JFGogh (SFW) Series Finale

Part 7; To take and to lose

(TRIGGER WARNING!! MENTION OF BLOOD!!)
JFK sat on the edge of his bed, fresh air breezing about the room. It hit against him hard and stingingly, causing him to shudder.
He was all dressed up neatly for the dance, a black tuxedo with a green bow tie, shiny, dress shoes. He looked dazzling, but on the contrary, felt horrid after the incident yesterday.
His heart ached and felt heavy inside. He wondered how he and Van went from laughing together and constantly smiling, to Gogh not even looking in Jack's direction. It hurt so much, especially since he didn't even know why.
He sighed and stood up, dusting off his suit and adjusting his bow tie. He remembered having to go with Cleo, as if this situation couldn't get any worse. He knew he couldn't just act like nothing was wrong and end up with her again, so he picked up his cell and dialed her number.
He got goosebumps as it rang.
"Ugh, JFK what do you want?!" Cleo's voice was annoyed.
"I err uh, don't think this is gonna work... I'm uh, sorry, Cleo." A throbbing pain started in his throat as he spoke. He hung up before Cleo could reply.
He was on the verge of tears already. He breathed steadily and put on a fake smile, even though it was obvious he had been crying, seeing as his eyes were red and puffy.
Regardless, he went on, slowly making his way down the stairs as his foster dads gazed upon him from the bottom of the staircase, expressing their joy through delighted whispers amongst themselves.
"Wow, baby. You just look so cute in that lil' suit! I'ma start cryin'. Oh no, here come the waterworks. Oh, boy." He fanned his teary eyes with his hands, while his husband chuckled.
"Careful, you'll shatter his fragile, masculine ego."
JFK smiled slightly, still feeling that ongoing throbbing pain in his throat.
"Err uh, thanks, gay dads..." he replied quietly.
His fathers shot each other a look of concern.
"You know, baby, you just go on out there and have a good time, okay? Ain't no shame in dancin' on your own." They hugged their son and waved to him as he exited the house, eventually driving off into the distance. Here he goes.

Van Gogh took the city's bus to the school. He was dressed in a casual white tuxedo. He couldn't believe he was letting himself go, even though he knew he'd end up going home crying with a heavy heart.
The bus came to a stop and he slowly made his way out, nervously making his way into the school through the large, glass doors. Upon his entry, he was greeted by an overwhelming amount of signs of which directed any visitors to the gym, which was probably where the dance was being held.
The music was loud and obnoxious, but he expected no more from a high school dance.
He walked inside, seeing girls in tight dresses dancing and talking to the athletes, who looked overly confident. Well, it wasn't his place to judge them. He sincerely believed the most popular guy would even CONSIDER dancing with him, a nameless nobody.
He made his way to a table and rested his head atop it, gazing at the candle that's illuminated just around the center of the table. He thought of how JFK would be dressed, entering with ladies who begged to dance and a posse of the most popular and fittest of jocks. He pictured himself clinging to JFK's arm. How it'd feel to be wanted.
He thought about what Ponce said and a tear rolled down his face, knowing that he had broken his promise and that Ponce had given him false hope.
Suddenly, in walked the very guy who both managed to steal and break his heart, JFK.
He looked amazing in his black tuxedo, accented with only the finest green silk. Oh, how Vincent longed to hold him as they danced together, not caring if even the whole world was watching.
JFK was talking with a few of his friends, including Ponce. They all looked so happy, but he couldn't help but notice JFK's eyes. They'd have grown swollen and faintly red. Maybe he was just high.
JFK didn't speak much to the others, mostly just listening to them all brag about their fine lady friends who agreed to accompany them tonight. He didn't really care for their exaggerated stories, he just wanted to spend tonight with his two pals, Ponce and Van Gogh. Well, at least one of them was there with him.
"JFK? Hello? Are you there, pal?" Ponce's voice rang in his ears and Kennedy's head swung upwards.
"Huh? Err uh, sorry, I was just thinking." He answered, his voice quivering and quieting with each word.
Ponce frowned.
"Oh, about what?" He gestured the others away, who happily scampered off to find their girls.
JFK buried his hands into his pockets and sniffled.
"Well, I uh,.." he couldn't seem to spit the words out. He didn't want to word it weirdly. He felt his breathing start to get shaky.
"Hey, hey, it's alright, man. Come on, let's get a table and we can talk there, okay?" Ponce's voice was comforting to JFK. He nodded and followed his friend who seated him and sat across from him. JFK sighed.
"Come on, Jack. Don't shut out on me. Not on your big night! Tonight is supposed to be fun."
JFK nodded slowly, before raising his voice a little to speak.
"It's just that, ever since I uh, let Cleo to that Lincoln, everything has err uh, been going wrong..." he felt his eyes watering.
"But what about your new pal, Van Gogh? You two really seemed to be getting along, no?"
He was confused, he thought that Gogh would really be the one to change things. He hoped and prayed JFK didn't hurt the little guy.
"I messed it all up. He won't even uh, look at me!" JFK felt the tears slowly drop from his eyes. He laid his head on the table and covered himself with his hands, feeling a wave of unbearable embarrassment.
"Jack! Listen to me, man, whatever it is that happened between you two, I'm sure it'll be alright. Just talk to him. Please, you know I hate seeing you so sad..." Ponce was upset to see his best friend so miserable.
JFK's voice was inconsistent.
"I uh... I don't know. He hates me. I don't blame him. No one cares about ol' JFK! He's just a err uh, toy to be played with!" At this point, he was just hysterical. Ponce grabbed his arm and lead him outside of the building.
"JFK! Calm down, okay? I care about you and I know Van Gogh most certainly does too! Just listen to me. You have to go fix things with him. You only live once." Ponce's voice sounded stern and serious. Jack sniffled and wiped his eyes and nodded.
"Okay. You're right, Poncey. I'll talk to him." He hugged his friend.
"I love you, Ponce."
Ponce smiled and returned the hug.
"I love you too, pal." Ponce's voice sounded relieved, but there was something off about him. Maybe too much to drink? Who knew.
JFK started to make his way back inside, Ponce standing outside, watching dizzily as he did so.

Van Gogh was still at the table, watching sadly as people slow danced together. He wished he were up there with JFK. He sighed, but was soon disturbed by the sound of JFK's scream coming from outside?! He heard shrieking from all about as everyone rushed outside. He joined them, pushing through the crowd near the sidewalk. What he saw was scarred into his mind forever now. He felt dizzy and stumbled back nauseously. Oh god. He heard JFK's sobbing;
"No! Ponce... Speak to me, pal! Oh, god..." he cried and begged for his friend to respond. JFK kneeled beside his limp friend sobbing uncontrollably, who was bruised and bleeding after being struck by a passing car.