limitless.

chapter seven

Four-thirty-five looks like every other freeway exit in all of America. JFK pushes firmly down on the brake as the car rolls up to the white line of the intersection. There is a green sign next to the road, and oddly enough, Marshtown is marked in metallic white lettering at the bottom. Printed next to the town name is a right-turn arrow, and even smaller next to that is the number five. 

"Five miles," John F. Kennedy says, grinning. 

Vincent can't help smiling either. He can still feel JFK's arms wrapped around his torso and the way his chin rested on the taller boy's shoulder. "We're getting close."

"Think it'll be worth it?" John asks, glancing at his passenger. 

Van Gogh shrugs. "I sure hope so."

"We've spent all this time romanticising it..." Kennedy starts.

Both boys turn to each other, giddy smiles still plastered across their faces. "Wanna do it some more?" They say in unison, breaking out into boyish giggles afterward. 

"God..." Vincent mutters. 

"Hm?" John hums as the light turns green. He accelerates. 

"I feel like we're little kids again," he says in a sad voice, but the smile is still taught across his lips and Kennedy doesn't know which look to meet his gaze with. 

"We were pretty fucking awesome as kids," he tries. 

This earns him a grin from Van Gogh. Score. "Yeah. I was cool back then."

John knocks his best friend's arm playfully. "You're still cool, Minivan." 

Van Gogh covers his eyes with his hand, mock repulsion surfing the waves of his voice. "God, don't remind me of that nickname!" 

"Hey! I might've meant to antagonise you back then, but I promise you: I've changed." 

Vincent shakes his head, but he can't help smiling. His cheeks are starting to ache, but his happiness is genuine. "Oh, I know you have. That little five-year-old didn't know how to -- how do you put it? -- 'bang the sweeties'." 

Kennedy laughs. "Oh, believe me -- he did." 

The car goes silent as the sky fills with fog. It's thick and grey and the windows of the shiny red convertible are already starting to precipitate. Vincent zips his letterman jacket all the way up and tucks his chin into the collar, the cold already starting to set in. Even John has to admit that his knuckles clamp up and go a little white against the steering wheel. 

"We must be getting close," Vincent says. The sky hadn't been blue for the earlier part of their drive by any means, but even the clouds that hung in the sky let the faintest bit of sunlight filter through. Now there is a dense blanket of moisture blocking the rays from view. 

John goes quiet, suddenly wishing they'd planned the trip. He worries that he'll get in another fight with Van Gogh over where to sleep or how they'll keep themselves entertained in this town that they know next to nothing about. They aren't even sure if it has a marsh or not. But most of all, he fears that Vincent will get cold in the fog or the air will be too wet for him to draw. Part of the reason Kennedy had even vouched for this trip was so that the boy would have a lot of inspiration to paint or sketch or read or write, because above all, John loves his best friend's poetry. But he doesn't know how to tell the boy any of that. 

Van Gogh looks across the car as Kennedy starts to drive more defensively, and his brow furrows; not in disgust, but in worry. He notices the boy's white knuckles and the way he grips the steering wheel like he's trying to strangle it. He reaches out and places a hand on his best friend's forearm, rubbing him through the sleeve of his jacket slowly and comfortingly.