?" John asks, turning to the boy.

Van Gogh shakes his head. "No. I want to go home."

JFK frowns. "But you wanted me to teach you."

"No, I asked you to show me," Vincent shrugs weakly. "And besides, I couldn't do it like you can."

The taller boy's frown deepens. "I wouldn't expect it to be perfect the first time around. What I just did -- that took years of practice. A lot of weekends of my dads taking me down to the river to practice and me being horrible. Nothing is perfect on the first try."

"Why are you mad at me right now?" Vincent asks, his eyebrows furrowing.

"I'm not mad, Vincent. I just don't know why you do this."

"Why I do what? I'm not doing anything."

JFK sighs, and this time he doesn't care how exasperated he sounds. "That's my point. A lot of things come easily to you. All your art and your grades in school and stuff -- you've never struggled with any of that. You've become so accustomed to just being good at everything that you never try anything new because the worst thing in the world is to be bad at something."

Van Gogh's jaw clenches. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

The world is still, except for the low waves of the ocean. The fizzing and drawing back of the water fills up the boys' ears. Finally, Vincent speaks, his voice so quiet it's a miracle it drowns out the ocean.

"Teach me how to drive a car."

"I already said I would-"

"Teach me how to drive your car," Van Gogh clarifies, and his face is so stoically serious that all JFK can do is swallow.

chapter eighteen.

wc: 2,090. original publish date: november 12, 2020. 

"Oh my god, finally," Vincent whines once JFK pulls his car into the parking lot.

"Hey, why are you complaining? I'm the one who just had to drive for three hours," JFK replies. "Besides, you could've chosen a closer destination."

Van Gogh gives Kennedy a warning glare. "Hey! No fighting today!"

John shrugs. "You started it."

Vincent takes a deep breath. "Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot." He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans across the centre console to give JFK a kiss on the lips, deep and slow.

Kennedy grins. "That's more like it."

The boys climb out of the car, and Vincent is immediately hit by a gush of icy wind. He pulls his letterman jacket tighter around himself, one hand flying up to his head to secure the bandages. His fiery orange hair dances in front of his eyes and whips him in the face. JFK smiles to himself, taking in the way the boy's freckles pop out against his flushed cheeks. He never really could deal with the cold.

"So, why'd you bring us to the ocean?" John questions, locking the car before turning back to Van Gogh. He bends an arm against his hip and holds it out to the smaller boy, who wraps his hands around his boyfriend's biceps. They step off of the concrete of the parking lot and onto the sandy beach, linked just like that.

"Because it's actually sunny today. I thought it might be nice."

JFK stifles a laugh, looking down at bundled-up Van Gogh. "And how's that working out for you?"

Vincent bats at Kennedy playfully. "Don't start with me."  

JFK leads them down the beach, towards a huge, barnacled rock close to the shoreline. The sand is harder and wetter over here, which Van Gogh is grateful for. He doesn't like when the dry sand collects between the laces of his Keds. It's such a fuss to clean out and it always stains the white laces brown.

The ocean is calm, but small waves still lap at the sand. The water fizzes and leaves sea foam on the beach, bits of rocks and shells and plastic trapped in it. The waves crash in a syncopated fashion, the sound a low enough hum to fall asleep to. Vincent gazes out across the water, smiling reservedly at the view. The sun reflects off of the emerald water, and the ocean seems to last forever. He imagines walking right into the surf with his clothes and shoes on, letting the waves submerge him and pull him into the abyss. What a heavenly way to die.

"I wish I knew where my sketchbook was," he murmurs, delicate fingers still wrapped around JFK's bicep. "I don't think I'd draw this. It's too grand for that. I'd paint it."

"In your sketchbook?"

Van Gogh shrugs, eyes still taking in the ocean. "I don't have a canvas."

John grins, but not in his over-eager toothpaste model fashion. He grins in contentedness, in reservation, in affection, in... love. "I'll be your canvas."

Vincent turns to the boy, sure he's joking. "I'm sure you'd love having oil paint on your washboard abs."

JFK laughs and shakes his head. "You're probably right."

The two stand there for some minutes longer, just basking in the shimmering sun and letting their noses fill up with pleasantly salty air. It's been so long since either of them have gone to the beach. Exclamation! is a landlocked town in a landlocked state.

