Jughead.
Contrary to popular belief, Jughead was not a loner by nature but by choice. Choice of self-preservation.
He could still pleasantly recall inane memories of elementary school, including playing with a sweet, goofy auburn haired boy and…her.
Middle school was where it changed. The word "popular" became, well, popular. "Rich" was often found in the same company. Jughead slowly but surely felt himself being pushed to the fringes. Not that he resisted or truly cared all that much. At least he still had his best friend Red and…her. Even if she was becoming less present than before. Jughead could theoretically understand why it would be more appealing for her to spend time with her beautiful, wealthy friends than a skinny, ginger dork and his scrawny, greasy haired sidekick. He could push down the slight tinge of hurt and need which arose in his throat when he saw her with her friends in the hallway and she avoided his eye.
High school was where it changed yet again. Red had bulked up and found camaraderie with his fellow football players. Jughead had to admit his old friend had tried his hardest to make time for him but ultimately, that's all it was. Trying to make time. And a solid friendship couldn't be based on force. So another one bites the dust, he thought grimly.
And then, when Jughead was 16, on the day of his so-called Sweet 16 exactly, his pathetic, disgusting father killed his lovely, kind, sweet mother in a savage and drunken fit of rage. And Jughead no longer gave a fuck about anything remotely resembling friendship. He and Jellybean had been forced to live with a foster family who meant well, but after a third night of incessant and obnoxious prayers and religion being forced down his throat, Jughead had to get away. He took Jellybean to an aunt's house in Wisconsin and came back to Riverdale soon after because, really, where else did he have to go. It was the only place he knew. He didn't feel safe there exactly, and it sure as hell wasn't home, not anymore…but he did feel just a little less exposed than he would have in a place like unknown, middle-of-the-fucking-nowhere Wisconsin.
So currently he was toiling away his days trying equally to avoid the unremitting stares of his peers and the occasional inquisitiveness of authority figures at the school, and spending his evenings in a forgotten janitor's closet in a forgotten stairwell. His goal was to graduate and somehow, somehow score a scholarship to a decent college. He wasn't aware of any special scholarships for a convicted murderer's child (har har) but he was counting on his commitment to the school paper and the many articles he had composed to help his applications.
He didn't have a social life and frankly, even just the suggestion of one was laughable. If he had cared to entertain some level of deeper introspection, he would have admitted that he certainly missed Red's friendship. But he had nothing to reproach him with. They had simply grown apart, and he couldn't blame him for not wanting to be seen with the son of a known murderer.
The only sense of regret Jughead ever felt was in regard to her.
It was nothing to do with how she carried herself, although he couldn't help but notice her glowing complexion and confident stride every time she strolled into his AP History class with an irrepressibly vivacious air. And it wasn't connected to her gorgeous smile, which she flashed effortlessly and repeatedly at her friends while laughing at the lunch table. Or even related to that brilliantly bright blonde ponytail which he was accustomed to spotting from across the school hallways, often while she was determinedly tightening it.
His Achilles' heel was something quite different. It was the way she smelled. Citrus and flowers and sunshine. Clinique Happy. She hadn't changed it since 6th grade, and good god, Jughead couldn't quite bring himself to get over it. She was glorious and effervescent and that goddamn perfume ruined him every time he got a whiff of it. He was sure he grimaced before brushing past her in the hallways, trying desperately to brace himself for impact and failing miserably each time to block out her scent and memories of her friendship and her.
Because Jughead couldn't forget.
He couldn't forget being her first kiss when they were eleven, he couldn't forget her being his first heart-ache soon afterwards, and most significantly, he couldn't forget the way that she had comforted him the night after his mother had been killed, when he had come to her bedroom window, sobbing and inconsolable and blaming himself.
He couldn't forget how they had lost their virginity to each other that night.
More than anything, he absolutely hated himself and her for pretending it never happened.
Betty.
Every time she see him in the halls, he flinches or noticeably cringes. Once, after That Night, she accidentally brushed her hand against his when they were forced to work together as lab partners in AP Chemistry.
He pulled his arm away so quickly he knocked over a beaker and broke it.
After each instance of interaction (and rejection), her face flushes just a bit more with embarrassment. This boy, to whom she gave everything, EVERYTHING, pretends not to know her. She thinks maybe she deserves it for ignoring him those few shallow years of middle school and early high school. But wasn't that erased on That Night? When they were closer than either of them had ever been to another human being, with her sharing more than she had expressed even to her sister Polly…
Sometimes she swears he looks at and watches her. She swears she can feel his eyes following her. But she knows she must be imagining it. Because That Morning After, he just slipped away without a word. And she's torn between thinking she shouldn't dare to ask for more from him and being so angry with him that he hasn't offered more.
She knows. Logically, she knows what he has been though. And to call it hell isn't enough. It's been worse for him than she could imagine. But he also knows that her life isn't perfect, despite its appearance. He's aware of the awful strain and constant pressure at home, forcing her to make herself sick and unhealthy in numerous ways as she strives endlessly for an unobtainable standard of perfection, and he was there for so long, supporting and encouraging her as her friend. Until she began pushing him away. She curses herself every day for that. Sometimes, as she thinks about the mistakes she has made with him, she finds herself falling back into that awful habit and she feels a sharp, stinging sensation in her palms…
What she really can't help but notice is the hat. The stupid grey crown beanie she got him for his tenth birthday. He still wears it, every day. Is it a sign? A security blanket? A subtle way to torture her? Or maybe he doesn't even remember that it was a gift from her.
The only thing she is certain of is how happy and loved she felt in his arms. And safe, and, most importantly, like she was making him feel the same way.
Like Icarus, she flew too close to the sun and has to live with the result of melted wings. Falling slowly, then faster and faster through the air, until crashing into the deep, bottomless sea. Just as she resolves to no longer waste time thinking about the crowned prince, she turns the corner of the hallway and collides with a hard body.
Jughead.
"Watch where you're going…" I grumble gruffly as I reach down to grab my stuff. I look at the annoying obstacle in front of me and Oh.
Oh fuck.
Blue eyes widen and stare at me.
Perfectly petal-pink lips tremble slightly.
"Why don't YOU watch where YOU'RE going!" fumes the petite blonde as she bends to gather her books.
I scramble to help, but she yanks her pile away from me.
"I've got it," she states coldly, before moving around me and continuing down the hallway.
"I'm sorry, Betty," I mumble loudly after her.
For half a second, she turns to look at me. There's a pause…but she finally nods curtly and keeps walking.
Smooth. Well done, you fucking creep, Jughead.
Betty.
Okay, SO not how I was expecting to start my morning.