A/N: uh idk what this is, i'm tryina write more even tho my brain says no and the hiatus has me coming up empty for satisfactory archie!themed media rip me so i made thiS monstrosity, hope you enjoy! :D p.s. riverdale better not fuck this ptsd storyline up like they've butchured pretty much every other opportunity to properly address mental health conditions and like mental health in general lol
Takes place Post Season 2
Spoilers for Season 2 in general i guess
Rated T for panic attacks/anxiety/PTSD, mentions of blood, idk it's a mess
Lyrics from Where Is My Mind? - Yoav
000
with your feet in the air and your head on the ground
try this trick: spin it, yeah
your head will collapse, but there's nothing in
and you ask yourself
000
he thought it'd stop the moment the black hood was put in a pair of cuffs and thrown behind bars.
he thought he wouldn't wake up in a cold sweat at night anymore, blood and firecrackers spilling over in his head, bang, shooting upright in bed before he even registers he's still in bed, sheets soaked, a tangled mess strangling him, or maybe it's just his own throat plotting his death in his sleep. he thought he wouldn't panic anymore every time his dad was out of sight for longer than he should be, heart seizing in his chest and climbing to bite down on his tongue, hands shaking, arms shaking, everything shaking until he finds his dad safe and sound and perfectly whole again. he thought he wouldn't sit up all night anymore, unable to close his eyes for fear of what the oh so flimsy wooden door downstairs could or couldn't stand against next time, cause there will always be a next time, always.
the black hood was at least a predictable threat. Archie knew he'd come with a gun, knew he was after his dad, knew what to look for, what to watch out for, how he could even have a fraction of a chance to stop him from hurting his dad ever again. he knew what he was working with.
he's not scared of the black hood anymore.
(debatable)
but the world is full of other black hoods, other threats, more guns, more murderers, more killing machines, more opportunities to split his dad open and his own heart right along with him; if it could happen at Pop's, on an average day, a good day even, nothing amiss, nothing awry, and everything still came crashing down all in one instant, it could happen anywhere. anytime. anyplace.
he thought he wouldn't lose his footing every time he walked into Pop's anymore, even with three familiar faces backing him up, casual touches, smiling faces, bickering, joking, laughing, happy, they're happy, he's supposed to be happy, and he is, but every time someone walks through the door, he twitches, flinches like he's been electrocuted, eyes jumping up toward the sound, tracking whatever new figure it is this time, fully expecting a black hood, a gun, a shot, blood, not his, never his, and then it's just another face, emotions of another world splayed there, normal, human, fine, everything's fine, and yet.
he can't stop flinching.
he doesn't dare use the bathroom, ever, always finds some way to avoid it.
but he can't not use the fucking bathroom forever.
"Archie?"
he blinks, trying and failing not to flinch (again) but he doesn't think he's too obvious, and looks expectantly at the source of the voice – Veronica, dark eyes narrowed but not unkind, intense and curious and concerned all at once, too much, it's too much all at once, and he doesn't know what they've been talking about for the last hour but he can't bring himself to ask.
he stands as smoothly as he can while bolting up so fast.
"i gotta... use the bathroom," he manages through a sheepish smile, hoping to diffuse their expressions, all of them too intense, too concerned for nothing, it's nothing, Jughead's brows pinched, Betty's lips already parting in question, but he's spinning around and striding to the back of the restaurant, heart tip-tapping away against his ribcage, his wrists, his bones as countless pairs of drumsticks, rattling like he has no flesh clinging to them, holding them together.
(maybe he doesn't)
(maybe he wishes he doesn't)
it's not a lie; he does need to use the bathroom, but that doesn't mean it still wasn't an excuse. why he would use an excuse that puts him in such a sticky conundrum, he has no idea. maybe it's because he knew he had to do this sooner or later, it's a fucking bathroom, but that doesn't make him any less apprehensive. that doesn't make his hands stop shaking, his head stop swimming, his lungs stop shrinking.
he can do this.
it's just a bathroom.
he makes it to the door with 'guys' written across it on a dark tab, hand barely landing on the knob, when he actually lets it hit him.
because it's not as if he didn't feel it before, it just... hits him.
