limitless.

chapter thirteen

"Christ, Jack, what did you do?" Van Gogh mutters. He and JFK are in the master bathroom, Kennedy sitting on the tiled floor while Vincent sits on the side of the bathtub, scrubbing John's arm with a warm rag, fresh blood trickling into the basin. 

"Exactly what you told me not to," John replies, smiling. 

Van Gogh and JFK sat on the rollercoaster track for some amount of time -- it could've been minutes or hours, it made no difference to them. They didn't talk outside of the occasional, your eyes are pretty or your skin is soft, and eventually they stood up and walked back to the service ladder. They'd gotten lucky on their ascent, managing to avoid all the rusty metal. On their descent, though, JFK hadn't been so good at avoiding. 

Vincent takes the rag off of John's arm to examine the wound. There's a small amount of blood trickling out of it, but he can't see any rust contaminating his boyfriend's skin anymore. He gives one last swipe with the rag, smearing the blood from the wound before dabbing it up with the cloth. From the cardboard box on the lip of the bathtub next to him, Van Gogh fishes out a big rectangular bandaid and peels back the paper. He sticks it to JFK's arm, the cut vanishing from sight. 

"You got your shot, right?" Vincent asks, an unwelcome twinge of panic seeping into his voice. "I could never live with myself if you got tetanus under my care." 

"Under your care, huh?" Kennedy jokes. Van Gogh raises a warning eyebrow. "Yes, I got my tetanus shot," he adds in a more controlled voice.

Vincent smoothes down the bandaid before crumpling up the paper in his palm. "Good," he says before turning away and depositing the wrapper into the trashcan. 

JFK bends his arm and looks down at it, assessing the bandage and the damage underneath. He smiles to himself in satisfaction. "You could be a doctor, Vinny."

Vincent laughs. "Yeah, because I'm so gentle." 

Kennedy shrugs. "You didn't hurt me while you were patching me up." 

Van Gogh turns to look at JFK, his elbow resting on the bathtub, his wet brown hair flopping over his face. The individual strands clump together, sticking to his forehead, his cheeks, his brow bones. He moves the hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and Vincent watches with a slack jaw. 

When he finally gains his composure, and stops staring, he says, "I'm gentle with my hands, not with my words." 

"You're gentle with your lips, too," JFK adds. 

A sly smile tears across Vincent's face, and his cheeks glow pink. "Oh, stop that," he replies, shoving Kennedy playfully. 

"Ow!" He whines, rubbing his arm in his over-exaggerated way. "Don't hit the wounded!" 

"You're insufferable, my boy," Vincent smiles. 

"Clearly you don't think so, considering you just saved me from tetanus." 

Van Gogh laughs. "Come on, we don't need to be sitting on the bathroom floor anymore. I'm gonna go read." He stands up and heads for the bathroom door, JFK following shortly behind. 

"Ooh, when he reads for fun!" 

Vincent stops suddenly, and John nearly smacks into his back. "Jack."

"Vincent." 

"We're missing school," he replies, turning around. 

JFK and Van Gogh stare at each other for a couple of seconds, before bursting into mutual laughter. 

"I don't care," JFK says once he catches his breath. 

"Oh, me neither." 

Van Gogh takes his book off of the nightstand on his side of the bed and pushes open the dormer window, listening to it squeal and shriek against the wind and rusty mechanism. He climbs out onto the balcony, setting his book down on one of the chairs before assessing how cool the air is and turning around to get a blanket.