limitless.

chapter two

"'And oh, Aunt Em! I'm so glad to be home again!' The end," Van Gogh finishes, closing the children's book and setting it on the table. 

"That wasn't a bedtime story!" JFK protests.

"I didn't know that!" Van Gogh volleys.

"What do you mean you didn't know that? Everyone knows The Wizard of Oz!"

Van Gogh shakes his head, almost apologetically. "Clearly not everyone," he mumbles. 

Kennedy sits up, a bit taken aback. "You mean you've never read The Wizard of Oz?" 

Gogh shakes his head, sliding the book off the table and stroking the cover. The yellow finished cardboard is bumpy beneath his fingernails, and it makes a low scraping sound. 

"Surely you've heard of it?" JFK asks, eyebrows furrowing.

"No," Van Gogh admits, feeling defeated. 

Kennedy unwraps himself from the blanket and sits up, scooting across the bed to console his best friend. He puts a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder, but it is only shaken off. His kind gesture and caring attitude deflate like a released balloon. 

"I thought every children's book was a bedtime story."

"Nah, but every children's story has a moral," JFK offers. 

"How do you know that? Can't imagine heartless ol' JFK reading a picture book. I can't even imagine him as  toddler." 

Kennedy graciously ignores the first part of Gogh's comment. "My dads used to read them to me when I was a kid."

Van Gogh's smile falls, but thankfully JFK can't see because he's looking down at the book. He runs his fingers over the words, printed in accented letters, shiny and blue. "I bought this book when I was fourteen years old," he admits.

"You bought it for yourself?"

Van Gogh nods, still entranced by the golden-yellow cover of the children's book. "I liked the artwork," he explains, looking up at his best friend now.

Kennedy scoots away from Van Gogh, falsely assuming his work as Supportive Best Friend is through. "You would. It's all oil pastels and shiny objects -- very girly."

Gogh rolls his eyes. "Not all artwork is girly."

"No," JFK agrees, "just the artwork you like."

Van Gogh shoves the boy, not sorry when he hits his head on the wall.

"Hey!" He bellows, rubbing the back of his head vigorously.

"You deserved that," Van Gogh snaps, standing up to slide the book back into its rightful place on the shelf. "Do you ever get tired of your own voice?"

"Um... no?" Kennedy replies, laughing at his own answer. 

Van Gogh runs a hand through his vibrant orange hair in exasperation. He snaps the pristine white bandage wrapped around his head, tied there to put pressure on his self-amputated ear in hopes to relieve some of the pain. It works most days, except when there are loud noises -- like on Friday nights when there are sports games and the streets flood with intoxicated teenagers who insist on letting their excitement out through violence. JFK used to be amongst those alcohol-ridden invalids. He's not anymore, but Van Gogh can't figure out why he changed. 

But he's still an arrogant, egotistical asshole nonetheless. 

Van Gogh scoffs, tempted to shove the boy again, but decides not to because it may escalate into a fight. Gogh would lose. He loses against everyone, his five-foot-five stature doing him not favours. He knows Kennedy could pin him to the ground in three seconds. His shoulders tense just thinking about it and the illusion of pain makes his bad -- or rather, nonexistent -- ear throb. He raises his hand reflexively, rubbing the side of his head over the bandage.