limitless.

chapter nineteen

There is an inevitable happiness that comes with falling in love. When all the worries and doubts and insecurities are stripped away, what is left is the knee-shaking nervousness, the stomach-wrenching elation, the childishly giddy happiness. Sometimes it feels like falling asleep at midnight or waking up with a smile. Sometimes it feels like standing thigh-deep in an icy ocean, waiting for a wave that never crashes. Sometimes all there is to be done is to wait for the wave to crash. 

JFK's smile falls, but he tries to hide it from Van Gogh. Why didn't he say it back? Is he going to say it back?

All Van Gogh can do is stare up into JFK's green eyes, waiting for him to say something else. To change the subject. To take his response as something positive. To let it satisfy him. To move on. 

A weak wave fizzes against the shoreline. The ocean draws back and the world is silent. 

"I love you, Vincent," Kennedy says again, less sure of himself this time.

Van Gogh swallows, and there is a pause in conversation. "I am falling down a rabbit hole that I didn't even know existed and it's longer and darker than the one I fell through to get here."

Sometimes answers only make half a bit of sense. Sometimes that has to be good enough. 

"And what's it like?" John asks. "The rabbit hole, that is." 

"It's dark," Vincent replies on an exhale, never breaking eye contact. 

Now Kennedy swallows. His grip on Van Gogh never loosens. "Do you like it there?"

"No," Vincent replies too quickly. "I want to fall through it. To feel my feet on the ground."

"You're afraid of the dark," JFK states. 

"I'm afraid of the dark," Vinnie agrees. 

A wave slams up against the boys' legs, more powerful than the first one. It fizzes out against the shore, spitting sea foam across the sand.

"Kiss me," Vincent says. "Kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me like we're in love."

"We are in love," JFK protests, but his voice is small. 

Van Gogh stares up at John, his eye contact so intense that JFK thinks about breaking it. He blinks, and for a split second, he considers turning his head away. But he doesn't. He sees it through. 

"It's really dark in here."

"And you're afraid of the dark." 

Van Gogh wraps his arms around the taller boy's neck and pulls his face down so their lips meet. He doesn't pull back when he should. He waits to break the kiss until he's sucked every last bit of saltwater off of JFK's lips. He only opens his eyes when he hears another wave fizz against the sand. 

"Do you want to leave?" Jack asks when Van Gogh finally lets him go.

Vincent breaks eye contact for the first time. "I want my sketchbook."

JFK's lips twitch. All of this, and it's still not enough for him. All of this, and all he wants is his fucking sketchbook.

"I don't know where it is," John replies. 

Van Gogh looks out across the water. He mumbles in response. "But I know that's not true." 

"I think we should go," JFK suggests, ignoring the boy's comment.

"Go where?" 

"Home." 

Vincent sticks his gaze back onto JFK. "Do you even still want our home?"