"Do you want to take a walk?" Kennedy whispers after a while, hesitant to break the silence.

"I think that would be okay."

They start walking, slowly. They haven't gotten very far when Vincent says, "Wait."

JFK stops. "What is it?"

Van Gogh unwraps himself from John and bends down to untie his Keds. He slides his shoes off of his feet, hopping on one foot as he takes his socks off. He balls his socks up and places them in his shoes.

"You wanna carry those...?" Kennedy starts.

Vincent shakes his head and tucks them into a split in the rock. "You wanna take off yours?"

JFK bends down to untie his sneakers. He pulls his socks off, not bothering to remove them one at a time. He doesn't care if the bottoms get dirty. He balls the socks up and shoves them into his sneakers before handing them to Van Gogh, who stacks them up next to his own shoes in the rock crevice.

They resume their walk. Vincent slides his hand down JFK's arm until it meets with the taller boy's hand, warm and rough against his small palm.

"Your fingers are so long," JFK says.

Vincent giggles nervously. "That's such an odd comment to make."

John shakes his head lightly. "It's not a bad thing."

"I like the way my hand fits in yours," Van Gogh says.

JFK smiles, his insides melting, warm and gooey like a fresh chocolate chip cookie. "Good, because I like the way your hand fits into mine."

Vinnie speaks after a while, the fizz of the sea foamy waves suddenly deafening in the silence. "Can I ask you something?"

"Okay."

Van Gogh takes a deep breath, letting the rise and fall of his chest soothe him. "What's your favourite thing about me?"

Jack grins. "My favourite thing about you?"

Vincent nods.

JFK goes silent, taking a moment to think before answering. "There isn't just one thing."

"You can give me more than one," Van Gogh says, hoping he doesn't sound too hopeful as his mouth pulls into a giddy smile.

"I like the way you look in the mornings, when I wake up and you're still asleep. I like the way your hair falls over your eyes and the way the t-shirt you sleep in is too big for you and the sleeves go all the way down to your elbows. I like the way your cheeks flush pink in the cold, and I like the way you tie your shoelaces. I like the way you can focus so hard on the book you're reading that you don't even notice the world around you. It's like your book is your world. I wish I could do that. Fall into something, the way you do."

"It gets boring after awhile," Vincent offers. "Or sometimes I get too lost and it's jarring when you say my name."

"Well," JFK starts. "I'm sorry."

"Is that it?" Van Gogh asks after a second. "Those are all the things you like about me?"

JFK smiles. He opens his mouth and closes it, trying words out on his tongue before saying them out loud. "I like watching you when you pick at your nails. I know you probably don't mean to do it, but... I don't know. I guess there's this fluidity about it. Your fingernails are so healthy and long, it's just... god, I don't know. This is kind of embarrassing." The taller boy laughs at himself, his cheeks turning pink.

Gogh blushes. "You can keep going, if you want to."

John laughs goodheartedly, but intends to continue nonetheless. He's not done. He won't be done for a while. Every thought he's ever had about Van Gogh rushes back into his head -- they've been best friends since they were in grade school. But they were never really just friends, were they? All those Friday nights that JFK would spend at the boy's house keeping him company while his parents were away; all those times Vincent would call him in the middle of the night, begging him to come over because he couldn't fall asleep in an empty house and how JFK would always going over, no matter how late it was -- none of that is something just friends do. He thinks about every time Vincent's gaze would linger on him a split second longer than normal and how he always pretended not to notice. He thinks about how Vincent's is the only contact in his phone that is a nickname followed by a string of emojis instead of a mundane first and last name. He thinks about how he took books off of Vincent's bookshelf without asking just because he wanted to read the same words the boy had, just because he wanted to know his fingers were grazing over spines that Vincent's had. He thinks about the times he'd let Vincent paint his nails, about the times he'd let Vincent pick out his outfits for school. How both of them had thought their relationship was a friendship that everyone had -- how they'd neglected to pick up on the signs that everyone else had noticed long ago.

