A/N: Fml. Riverdale is such a trash show but I love my babies okay. Let me live. These two hurt my soul. Someone give Jughead a hug.
Spoilers for 1x12, Anatomy of a Murder.
AUish. Juggie leaves before the rest of the core four find him at Pop's.
Rated T for... language, idk.
Lyrics from Tom Odell - Heal.
000
Take my mind a take my pain
like an empty bottle take the rain
000
They're so close.
Not really, but they're closer than they've been for a while. A fucking bus ride away. A phone booth, a phone call, and he can leave. He can get the fuck out of this town, away from his dad, away from school, away from Betty, from Veronica, away from Archie...
But no. Always a no, rejected, a reject, no-
Always just Jughead and his fucking self pity trapped in a corner.
Streetlamps, harsh wedges of light peeking through the windows and in to the dim lighting of Pop's, burning his sleep-deprived eyes as he sinks lower in his seat. Coffee set inches away, but his stomach turns at the thought of consuming anything other than oxygen right now. His thoughts spin, murky waters, dark, but vulnerable. Opportunities flit through his mind, there and then gone. Taken. He needs an escape, a solution, something that works.
He doesn't want to be here.
But he can't leave.
Seven minutes later, a blonde, a brunette, and a red-head walk into Pop's only to find lukewarm coffee at an empty booth.
Seven minutes later, Jughead sneaks through Archie's bedroom window, avoiding the floorboards that especially creak, and eases himself onto the mattress his friend usually occupies.
The Andrews household. He loathes it right now. Yet it was always the only place that gave him some semblance of refuge, an escape. As far back as he can remember.
It's quiet.
Quiet so loud it rings in his ears.
Pressure, cold and damp, clamping down on his throat. One, two, three...
Seconds illuminated by the bedside clock.
Four, five.
Building like a syrup that climbs from his lungs to the back of his tongue, behind his eyes, moisture stinging like salt.
He only counts to twelve before he cracks.
A split in the dam, starting with a gasp that he chokes on. He presses his fist against his lips to stifle it, to keep Mr. Andrews from hearing, to keep himself from completely falling apart. So he implodes instead, muscles clenching until his spine bends forward, his eyes squeezed shut. Heat burns in his chest, the bottom of his lungs, curling fire, talons dragging across his insides.
He remembers in school, learning how stars die. Fascination, marvel at the death of light, only pinpricks in the sky but so much more. He thought of balloons. Expanding and then imploding, reaching a breaking point, a buildup of pressure, before deflating back to insignificance.
But Jughead Jones is not a star.
He swallows it back until he can't anymore, gasping for air to breathe through the swelling wave of blackness that threatens to drown him. Fingers uncurl to cup his forehead, shading his eyes, the tears leaking there.
Quiet, stay quiet.
He trembles, anxiety a creature caged in his ribs. Quiet.
I just want my family, echoes in his veins. Desperate. Pitiful. Raw, an exposed nerve.
Please.
Another wave, burning intensity nearly making him gag, sobs trapped behind his teeth and clawing to escape. Knuckles dig into his skin, his lips, his eyes, forcing himself not to shatter. Breathe. Lungs ripple as he takes a breath, interrupted by a thick sob.
Quiet.
Exhaustion already pulls at him, muscles spasming with grief and the effort to keep it at bay.
He misses his mom. And Jellybean.
Already, he misses his dad.
The pillow to his right beckons him, the comforter beneath him a craving somewhere in the back of his thoughts. Limbs move of their own accord, distant, and he finds his face pressed into a pillowcase, a thick and familiar blanket cocooned over him, hiding him. A shudder. He bites his lower lip, more tears soaking into fabric.
He stays like that until his body loosens, tears washing freely in the silence, in the dark. He stares at the wall without really seeing it.
A haze looms over his mind, muffling distractions, nothing but him and saltwater and puffy skin around his eyes.
He drifts.
He doesn't notice the footsteps padding quietly through the hall until it's too late, a door easing open a second too soon, and his breath catches in his throat. Stay quiet, still rings impulsively in his head. Eyes squeeze themselves shut and he forces himself to relax, breath evening.
The steps halt almost immediately. Thick silence now, a question in the air, accusations directed to and away from himself swirling in Jughead's head, but he remains still.
The steps shuffle, more hesitant now. Clothes rustle, then blankets behind and beneath. The floor.
He chooses that moment to roll over, eyelids still lowered, movements groggy, and he hopes Archie buys it. He settles facing the open room. Facing Archie. The shuffling stops.
Quiet.
Then eventually, Jughead feels him relax.
He opens his eyes, lazily examining his blurred surroundings. He's on the edge of the mattress, close enough to spot Archie on the floor.
Archie.
Betrayal like ice replaces the burn in his eyes.
He can accept what Archie had done, but the fact that he kept it from Jughead is what keeps stuttering through his brain.
Archie keeps too many secrets. Maybe all of them do.
Regardless, he still stiffens in confusion when his hand darts out instinctively, loosely clutching Archie's shoulder. Shame aches in his bones and he nearly retracts it, but strong fingers clutch back, warm. Don't. Dry eyes fill again. Stay quiet. Jughead closes them, a feeling of resignation, but he forces himself to stay together. He can hear Archie shift, sitting up and scooting close so he's leaning against the bed-frame. So close Jughead can feel his breath. The fingers tighten until he feels grounded, and he has to bite his lip again. Stay quiet.
"I'm so sorry," wafts through the dark of his own eyelids, soft, raw, sincere, so sincere.
Sorry for lying to you. Sorry your dad was arrested. Sorry, sorry, sorry-
His next exhale rattles his frame, lungs struggling to work properly. He squeezes the hand back.
The pillow shifts beneath his skull and a forehead presses against his own... It should be awkward, Archie vertical and crammed up against his own bed, Jughead lying stiff, their hands still linked together. It should make him squirm, their upper bodies twisted like pretzels, yet it somehow feels more like puzzle pieces.
The grip enveloping his is almost incessant, pleading with him to receive whatever it is that Archie is trying to give. I'm so sorry.
An apology.
Everything refuses to move, to respond, his lungs threatening to seize, his tongue feeling like lead in his mouth. Everything but his fingers, which only curl tighter around Archie's. A moment of shared breath, flesh nonexistant, just their souls lingering close, reading each other like ancient text only they can understand.
A moment.
Then Archie pulls away. Not completely, presumably to get more comfortable; he stays curled up on the floor next to him, not once letting go of his hand.
And his body finally, completely, goes limp, the tension bloomed across his entirety, rooted in his lungs, easing away to exhaustion once more. But he forces his hand to hold position.
And he does. He holds it, anchored, even as his mind melds with his subconscious, floating, sinking.
It's the last thing he thinks before falling asleep; Archie's hand clinging tightly to his.
000
Take my heart and take my hand
like an ocean takes the dirty sands
And tell me some things last
000
A/N: HERE YOU GO MORE ANGST FROM MOI WHO'S SURPRISED. These boys need more screentime together or I quit. Leave a review if you liked it, lovelies.