limitless.

chapter three

Van Gogh switches off his phone, smiling to himself in secret contentment to have his best friend back. The fight didn't last more than an hour -- definitely their shortest fight to date -- but usually he's the one who has to go seek out Kennedy to make things right. Which makes sense: Gogh's usually the one who starts the fight so he should be the one to finish it. But it still feels nice to know that JFK cares enough to put an end to it all. Sometimes Van Gogh wonders if Kennedy is ever as hurt by their arguing as he is. Now he doesn't have to guess.

Van Gogh begins packing his carryon-sized suitcase, which is brown with black trim and scuffed plastic wheels. He's had it since he was a kid -- he used to have to go on his parents' business trips with them. They started leaving him at JFK's house when he was ten and eventually stopped leaving him with anyone at all. He had to learn how to watch the house himself once he turned fourteen -- he was a scared freshman with only one friend who lived on the upside of town. He never learned how to meet anyone new. Van Gogh grew so accustomed to being alone that he never knew he should meet anyone new.

The boy begins tossing various articles of clothing and his favourite novels into the suitcase. Mostly he just stuffs the luggage with underwear and socks. He throws in a pair of jeans and two solid colour t-shirts. He walks into the bathroom and starts shoving toiletries into a plastic Ziploc bag. He takes his toothbrush, a full tube of toothpaste (it's family size, but of course he's the only one using it), a travel-size hairbrush that he barely ever uses, and a minute box of floss that he'd acquired from the dentist six months ago, but never used since. He seals the bag and turns toward the door to walk back to his room, but decides to snatch some extra bandages out of the closet for good measure. He barely ever needs to switch out his head cast now that his ear wound has stopped bleeding, but the bandages might get dirty from outside sources and he can't have that.

Van Gogh walks back to his room and throws the Ziploc bag on top of the clothes folded in his suitcase. He crouches down to flip the lid and zip the luggage, but realises he doesn't have a real jacket and this thin and simple windbreaker won't do much good outside of the heat of the house. He unzips the bag and fishes the green fleece blanket off of his bed. It's still sitting in a messy pile. Kennedy never thinks to fold anything. Van Gogh fixes it into a neat square and places it in the suitcase. He crosses the room to his closet, searching for an extra layer more practical than a blanket.

He finally decides on a jacket after meticulously searching for the perfect one. He pulls it off the plastic white hanger by the shoulder panel. It's heavy, with its leather sleeves and fleece lining. It's orange and white, which is a hideous combination, but they're also Clone High's mascot colours. Van Gogh pushes his short arms through the sleeves of the jacket and models it in the mirror, the clothing dripping off of his body and swallowing him whole. He turns around to admire the back, which is his favourite part for some reason. Sewed in crude felt lettering are the initials JFK -- it had belonged to him in freshman year, but he'd tragically outgrown it that spring. Kennedy was going to throw it away, but Van Gogh had told him not to, insisting that there was no reason to dispose of a structurally sound jacket.

Van Gogh zips the suitcase securely and tilts the whole thing upright, taking one more sweeping look around his room before deciding he's ready to go. Well, he's not ready, exactly; he just knows it's now or never. He's never been one to contemplate that sort of dilemma and still choose now, but maybe if he doesn't think at all he'll actually go.

He turns off his bedroom light, blanketing the orderly knickknacks and tight corners under a veil of deep velvet. Only the moon, hanging high and glowing bright, lights the room through the window. Van Gogh nods in satisfaction, or maybe in farewell, before turning around to walk through the ocean cave hallway and out the front door of his house. He locks it with the key which is miraculously still hidden away in the pocket of JFK's jacket from the last time he wore it. Gogh usually doesn't lock the door at all. Maybe one day the house will get robbed and his parents will finally take that as a hint to stop putting him in charge of their most expensive asset all by himself. Who trusts their sixteen-year-old son with their whole house, anyway?