"I like the way you wear a yellow raincoat and matching rain boots when it's wet outside. I like the way you always put the pillows on your bed in the same arrangement, and I like the way you dance to music even when it's playing through your earbuds. I like the way you mouth the words to the book you're reading when you're concentrating really hard. I like the way you hold your pencil when you're drawing, like it'll float away if you loosen your grip even a little bit. I like the way you bend over when you're writing -- really writing -- with one elbow bent on the table and your fingers threaded through your hair. I like the way you actually use one of those little plastic hourglasses with the yellow sand in it to time yourself while you're brushing your teeth. I like the way you're the only person I know who actually brushes their teeth for two minutes."

This last part earns a stifled laugh from Van Gogh.

"But most of all, I like the way that you sing along to music in the car, how you keep your voice low because you don't want me to hear you but of course I still can anyway."

"Do I sound horrible?"

JFK shakes his head. "No."

Van Gogh smiles, looking away. He's never felt like this before, like... he's exactly where he's supposed to be. He isn't worried about being left alone on Friday nights, or insecure about the way he constantly reorganises his bedroom. For once in his life, he doesn't feel uncomfortable or like he needs to run away. He wants to fall, fall into JFK, and he doesn't need a rope for security.

"The ocean is freezing cold," Vincent says, because that's the only sentence he can reach for.

Kennedy grins and slides his arms out of his letterman jacket. He pulls his red and white striped sweater over his head next before unzipping his khakis. He stands in front of Vincent wearing only his white t-shirt and underwear. Vincent sighs and takes off his own layers until his outfit matches JFK's, and they walk into the surf, hand in hand.

"Jesus fuck, Jack," Vincent exclaims, a salty wave pushing into his thighs.

JFK wraps his arms around Vincent, pulling the boy close. Van Gogh buries his face in John's t-shirt, now soaked and smelling of salt. He doesn't mind, though. He'll take whatever warmth he can get.

Kennedy rests his chin on Van Gogh's head, kissing the boy's bandage every once in a while. He shivers a little bit, but he ignores the cold setting into his skin. He pulls Vincent closer, and the boy wraps his arms around JFK's midsection. John gazes out across the water as Van Gogh shuts his eyes against his boyfriend's chest.

The world is silent except for the calm lapping of the waves and the fizzing of the sea foam. Except for the temperature of the water, it is perfect -- no freights honking in the distance, no seagulls screeching overhead. Vincent slides his hands underneath JFK's shirt, feeling the warmth radiating off the skin of his back. His pale legs turn even paler as they erupt in goosebumps, but there's nowhere he'd rather be.

JFK lets out a low laugh from his throat, and Vincent draws back from his chest.

"What?" He asks, looking up at the boy.

John's face falls soft, and his bottom lip surrenders to the faintest trace of a quiver. "I'm in love with you."

Van Gogh shifts his bodyweight and leans back, curving his chin up so his mouth meets JFK's. They share a kiss, deep and slow, the salty ocean burning their bare thighs.

"I was hoping you might be."

chapter sixteen.

wc: 2,172. original publish date: november 5, 2020. 

"You should put that in water," JFK says, pointing to the sunflower still tightly constrained in Van Gogh's grip. They're back at the house now, the picnic half unpacked on the kitchen table. Vincent puts down the flower only to wash his hands under the scalding water of the sink.

"Are there any vases here?" He asks.

Jack opens one of the cupboards above the sink, and pulls out a tall glass. "Here."

"That's not a vase," Van Gogh responds with a raised eyebrow, turning off the faucet and drying his hands on the rag hanging over the handle of the oven.

JFK reaches past Van Gogh to turn the faucet back on, making sure to turn the cold lever instead of the hot one. The glass fills up with water, and Kennedy holds it out to Vincent. "It serves the same purpose, doesn't it?"

Vincent swallows and slowly reaches out for the glass, taking it from JFK. Their fingers brush, and a warm blaze shoots through Van Gogh, but he doesn't let on. He simply drops the sunflower stalk into the water and holds the makeshift vase in both hands, clutching it to his chest defensively.

"Let's find a place for that, shall we?" John asks, placing a comforting hand on the shorter boy's shoulder. What's his angle? Vincent wonders, but doesn't wriggle free from the touch.

