Chapter Text
Van Gogh sighed as he leaned his body into the privacy of his locker. He was holding his art project, a painting, in both hands. His eyes scanned through every single slight imperfection in said project. He got an A, as always, but he never thought he earned them. No matter how many compliments he received from his art teacher, he still hated his artwork. Some weak shading here, an accidental blank spot there, everything he hated.
He would stay up all night doing his paintings, whether for school or pleasure alone. After he would finish them, usually when the sun was about to rise, he would compare his work to one of his clone-father’s, the original Vincent Van Gogh’s, paintings by googling them on the internet. Nothing satisfied him. All of that time and hard work lead to just disappointment, and inevitably a bunch of jocks shoving him into a locker the next day and breaking his canvas in half.
The only people who seemed to actually like his artwork were his foster parents and his art teacher. At least, that’s what they told him. At this point, he assumed they were just saying that they liked his art for pity, or because it met certain criteria to get a good grade. In his mind, nobody liked his art. That’s what happened to the original Van Gogh, so inevitably, it happened to him, and this time, his paintings wouldn’t become historically famous.
Van Gogh tried to keep a low profile while creeping over to the trashcan to throw his art project away; that’s where he figured it belonged, anyway. He hoped to death that maybe this day would be one of those remarkable days where he didn’t get shoved into a locker by jocks. Anything would be better than that.
As quick as he could, he dropped the painting into the trash, and he rushed as fast as he could back to his locker where nobody could see him, and this time, he willingly shoved himself into his locker. He didn’t really have the strength to face anyone anymore.
*****
It was a normal day for JFK; reminisce over his breakup with Cleopatra, sulk over the death of his best friend, Ponce de León, stare at Joan of Arc in the middle of class, and then bully some quiet kids and freshmen with his friends. It was all routine for him.
He was strutting through the halls, like always, with everyone’s eyes glued on him; whether they were admiring him or scared shitless by him. He would occasionally throw finger guns (despite not quite being over his fear of them) at Gandhi and Ceasar while doing so. Although class was in less than two minutes, he took his sweet, sweet time getting to his locker, which wasn’t out of character for him.
A few feet from his locker, the sight of Cleo and Abraham Lincoln caught his eye. They weren’t doing anything sickly romantic, like making out or getting all touchy-feely where the whole junior year class could see, they were simply having a, what seemed to be, a normal conversation. Regardless, JFK was still pissed off, and all of the heartache he endured from Cleo choosing Abe over him returned.
But, a few seconds later, something much more pleasant to the eye caught his attention; Joan of Arc.
The two weren’t strangers in the slightest. They were not exactly romantically involved, but more like… a very unironic flirtatious relationship.
Joan was simply minding her own business, stuffing piles of books from her previous class into her locker, when she was suddenly startled by JFK slamming her locker door. The books she was holding fell from her grasp onto the floor, which made a sound so loud that some students turned their heads to see where the sound came from.
“What the hell, Kennedy!? I have class in like…” she checked her watch, “thirty seconds!”
“I er uh... just wanted to drop in and say hi,” JFK responded in a cocky tone.
“I don’t believe that for a second. No JFK I know just wants to ‘drop in and say hi,’ that’s bullshit.”
“That’s not true! The original JFK would’ve been the type to drop in and say hi!’
Joan deadpanned at JFK for approximately four-and-a-half-seconds.
“What? I, er uh, didn’t say anything inherently sexist!” JFK protested, crossing his arms.
She rolled her eyes, “Look, if you’re just talking to me because you want something, just say it. I don’t want any pleasantries.”
JFK took a big long sigh before saying, “Fine, ya got me. How ‘bout we go to my place tonight, aye? My foster dads are gonna be out.”
“I can’t tonight, I promised Abe I would help him get Cleo a gift for their two month anniversary,” her eyes almost rolled back into her head when she said ‘two month anniversary.’
“What? You would, er uh, ignore me for your bozo friend? You really need to get your priorities straight, of Arc,” he said, crossing his arms and making a pouty face.
“I know, I know, hanging out with John-fuckin'-Kennedy is much more meaningful than being a good friend.”
“Hey! Are you making a mockery of me?”
“God, the answer is no, okay? We’ve been doing this for multiple times a week for the past month, haven’t you considered, y’know, taking a break? Because I sure need one!” Joan angrily stuffed her books back into her locker as she said this. Her pale skin was becoming almost as red as her hair from the current frustration.
“I’m a Kennedy! I’m not accustomed to rejection!”
“Well, maybe you should get used to it! This time certainly isn't gonna be the last!”
