Prologue.
He should have known she would come back. After all, the dead didn't rest in Riverdale. Their town was something else entirely, a place sitting on the brink of fiction despite dipping into reality. Jughead Jones figured himself as smart. He wasn't exactly Einstein, but he was intelligent enough to come to the realization that neither of them had truly slain the witch. They had been distracted. Alice Cooper and The Farm had ascended, leaving Kevin Keller to pick up the pieces. So all eyes had been on them, instead on where they should have been; the witch. The evil witch who had tricked them into playing her dastardly games because of their parents actions. Jughead did have sympathy for her, at least a small part of him. He'd understood why the witch had lost her mind. Since she was a mere child, Riverdale's very own Cruella de Vil was destined to be a child bride, a product of the incestuous Blossom family. And it had been his own father, a member of the infamous Midnight Club, who had been one of those who had driven her to do this.
Jughead knew his father wasn't a bad person. Sure, he'd made mistakes. FP Jones had splintered when his mother left, taking Jellybean with him. But he'd built himself back up, earning the respect of the town, who loathed him after being involved in the murder of Jason Blossom. Maybe that's why Jughead was here. The true reason. FP had been unintentionally ignorant when Jason died, like the other parents. Like Fred Andrews, Alice Cooper, and Hermione Lodge. But his true sins were the result of him covering up the murder of the Blossom son. Which was why he was here. Jughead came to that realization quickly, and suddenly the zipties cinching his wrists together weren't so tight. The pain wasn't so bad. His head of scruffed up curls hung as he stared at the concrete floor, where spots of blood danced across the smooth stone, almost as if it was teasing him.
The blood had confused him at first. Where had it come from? If he had to take a guess, it would be from his mouth. When he gingerly ran his tongue over his upper lip there was a stinging sensation, along with a metallic taste tinging his tongue, as if someone had mixed rusty pennies with the after-taste of whisky. He vaguely knew of the momentous kick at the back of his throat after the first drink. But this was different. Stagnant. As if he'd drunk a whole bottle and forgotten about it. But Jughead didn't drink. Not after the mess with his father. And yet the taste didn't go away, only dragging his unresponsive mind further into fruition. His thoughts were thick with a smothering fog, blocking out every memory that attempted to slide through an impenetrable barrier that refused to move. It became obvious what the barrier was, after a while. As well as not being able to remember anything prior to waking up, Jughead came to the quick realization that he couldn't move. He couldn't lift his head. A dull throbbing thrummed in his temples. He'd been hit over the head. Not just that; drugged. Which explained the taste of rusty coins in his throat. His dry mouth. Such foggy, distant thoughts. Jughead's tongue was a thousand times bigger than it should have been, swollen in a mouth so dry he could barely swallow. Clawing through shattered consciousness, he struggled to locate his senses.
Smell. What could he smell? Inhaling sharply, the scent hit him automatically, turning his gut. The overpowering stink of body odor hung in the air, fringed with something sweet … something flowery, but at the same time … musky. Manly. Maybe it was his clogged up brain, his failure to conjure simple sentences in his broken mind, Jughead was lost. All he could think about was long summers with his sister, rolling down Sweet Water hill where he'd crash into Mrs Lieb's prized flower beds. That hit something, striking a long suppressed memory at the back of his skull. They were flowers. Wild strawberry plants and daisies. But it wasn't just his sister. Someone else had rolled down that hill with him, a confusing blur of blonde through his little self's vision. The memory was vague, but in his state, it was reachable. At first it was a figure, a ghost dancing around him, but the more he pried, the more he forced himself inside his own mind, it became clearer. Suddenly the phantom, the confusing shadow that didn't make sense … it was a girl.
The tiny blonde's hair was braided with daisies, a wide grin lighting up her face underneath a cornflower blue sky. The girl was giggling, blowing stray hairs from where they dangled in wild green eyes. It was like diving headfirst into his childhood. The numbing feeling of the cold was replaced with the scorching summer sun burning the back of his neck, The grass on his soles is soft on soft, warm on warm, a gentle tickle as each giving wand forms a cushion of green. Each strand moves in the summer breeze as easily as his overgrown mop of curls hanging in his eyes. The wind and the rustling trees were as alive as his steady breaths. The girl was mute, but Jughead was filled with an overwhelming sense of happiness. Childish happiness took over him, a hysterical laugh building in his throat. His little self was waving his arms around, pulling and teasing at the girl's curls, while her eyes landed on something, or someone, behind him.
That snapped him out of it. The way the girl's eyes had left his and brightened at the sight of someone … someone else. It almost looked like her heart had swelled up, her small hands coming up to twirl hair around her fingers while little Jughead's gut had twisted. But for now, Jughead didn't think about who had caught the small girl's gaze. Because it had hit him like a brick to the face. It should have hit him the second he woke up, but Jughead's mind was sludge, trudging its way through molasses. Every thought was a chore, and retrieving a memory took almost all of his brain power.