"I know a perfect place," Vincent says instead, looking up to JFK, but holding the flower just as defensively.

"You lead the way," Kennedy replies, his tone neutral and his smile warm.

Van Gogh raises an eyebrow. "Why do you wanna see?"

JFK shrugs. "I just like spending time with you."

Vincent hesitates. "You're just trying to make up for making me mad at you."

Kennedy doesn't move.

"I'm not still mad."

"Can't I just enthuse you for one second?"

Van Gogh swallows and nods. "Fine."

He leads JFK through the archway, through the living room, through the sitting room, up the stairs, and into their bedroom. Jack stops in the doorway, but Vinnie crosses past their bed and the dresser to the dormer window. He places the vase with the sunflower in it on the thick windowsill, tilting the flower's face to look out at the sun. He steps back to admire his work, and JFK smiles at the boy's silhouette painted in the electric white fog. His whole body relaxes and he feels his heart sigh. He's exactly where he's supposed to be.

"Let's never leave this town," John says.

Van Gogh turns around, all the tension gone from his face. He blinks slowly before letting himself smile, his brown eyes twinkling. "I'd be okay with that."

Vincent makes his way back across the room, leaving the sunflower on the windowsill. JFK stays where he's standing in the doorway, watching Van Gogh's fluid movements. He walks with a purpose, like he knows where he's going. John expects the shorter boy to walk over to him, but instead he walks over to the nightstand on his side of the bed and opens the top drawer. He turns around, feeling JFK's gaze still blazing into his back.

"What are you looking for?" Kennedy asks.

"Did you hide the matches?"

JFK blinks, his face relaxing again. The smile dissolves. "I didn't hide them, I just moved them."

"You took the candles, too."

"Why do you want them so badly?" John asks, his tone controlled and stoic.

Van Gogh stops what he's doing. He closes the drawer of his nightstand, holding eye contact with JFK the entire time. He walks up to the taller boy, crossing his arms over his chest once they're merely inches apart. Kennedy wishes he had some bubblegum.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't go through my things."

"Oh, but you're allowed to go through my phone?"

Van Gogh's eyebrows knit together, and his face warps with astonishment. He doubles back, trying to fit some pieces together in his head. "I didn't go through your phone."

"But you thought about it."

Vincent doesn't deny the accusation. "How'd you know?"

JFK scoffs. "Oh wow, so you really did think about it?"

Van Gogh's voice falls hopefully quiet. "Can't we have one nice day, Jack? Without any arguing?"

"This is about Ponce, though, isn't it?"

Vincent shrugs. He can't deny that, either.

"You really want me to stop talking to him that badly?"

Gogh shrugs, breaking eye contact ashamedly. "I just want him to know that you're not available."

JFK bursts out laughing, and Van Gogh squints in confusion when he doesn't sound devious. "Vincent, look around! He does know! Everyone knows! Everyone's always known, except for the two of us, apparently."

An unsure smile stretches across Vincent's lips. "People... noticed? They picked up on... signs? That we didn't even know were there?"

Kennedy shrugs, amused. "Apparently! He asked me why I wasn't in school, and I said not to worry because I was with you. And he asked what our 'deal' was, and I asked what he meant by that, and he said it was obvious there was something there with us. Something more than just friendship."

Vincent closes the gap between him and JFK by wrapping his arms around the taller boy.

"You have nothing to worry about, Vinnie."

"I'm really sorry," he whispers. "I'm really sorry."

Kennedy reciprocates the hug. "Shh, shh, darling. It's okay. I'm sorry I made you worry."

"I don't care about the matches," Van Gogh mumbles into JFK's chest. His sweater smells like the perfect mixture of sweat, deodorant, and washing detergent.

JFK takes a moment to respond. "You cared a second ago."

"I don't like people touching my stuff. You know that, Jack. That's one of the things I warned you about when you suggested that we live together, remember?"

Kennedy swallows before replying. "I'm sorry I took them."

"That's okay," Vincent says too quickly. "It really is okay."

JFK gives Van Gogh a kiss on the head and a reassuring squeeze before letting him go. "Come on, we should unpack our picnic."

John leads the way out of the bedroom, and Vincent follows him into the kitchen.

