jfGogh oneshots

chapter 1

>Warnings: mentions of light panic attacks, NOT graphic
>Word count: 1,102 words
>Genre: angst and fluff

Vincent had gotten his seat right up front very early on, they discovered pretty quick that he got the real van goghs below average eye sight. Glasses didn't fully help, even if it did, he refused to wear them, so why bother?

He liked sitting up front thought, in most classes it just meant he could lean his head against his hand, daydream, and pretend to stare at the blackboard. But there was ONE teacher who made it miserable. It was like they had a vision like no other, the moment van gogh stopped paying attention for a single second, they would point it out.
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Vincent hated this class, he hated this teacher. It was a stupid biology class with miss White. He assumed he would like biology to some extent, maybe it'd help with anatomy with his art! But that..didn't really matter when the environment was impossible to study in.
The amount of times the teacher called his name for absolutely no reason made his focus awful, he was so stuck on having to SEEM like he paid attention that he completely lost all focus. He thought more about wanting to sit up right and stare forward then the actual information fed to him.
So when the teacher asked him a question, the boy blinked a couple times, shifting his head the slightest bit up. Miss White was quite tall for a women, maybe 5'9 or so, so with Vincent's own height, it felt so much more intimating. He felt all small and weak compared to her somewhat passive aggressive glance, and he simply shook his head at the question.

"May I ask WHY you don't know the answer?" She spoke up, her voice was way too loud for any normal person to find comfortable. He could already feel eyes all around him, people were staring and wondering what was going on, why a 'nerd' wasn't smart enough to answer something he assumed they had just talked about.
The attention was awful, he hated it, he hated it more than anything in the world, and all he wanted to do was hide away. In his house, he could do so, he could go under his blankets and pretend the world wasn't there. But now, with his face hidden by the collar of his coat, it still wasn't enough.

"You know, Vincent, I get you're obsessed with little..art thing, but that isn't all in life" she looked down onto the boys papers, without even realizing it, he saw the sketched out little flowers surrounding his notes. They were messy, but perhaps cause he FELT messy. "You're not gonna become some famous artist who doesn't need school all cause you got a good name attached to you". He knew what it meant, and he agreed; it wasnt easy pursuing art now a day. His style wasn't anything unique anymore, and he doubted anybody would care except for his art teacher, so why was he so hopeful? But he couldn't help it, his dream of being an artist like his clone father was the only thing keeping him sane at this point. So it hurt, the reality really really hurt. And it hurt even more that she just gave him a huff and left.

The stares stopped, but his thoughts didn't. He could hear some people giggeling around him, and despite no proof, he quickly assumed they were laughing at HIM. He hated this, so so much. The students, the teacher, his art, himself, this stupid stupid desk that felt like it was suffocatinG HIM.
Before he knew it, he slowly stood up, he wasn't thinking straight and his head was all dizzy. With no warning, his table was tipped over, papers and pencils made a mess on the floor and the desk was inches away from hitting Miss Whites legs.

That's how Vincent got sent to the principles office, again. It was boring, and he felt all bad and guilty, and insecure, and oh God people we're walking by and looking at him-.
He pushed his knees up, so his thighs were pressed up against his slim waist, it was easy with his skinny, well..everything. He got swallowed by his own coat, and that was fine, he didn't wanna be seen anyways.

A small tap was felt on his shoulder, but the principle wasn't usually this fast. So he slolwy looked up, excepting some classmate that was ready to laugh in his face. Instead, he was faced by a tall figure with a cup and a box in his hands, both reached out infront of him. The boy was TALL, very tall. It was JFK, the one person he liked in this hell hole. They were..uh, friends? Boyfriends? God knows. His sleeves were covering his hands, so he slolwy pushed them out, grabbing onto the cup of unknown liquid. It was warm, and a little less then full, he kinda assumed JFK had taken a sip, but that was okay. It was hot chocolate from one of the machines in the schools, they Weren't..THAT good, but with his state of mind, it tasted like heaven. Anything did. It was sweet, and warm, and made his hands stop trembling so much from the anxiety.

The box was set on his lap, a clear container with some light blue..liquid? He touched it a little, only to flinch at the feeling. "Its slime, it's like that..kneaded easer thingy you play with in uh class, but it dosent break" jfk smiled, leaning a bit down to be closer to the boys face, "I uh, er, ordered it for ya".
The smaller ginger cocked his head to the side, slolwy nodding. It took a bit to convince him that holding it was fine, he was scared It'd be all gross and..well, slimey. But it was soft, and oddly dry feeling, and just a tiny bit warmed up from JFK keeping it in his pocket. He liked it, he liked stretching it and squeezing it in his hands, to the point JFK had to remind him to drink up before his hot chocolate got all cold.

Everything was a little easier. JFK wasn't a cure, he knew that, his unstable and broken mind couldn't suddenly be all better just cause someone entered his life, thatd be ridiculous. But while it was still there, it was easier to handle now, easier to control and live with. Something he was able to just see as a part of him rather than a plague he needed to kill, and JFK was someone who appreciated every bit of him, even that bad side.