he pauses for only a moment, a spare few seconds, one, two, and twists the knob anyway, it's just a bathroom, pushing past the cement hardening over his marrow, between his joints, clogging his throat, it's a fucking bathroom.
do your business, flush, walk, one, two, three, four steps, sink, wash your hands, don't look in the fucking mirror-
motions, it's just motions, commands sent in mere milliseconds from his brain to each necessary muscle, ligament, tendons, push and pull, just motions, carrying him through like a ghost, it's just a bathroom. (he wishes he were a ghost)
he makes it to the door, hand barely landing on the knob-
and the floor shudders beneath his feet. the walls ripple and wave, the walls, the air, cascading over his skin in a wash of goosebumps, tingles, needles, stars pricking the edges of his vision, and he holds his breath because... because. because he just needs to twist the doorknob. it's just a fucking bathroom. it's just a doorknob. it's just Pop's, just the people he loves waiting out there, where he left them, he just left to use the bathroom, just a moment, just for a moment, just, because...
it could happen at Pop's, on an average day, a good day even, nothing amiss, nothing awry, and everything still-
it's just a bathroom. just twist the doorknob.
it's not anything but the fact that he finds he simply can't that finally fumbles the first drops of panic in his veins, slipping, tumbling, shudders, ripple after wave and the room doesn't feel real, it just feels like a photograph behind him, black and white and grainy just like the air, the oxygen, grains of sand catching in his throat and filling his lungs until he doesn't think they're there anymore, doesn't think he's there anymore. (he wishes he wasn't)
please be a dream, just be a dream, it's just a dream.
but it's not, and the doorknob's not twisting and his hand isn't working, his lungs aren't, his body isn't, he can't move, won't.
he can't feel himself.
or maybe it's the doorknob-
it's just a bathroom. breathe, in, out, inhale, exhale, breath by breath. he stares at his hands. (they don't feel like his but) they're shaking, flinching, like his nerves are rubbing together with each breath he can't take, doesn't think he can, at least, though he's not sure what he is or isn't doing, feeling, there's just empty and a buzzing through his veins and – he can feel those, pulsing in time with his heart, racing, too fast, so fast – he thinks he might be dying.
breathe.
he thinks of his dad, supporting his upper body on the couch after he drifted off watching tv, woke up with screams on his tongue but not enough air in his lungs to release them, tears in his eyes that he's determined to not let fall because it's nothing, it's over, you're okay, kiddo, just breathe, i got you, you're okay, we're okay, he's okay. he's okay.
he thinks of his dad, supporting his upper body on the floor as blood leaks out him like a rusty faucet, clinging with screams on his tongue but not enough air in his lungs to release them, tears in his eyes that he's too terrified to hold back because it's everything, he's dying, he's going to die and Archie did nothing to stop it, he's fucking dying and he did nothing to stop it.
he thinks of ponytails and dark lips and soft beanies and gunshots and blood and – he can't open the door.
"Arch?"
he blinks, flinching like he's been shot (but he was never that lucky, no, only in his better dreams), stares at the door he's been staring at for he doesn't know how long, the source of the voice on the other side – Jughead, voice quiet but firm and present, intense and curious and concerned all at once, too much-
"you've been gone for a while, bud; everything okay in there?"
it's said lightly, perhaps a joke but not really, hoping for the best but still genuine and inviting and – he can't open the door.
he stares at his hands. (they don't feel like his)
they're still shaking, he thinks, but they're blurring too, and his throat is closing, tight, cement filling his lungs, his throat, his nostrils, squeezing his eyes shut just as he chokes on it all, chokes on his own breaths he can't take, doesn't think he can, at least, though his lungs expand like a bomb's gone off inside them, shuddering, ripple and wave after wave until he clamps his hand from over the doorknob to over his mouth.
(another failed attempt)
but the half-sob still made it off his tongue, through his teeth, and it sounds more like he's breathing in a sandstorm, choking, still choking, and he backs away from the door before he does something foolish like open it.
"Archie?"
Jughead, voice louder this time and even more concerned than before.
breathe. he's okay, Jughead's okay, there're no screams, no gunshots, no blood, it's a just a fucking bathroom.