***

JFK wakes up in the middle of the night to Vincent sitting in the upholstered armchair in the far corner of the room. He has a lamp on, a novel spread across his lap. He doesn't look up, even when he hears Kennedy rustling the bedsheets.

"Vincent, what are you doing?" He asks groggily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as they adjust to the light.

Van Gogh looks up, slowly, as if he expected the question all along. "I'm reading."

"At two in the morning?"

Vincent shrugs. "I couldn't sleep."

JFK rolls out of bed and shuffles across the floor to his boyfriend. He crouches down in front of the boy, resting his hands on Vincent's thighs. "So that's why you wake me up. I'll help you sleep."

Van Gogh slips a thin bookmark into his novel and closes it, making eye contact with John. "I didn't want to disturb you. I know that you need your beauty rest."

JFK chuckles, his brown hair falling into his face. Vincent smiles and runs his fingers through the boy's hair. He prefers it like this, without all the spray and the gel. He likes John better when he's not trying to be anything at all.

Van Gogh giggles. "Actually, I think I like you better without all of your beauty rest."

Kennedy steps away from Vincent, now lost in thought. "Well, clearly you're awake... and I guess I'm up now..."

"Yes?" Gogh presses.

"Remember how when we first drove in, there were those houses with no roofs or floors or anything?"

Van Gogh nods in affirmation.

"I know it's the middle of the night, but what if we went out and found one of those houses? Went to lay on the grass and look at the stars?"

Vincent peers out the window. Even in the dead of night, he can tell that the sky is completely fogged over. "I don't think we'll be able to see any stars, Jack."

He grins in response. "Well, then, let's draw some!"

"I think I lost my sketchbook..." Van Gogh replies, but he's already made up his mind. He'll follow Kennedy anywhere.

"You don't need it, silly!" JFK says, tugging at Vincent's hand.

"It's freezing cold outside!"

"I'll keep you warm," John promises, and Vincent is out of arguments.

The boys grab some blankets from the dresser, and throw on their matching letterman jackets. JFK likes the way the jacket looks on the smaller boy, with his last name stitched across the back. They slide into the car eagerly, and Kennedy immediately turns on the seat heaters.

"Maybe it's colder than I thought it would be," he comments.

Van Gogh wraps his blanket tighter around himself. When he speaks, he can see his breath. "You think?"

JFK idles the car down the row of houses, choosing one that looks suitable and parking in front of it. This one looks like it was built with only one floor, and maybe it never had a floor at all. The ground is covered in damp grass, broken glass bottles and windows scattered about. The boys hop out of the convertible and push through the front door, the singular hinge creaking and threatening to give out. JFK feels a tickle in the back of his mind, urging him to rip the door free. It's not like anyone ever lived in this house anyway.

The two choose a nice spot on the grass, away from all the debris. The grass is wet in this corner of the house, so they lay down on top one of the blankets. Van Gogh, still cold even wrapped up in his own blanket, wraps himself around John and nuzzles his nose into the taller boy's neck. They lay in silence for a while, breathing in each others' scents and soaking up each others' warmth. JFK closes his eyes and has almost drifted back into sleep when Vincent breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry we always argue," he says, drawing circles with his finger into John's collarbone.

"Couples always argue."

"Not this early."

Kennedy goes silent, thinking over his answer. "No, not this early."

Van Gogh blinks, his eyes threatening to well up with tears. There's no reason to cry, he thinks. "Do you resent that?"

"Resent what?"

Vincent swallows, trying to keep his voice steady. "That we argue so much even though we aren't supposed to. Aren't supposed to yet."

John threads his fingers through the boy's orange hair. Even on the darkest night, it glows. "It's fine, Vinnie. We don't need to compare our relationship to anyone else's."

"But there are rules."

"What, the bullshit like how you have to wait three months to say 'I love you' and you can't start fighting until four months in, if you even make it that long?"

Van Gogh gives a small nod, realising how stupid it sounds out loud.

JFK chuckles and pulls the boy in closer. "We can make our own rules, you know."

"It's our rollercoaster..." Vincent starts.

Kennedy kisses the boy's forehead. "It's our rollercoaster," he agrees.

A couple minutes go by, but John doesn't let himself drift into sleep this time. He knows Vincent has more to say.