The bell had rung several seconds earlier, so Joan grabbed her stuff, shut her locker, and shoved by Kennedy to calculus. He had no more cocky responses to give out, he simply stood there in silence. His brain still couldn’t fathom that he actually got rejected, and by Joan of Arc of all people.
Class was in session, but JFK didn’t give a shit. He had more important things to worry about; like how he was going to survive Joan’s rejection. The easiest thing to do was flirt with some other ladies, but it just wasn’t the same. It wouldn’t be the same without Joan.
His body was slightly more bent over as he sulked down the empty hallway. After a few minutes, he passed by the locker of Ponce de León. There were still bouquets and other gifts surrounding it from his funeral, along with the centerpiece: a portrait of him.
“I wonder what you would’ve done, Poncey. I wonder how you would've handled getting rejected by a girl,” JFK stared at the portrait. A single tear trailed down his face as he rolled up his sleeve. The tattoo was still there, clear as day. “Two peas in a pod,” he read the text on the tattoo out loud to himself as a way of assurance.
He took a Kleenex tissue out of his pocket (he always carried them everywhere he went) and blew his nose into it. He felt a lump in his throat, and he swallowed it back as hard as he could. No more crying.
He crumpled up the tissue and went over to the trashcan to throw it away. That was when he caught a glimpse of something, something that looked too not-disgusting to be in a trashcan. JFK brushed some of the other pieces of trash aside and pulled out the object. It was a painting, the kind with the thick paints on a canvas. He couldn’t take his eyes away from it; it was just so… different. It was unlike any other painting that he’s ever seen. As someone who sucked absolute ass at art, this painting had JFK hypnotized from its sophistication. Every single little detail of the painting amazed him, so much so that he spent the rest of the period staring blankly at it in a trance.
He only snapped out of it when the bell rang and students flooded the hallway. JFK finally looked up to see what was happening, and that was when he noticed a little signature in the bottom left corner of the artwork. It read, “Vincent Van Gogh”.
Van Gogh? That short little quiet kid painted this? JFK thought.
He started to wonder how this ended up in the trash in the first place. Did his jock friends do it? Did it somehow end up in there by accident? In any case, he felt an overwhelming need to get this painting back to Van Gogh. The fact that a painting such as that was in the trash just… didn’t sit right with him.
As if on cue, the small figure of Van Gogh slowly and sadly walked over to his locker to put his stuff away. After getting a good look at him, JFK felt an overwhelming surge of guilt. He had bullied this kid before… his friends did it more than he did, but he definitely recalled saying and doing mean things to him once or twice. It felt… bad. It was one of the extremely rare cases where he actually felt sympathy for another person besides himself.
JFK stood up, the painting in his hands, and walked over to Van Gogh’s locker. Van Gogh was so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice Kennedy come up behind him.
“I er... I think this is yours,” JFK said, lowering his voice so as to not scare Van Gogh. The redhead instinctively recoiled away from JFK. He suddenly noticed the painting in his hands.
“Where did you get that…?” Van Gogh asked.
“I found this in the trash. I don’t know how it got in there, but I figured I should, er uh, return it to you.”
“Put it back where I put it. It belongs in the trash,” he mumbled.
“You put this in the trash yourself? I, er, disagree with your statement, shortstack. I think this painting is an absolute masterpiece, if I do say so myself.”
“You mean… you like it…?”
“It’s better than anything I could do! All I can draw is stick figures. My jock hands weren’t built to do art,” JFK responded.
Van Gogh seemed to be in awe that a himbo such as JF-fucking-K would actually, sincerely like his artwork.
“You can keep it, then, I don’t want it.”
“No! It's your painting, and that means you’re gonna have it. Tell me otherwise, and I’ll sock you one!”
“Fine, fine, Jesus Christ, I’ll take it,” Van Gogh reached for his painting before JFK pulled his arms away for a moment.
“Woah, woah woah… woah. Woah. Now, before I give you this painting, you gotta promise me something!” JFK’s voice returned to its normal loud demeanor, “You can’t throw this painting into the trash again, it doesn’t belong there. Please keep painting, I wanna see more of ‘em. I like them. A lot.” he said.
Van Gogh hesitated before reluctantly nodding his head, “Alright. I promise I won’t throw it into the trash.”
JFK smiled, satisfied, and leaned down to give Van Gogh his work. He stared at it, unsatisfied, but also satisfied. Unsatisfied with his work, but satisfied that someone actually liked it.
“See you around, shortstack,” JFK said. Before Van Gogh had the chance to respond, JFK already headed off to his own locker. Van Gogh couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. Yes, he’s seen JFK many times previously, but this time, he was seeing him in a completely different light than he did before.