limitless.

chapter five

JFK sits up in bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with the back of his wrist before subjecting himself to the daylight's chemical burn. He swallows, his tongue rolling around in the stale taste of his mouth. He blinks, the artificial buzz of the unwelcome morning light hitting the backs of his eyes. Kennedy blinks more vigorously until the fog is out of view and he can fully open his lids against the harsh light. 

Van Gogh is still asleep on the other bed. He's turned away from Kennedy, a pillow bunched up in his arms and pulled against his chest. The bandage is slipping off of his head, his fiery hair consuming it. JFK looks away. He knows Van Gogh is self-conscious about his ear stub. His sketchbook sits at the foot of the bed, only its corner poking out from beneath Kennedy's old letterman jacket. 

JFK moves the jacket aside. He's secretly always been curious about what's inside the journal, but Van Gogh's never actually shown him anything in it. Sometimes Kennedy will see him drawing during lunch, sitting at a table in the back of the cafeteria all by himself, with an earbud in and a pencil gripped tightly as he slouches over the book. JFK tries to sneak up behind him, to watch him draw without his knowledge, but Van Gogh's always been high strung and notices Kennedy before he can even catch a glimpse of the sketchbook. 

The sketchbook isn't closed. In fact, it's open to the very page that Van Gogh had been working on last night before falling asleep. There, in dull, shiny graphite, is the outline of a sixteen-year-old boy. But it isn't just any sixteen-year-old boy -- it's JFK. His grey Harvard t-shirt is falling down his neck to expose his collarbones and there are heavy bags beneath his tired eyes. He's caught in motion in the drawing -- his hand is at his forehead, busy pushing back the floppy mound of brown hair that falls over his eyes when he doesn't have any hair gel to keep it in place. Kennedy hadn't noticed Gogh drawing last night -- he must've been too tired to register the sound of the pencil scratching the paper or the way Van Gogh had been hunched over something, an eager expression lighting up his face. Kennedy doesn't know what to make of the drawing -- should he be flattered or offended that it's of him? 

The bedsheets start to rustle and JFK hastily hides the sketchbook underneath the letterman jacket again. He crosses the room to the wall with the window on it and kneels down next to the space heater, trying to make himself look busy as Van Gogh sits up in bed. Kennedy can see the boy out of the corner of his eye: the first thing he does, even before rubbing his eyes, is adjust the loose white bandage around his head. He curses to himself under his breath. He'll have to switch it out. 

Van Gogh finally registers JFK sitting on the floor and jumps a little bit, almost like he'd forgotten he had company at all. 

"Good morning," JFK says, stepping away from the space heater. 

"Hey," Van Gogh yawns, his throat scratchy with sleep.

"Sleep okay?" Kennedy asks with a smile. He chooses to be flattered by his best friend's drawing. 

"No," he replies in his cutting-edge voice. 

JFK laughs goodheartedly. "Me neither."

"It was too cold," Van Gogh continues. "My collarbones are all tight and achey. I should've brought more clothes to sleep in." He flips the comforter off of himself and swings his bare knees over the side of his bed. He'd only slept in his boxers and a t-shirt because he'd forgotten to pack real pyjamas. Jeans aren't appropriate sleeping attire, by any means. 

"Are you cold now?" JFK snickers, eyeing the boy's pale legs. 

He's too tired to be embarrassed by the boy's scrutiny. "A little." 

"Put on my sweater. It'll cover your legs."

"But then won't you be cold?" Van Gogh asks, crossing the room to where the boy's sweater sits at the foot of his bed.