"I'm sorry I'm keeping you here," he says.

"You're not keeping me anywhere."

"We could continue our road trip," he offers. "Keep driving. That's what you wanted to do, right?"

JFK grins. "What I wanted to do was be with you."

"I'm sorry I got mad-"

"Shh," Kennedy hums. "Stop with the 'sorry's. You don't need to worry. Not with me."

"But I always worry," he whispers. "I told you it wasn't going to be easy."

"Hm?"

"Living with someone so obsessive-compulsive."

John shrugs. "I'd rather get used to it now, while we're young."

"You might get tired of it."

JFK scrunches up his nose and shakes his head. "Mm... no, I don't think I will. We've been friends since elementary school, Vincent. I've never gotten tired of it."

"But you haven't even seen the worst of it."

"Are you trying to convince me not to want you?" Kennedy asks, his face heating up. "Are you looking for a way out that you can blame on me?"

"Jack, that's not what I said-" Vincent cuts himself off, realising how his words had sounded.

"I'm sorry we always argue," John apologises after a moment of silence.

"You're doing it now, too," Vincent says. "My bad habits are rubbing off on you."

JFK shrugs. "There are worse influences, I guess."

"Like my dad."

"Clone, or foster?"

Van Gogh shrugs. "Both."

"I won't leave you alone," Kennedy whispers. "Not like them."

Vincent doesn't say anything for a while. And then, "I'm used to it by now."

"You don't deserve to be."

"It is what it is."

"I won't leave you," JFK says again.

Van Gogh doesn't respond.

chapter seventeen.

wc: 2,176. original publish date: november 9, 2020.

"Jack!" Van Gogh yells.

JFK rolls over in bed, rubbing his eyes. "Hm?"

"Come here and look at this!"

John sits up, pulling his red and white sweater over his head before standing and crossing over to the bay window.

"What are we looking at?"

Vincent points. "Look, we can see the sun!"

JFK smiles. "It's rather pretty, isn't it?"

The smaller boy turns around to face his boyfriend, an eager grin plastered across his face. "It's such a nice day. We have to do something."

"We do something every day."

"Is that a problem?"

JFK grins now. "No."

Van Gogh reaches up to kiss the taller boy on the cheek. "Let's go on a road trip."

"Darling, we are on a road trip."

"Well, I've already got a destination picked out for us. But I think it's a couple hours away."

Kennedy raises an eyebrow. "I thought we weren't using our phones to pick locations."

"Well, it isn't specific..." Van Gogh shrugs. "It's just... logical?"

JFK takes a minute to think this over. "Did you use your phone to find it?"

Vincent shakes his head. "No. I don't know how that would be useful, considering I don't even know which state we're in."

"I think we're in Utah."

Van Gogh scrunches up his nose. "We are not!"

JFK laughs. "No, we're not. We drove in the opposite direction."

"I thought we weren't looking at GPS," Vincent replies, but he's wearing a playful smile.

"No, I just know basic geography."

"Touché."

***

"So, what is the secret destination, exactly?" JFK asks, spreading some cream cheese onto his bagel.

"It's a secret."

"But I have to drive us there."

"I can drive," Van Gogh offers casually, looking down into his glass of orange juice.

JFK quirks an eyebrow. "Vincent, you don't know how to drive."

Gogh shrugs. "You could teach me."

"My car is a stick shift. Most people learn to drive automatic first."

Vincent swallows his orange juice and wipes his lip with his napkin. "I'm not most people."

Kennedy laughs nervously. "Minivan," he stops, waiting for Vincent's objection to the name. It doesn't come. "Of course you're not most people. But do you really think I could teach you how to drive? I mean, you remember the accident I got into from driving over a rock earlier this year, right?"

Vincent sips his orange juice. "Okay, but you're careful now. You hate getting scratches on your car."

"Darling," JFK waits for Van Gogh to pick his head up. He opens his mouth to add onto the sentence, but thinks better of it. He changes his thought at the last second. "Someday, okay? I'll drive today. I can't teach you to drive in a day and you can't get a license in a day, either, but I'll teach you. I promise."

Vinnie sighs. "Okay."