"i'm okay," he manages, but it's choked too, everything's choked and tight and pressing down, down, down, and the floor is cold and dirty and gross and solid beneath him. not shuddering, no ripples, no waves, he's okay, he's at Pop's, it's okay, Jughead's okay, Betty's okay, Veronica's okay, his dad's okay, he's okay, he's okay.
"you don't sound okay." it's muffled and ringing like a mosquito deep in his ear. he doesn't know if it's the door or if it's his ears; his head's still swimming, the room's still small and stale and his lungs are still shrinking but his eyes are squeezed shut and he's breathing.
ground, cold, hard.
breathe.
the doorknob twists.
he flinches like he's been electrocuted, but it's only a beanied head that peeks in, dark eyes gleaming with worry, lithe body squeezing through the door he refuses to open any wider, too wide, too open, almost like he's shielding whatever's out there from Archie. (or Archie from whatever's out there)
a key, held up as way of explanation, but Archie barely glances at it, eyes more open than he remembers them being but unable to focus.
"hey big guy," Jughead, voice quiet and firm and present. "whatcha doing down on the floor?"
he knows he's being talked down too, being approached like a cornered animal, but – he is on the floor, he thinks he is, at least, though he's not sure what he is or isn't doing, feeling, there's just empty and a buzzing-
he wants – he wants – he hates how loud it is, how quiet. it's too fucking much, in his veins, his lungs, his head, everywhere but nobody else fucking notices.
breathe.
Jughead, warm, here.
crouched down in front of him, brows still pinched like no time's passed at all, and maybe it hasn't. maybe he's just been frozen in place, out of space, time, a ghost, collapsing in a musty bathroom for no damn reason, it's nothing, it's over, maybe there are gunshots and he just can't hear them, blood and-
"i'm gonna touch you, okay? just a fair warning. you're okay, we're okay, just say the word and i'll back off," Jughead, speaking, crouched down in front of him, expression open, hand open, slowly... focus, breathe, he's okay, it's okay, slowly laying on top of his own fingers, clenched together and trembling like he's been locked in a freezer instead of a fucking bathroom, it's just a fucking bathroom, why is he-
he takes what feels like the first full breath he's taken in months. breathe, in, inhale, and it's deep and slow and not desperate and not choking on cement and mud and sand and – he's okay, just fucking stop, it's just a bathroom, just Pop's, just Jughead-
Jughead.
"Jughead." it's low and thin and loud in the tiny bathroom, but it's his voice, and he knows it's Jughead but it feels good to say it, to use his lungs, his throat, to prove they're working, he's okay. just breathe.
the beanied head nods, eyes still gleaming with worry but now there's a sparkle of relief there too. "yeah."
and...
he's... he's crying?
no, no, it's fucking nothing, it's over, it's – he grits his teeth and swipes the moisture out from under his eyes, under his chin, blinking the blurriness away until Jughead no longer wobbles in front of him like a mirage.
fuck.
he thought it'd stop.
"i'm sorry," he blurts out. not loud, not sharp and ringing but there, thrown out like a grenade that's about to go off, hot potato, hot potato, he never wants to touch it again. "i'm sorry, i'm okay, i'm – it's nothing, i'm fine."
Jughead simply stares.
Archie doesn't like it.
"i'm fine."
it's over, it's stopped, everyone's okay, the black hood is gone, everyone is okay.
it's okay. he's okay, he's fine.
...he's fine.
000
where is my mind?
where is my mind?
where is my mind?
000
A/N: so uh yeah i hope it wasn't too messy to follow. i planned on making this longer but as i said before... my brain says no. ;-; which kinda makes me sad cause i had a whole concept planned along this vein and whole scenes ready in my head and everything and i was kinda in love with it but my brain is dumb and won't put it int Ds. so i'm sorry if it feels kinda like a screenshot that's supposed to have meat and context to it but doesn't. ;;-;;
pls leave a review if u wanna, they really keep me going
p.p.s. shoutout to The Other Side's video that sorta inspired this but not really, just mostly inspired me to write more riverdale stuff if i can uwu bUT check out their video, it's like my favorite riverdale fmv at the moment oof it's rlly a masterpiece
/watch?v=fUSghPthZ_A