Kennedy flashes his model grin again. "Okay, perfect. Now, will this trip require packing?"

"It's only for the day, JFK," Van Gogh responds, smiling at the boy's enthusiasm. "But I guess there are a few things you need... Did you pack a swimsuit?"

JFK's jaw falls slack. "Vinnie, it's April."

"April isn't winter in every part of the world."

"But it isn't summer in any part of America."

Vincent gestures to the window over the kitchen sink. "If we can see the sun in Marshtown, you can bet your ass the skies will be cloudless everywhere else."

Kennedy laughs at the boy's subtle swearing. "Yeah, okay, I'm down. But you know you actually have to tell me where we're going since I'm driving, right?"

Van Gogh finishes off his orange juice and holds up a finger excitedly. "I'll be back in a second," he says before pushing his chair out from the table and running up the stairs. JFK leans back in his seat, giggling and shaking his head. How can a boy like Vincent exist? Someone so smart and talented, who also likes to have fun? Granted, Kennedy has never seen Van Gogh smile with anyone besides himself, but John is glad to play along with his "secret destination."

Vincent comes back into the kitchen two minutes later, holding a pad of Post-Its and a pen. He slides into his chair, one leg tucked beneath him and the other planting its foot on the floor. The boy begins to scribble something, but even his scribbling comes out in elegant loopy cursive. After thirty seconds or so, he peels the Post-It off from the rest of the pad and sticks it to JFK's forehead.

John reaches up to detach the Post-It from his skin. He reads the handwriting scrawled in the middle, perfectly centred across the hideously bright green paper. "What's this?"

"That's where we're going. I didn't want to say it out loud because that ruins the surprise, but you still have to know. So boom. A perfect middle."

Kennedy laughs. "I don't think this is a perfect middle, but I'll give you points for trying."

"Gotta get my approach grade up," Vincent replies.

JFK gazes at his boyfriend, his face soft. He smiles affectionately, and Van Gogh searches for a telling look in his eyes. He looks like he wants to say something, but no words come out of his mouth. Vincent smiles back.

"Well," he says. "If we want to get there at a reasonable hour and still get home before too late, we should go soon."

"I'll wash the dishes," JFK offers, but Van Gogh slaps his hand away when he tries to pick up the plates.

"No, silly! You made breakfast. Give and take, okay?"

John nods and retreats his hands. "Give and take," he agrees.

Van Gogh clears the table, humming to himself the whole time. JFK is gone from the kitchen, making the bed upstairs. When he's done, he walks over to the bay window and slides it open to step out onto the balcony. He holds the railing, gazing out over Marshtown and marvelling at what little sun manages to break through the heavy fog. Today is one in a  million.

Kennedy's thoughts are interrupted when he hears footsteps behind him. He turns around. Van Gogh is crossing the bedroom and stepping through the bay window to join his boyfriend.

"Ready to go?" He asks the taller boy.

JFK can't help but smile when he makes eye contact with Vincent. His brown eyes seem deeper today, fuller with... something. A secret, but the kind he wants to share with John, so they can have something just for the two of them.

Kennedy reaches out for the boy's hand and gives it a squeeze. "Yeah," he says. "I'm ready."

The boys walk through the house and out to the car side by side, never dropping hands until they have to split to climb into their separate sides of the vehicle.

"Are we allowed to use a map?" JFK asks after they're out of Marshtown.

Van Gogh thinks for a minute. "Well, I guess that's not a cell phone..."

"Just because I need to know which highway to take."

Vincent nods, opening the glove compartment to get the map that the girl way back in Blackbox had given them. "Yeah... Looks like we keep following the one we took to get here."

JFK activates his turn signal. "Rad."

"Can we listen to the radio?" Van Gogh asks after a while.

Kennedy glances at the boy. "Really? I thought you liked radio silence."

Vincent shrugs. "Maybe there'll be something good on."

John smiles. "All right. I think that would be okay."

Van Gogh flips through some channels, not satisfied with anything playing until he finds a song that he knows is by Queen. He hums along, knowing some of the lyrics, but not the title of the song. JFK hums along too, and for those five minutes, they are the only two people in the whole world.

"Can I ask you something?" JFK asks once the song is over.

"You may."

Kennedy hesitates, phrasing the question. "You've been old enough to drive for a while now, so how come you never learned before?"

Van Gogh scoffs. "You really think my parents would've taught me?"

Jack shrugs. "You could've asked me."

Vinnie shakes his head. "No, there's a reason I never tried to before."

The question lingers in the air, the silence charging it until the electric shock burns into JFK.

"Are you going to tell me?"

Vincent takes a deep breath, pondering. He'd never said it out loud before. He'd only ever written it down in journals. He has a rule when he writes about himself: he doesn't start on the first pages of the journal, because then anyone could flip the cover and learn his deepest secrets. He always opens to the middle of the book, a random page that nine times out of ten would go unnoticed. Sometimes it trips him up when he chooses another random page and the entry is so long that it bleeds into another one, but that's okay. He never rereads his journals. He doesn't need to be disturbed by thoughts that are already in his head.

This is the first time he'll ever speak one of those thoughts out loud.

"I can't drive a car because I'm afraid -- no, it's more than a fear, it's just knowing -- that I'll go right off the edge of a cliff and you'll never see me, or the car, again."

JFK goes silent. "I know a lot of people get into accidents, but cars are made to be safe. The only reason why crashes are so popularised is because no one talks about the safe drivers. That's not a story. 'Oh, look at this population of people who follow all the driving laws and never get themselves into dangerous situations!' That's not newsworthy. Accidents are something to report. Everything else is... mundane."

Van Gogh blinks, thinking. "That actually makes a lot of sense," he says.

Kennedy smiles. "Yeah, it does." After a second, he asks, "But what changed your mind?"

"Hm?"

"Why is driving suddenly okay now?"

Vincent shakes his head, laughing at himself. "It's stupid."

"Tell me," JFK smiles assuringly. "You can trust me."

Van Gogh blushes. "I feel bad that you're always the one... doing stuff. You're the one who cooks, the one who drives..."

"But you're the one who remembers to lock the house and put away the clean dishes."

Vincent giggles. "Our house doesn't lock, Jack."

JFK grins. "I know it doesn't. But you always go back to check. I hear you walking down the stairs at night, right after we've turned off the light to go to sleep. You go back through the house and make sure all the lights are off and the door is locked."

Van Gogh looks away, suddenly embarrassed. He pretends to be fascinated by the plastic bags and styrofoam take-out containers strewn about the highway shoulder. "You know that I do that?"

"Vinnie, it's nothing to be ashamed of. It's good practise."

"Yes, but it isn't normal practise."

JFK has no verbal response to that. Instead, he extends an arm and cups his hand around Vincent's shoulder. He rubs back and forth comfortingly, and Van Gogh reaches across his body to rest his hand on top of the boy's. He suddenly feels at ease, unashamed of the way he needs to go back through the house and make sure everything is the way it's supposed to be before he can fall asleep. He takes a deep breath and settles into his seat. This is exactly where he's supposed to be.

But then he remembers something.

He sits up and turns abruptly, throwing JFK's arm off of his shoulder.

"You okay, Minivan?"

Vincent glares. "One, don't call me that. Two, have you seen my sketchbook anywhere?"

Kennedy scrunches up his face and shakes his head. "No, I don't think so... You can't find it?"

Van Gogh frowns. "No. It's so funny. Everything else is sprawled out on the vanity -- my coloured pencils, my watercolours, the books I brought to read on this trip... but I can't find my sketchbook anywhere! I was drawing in it one day and now I have no idea where it is!"

JFK twists up his lips in thought. "That's so weird... maybe you put it down somewhere?"

"I was on the balcony. I don't remember anything after that."

"Hmm..."

Gogh sits back in his seat, plunging his fists into the pocket of his letterman jacket. "Keep an eye out for it though, okay? I was working on a drawing in there."

Kennedy grins at the boy's reflection in the rearview mirror. "Of course you were."

Van Gogh looks down at the map on his lap, changing subjects but not forgetting his sketchbook. "Ugh, still one hundred fifty more miles?"

"God, why'd you pick a location so far away?" JFK fake-whines.

Vincent shakes his head, but he's wearing a smile. "Because we have to tour the whole damn world."