Betty. The girl's name was in his mouth, choking on his swollen tongue, and it hurt. It hurt to say it. To confirm it. As if punishing him further, the pain struck once more, when his girlfriend's name was so alive in his mind, in his mouth, on his tongue. He wanted to scream it out, but his lips were numb. His voice was none-existent, a mute scream raging in his throat, trying to break free. Suddenly the smells were overpowering, choking him. Peach and mango perfume and wild strawberries. It was Betty. It was all of Betty, and Jughead couldn't breathe, couldn't stand to breathe in the scent of the girl who he loved. Because she was here. She was suffering. Jughead managed a soft whimper, which was - it was something. He attempted to move, attempted to reach out, to touch - but everything was numb. Everything was so startlingly cold, he couldn't feel anything. In a way, it was like being stuck in a nightmare. When he tried to blink through the fog, it only got thicker, coating his vision, swamping him, drowning him in the dark. Even when Jughead managed to catch something - a flicker, a figure leaned against the wall so casually, a ghost fringing his consciousness, the drugs dragged him back under.
And then he was sure. He was so sure it was her. In the twisted reality he'd found himself in, she was in too much clarity. Unlike everything else, like the memories he was delving into, and the demon in the corner he was trying to ignore, Betty existed.
Jughead's body was stiff against the wooden chair, and he shivered in the loose cotton t-shirt he'd been left in. Every breath that escaped his lips twirled in the air; wisps of white that might have looked beautiful, if he wasn't stuck in the evil witch's basement.
Struggling seemed pointless. He was paying for his father's sins, and maybe - just maybe - that was okay.
But why was she here? Pain struck his heart, more agonizing than what he already felt. It was suffocating. Why was Betty Cooper here? Why did she deserve a seat with him in the cold, and the dark, and the pain? Why was Betty being haunted by the witch in the corner?
Her little self was back, invading his mind. Elizabeth Cooper, the girl he'd been in love with since he figured out how to love, and just what the fluttering in his stomach was every time he saw her, every time she smiled, and the room around her seemed like it was glowing. Betty Cooper was his personal sunshine, so why was she here? She was the daughter of Alice Cooper, another member of The Midnight Club. Was that why? Of course he should have realized that she had been bought, only merely months ago, by the witch herself. So she too could participate in her evil games, the tasks she had created. But Jughead's memory was a haze, a confusing mess of fog that refused to disperse. All he felt was guilt. Was Betty here because of him? Because she was his Serpent Queen?
No. Jughead decided. He had hung up his Serpent jacket, passing leadership to Toni Topaz. Betty was here because she had escaped the first time, along with him, and Archie and Veronica. The Midnight Children, she had called them. The offspring of the original sinners of Riverdale. Finally, Jughead managed to choke out a cry. It was dry, and used up most of his strength, but it was there, breaking the never-ending vacuum of silence he'd been trapped inside. The cry wasn't to make noise, though. Instead, shattered pieces of the puzzle inside of his head were sliding back into place, and the fog swamping his mind, the phantom chains paralyzing his body, were finally slipping away.
Betty. Jughead squeezed his eyes shut, willing his bound hands to find hers, even if it stung, even if it killed him. He prayed there was nobody else's. Only Betty's. Only his own. But as the feeling began to seep back into him, slowly, as long seconds turned into minutes that felt like oblivion, he found himself back on Sweet Water Hill. Back with his ten-year-old self, and Elizabeth Cooper's wide eyes looking past him, landing on someone else, before her expression brightened, her smile drawing little Jughead's breath away. In both periods of time, his chest ached. But for different reasons. In the late summer sun, ten-year-old Jughead Jones felt pangs of envy spike, along with a slither of jealousy he'd tried so hard to hide. The smells made sense once again.
There was peach and mango perfume, the sweet aroma of summer that was Betty Cooper, but also hints of dark chocolate musk. Something that was all too familiar. Since he was a kid, Jughead had always associated his best friend with autumn. Maybe it was the color of his hair, a sweet caramel orange hued with flickers of red like an inferno had taken over his head. Jughead liked it best in the late evening, when the sun would be skating the horizon, casting Archie in a pretty orangeade hue, his laughing brown eyes lighting up under the sun's lazy haze which made Jughead's gut flutter, like with Betty. As if his mind was truly being messed with, Jughead inhaled the scent of pumpkin spiced lattes, of crushed leaves under his feet and petrichor drifting from the soggy ground. The very smell of the season hit him, and he knew it wasn't just himself and Betty. Inside the disintegrating memory in his head, under that same cornflower coloured sky, Archie Andrews had ran over, red curls an explosion under the sun. He had an armful of daisies, ready to plait more through Betty's hair, while she stared at him in a sort of childish awe, a feeling she didn't understand yet brewing in her chest.
But that was then.
This was now. Betty was his, and as much as he tried to deny those ever-pressing feelings, part of Jughead knew that the boy who smelled of autumn was also his. Managing to drag himself partially back into reality, back into the cold, into the dark, Jughead understood. Summer and Autumn were here, trapped with him, drowning in the darkness. Even when it didn't make sense that Archie, too, was a prisoner. Archie Andrews was the soul of the town, and despite being pulled into the underbelly, the darkness of Riverdale and tested against his limits, Archie had come through. Jughead's eyes stung. Like Betty and himself, Archie had proved that he was good. He was better than the town. Fred Andrews had been in The Midnight Club, had been involved in the cover-up of Griffins and Gargoyles. But that was it. Unlike his own father, Alice Cooper, Hermione Lodge, and almost every parent who was bound to be hiding a deadly secret, Fred was different.
So why? Like with Betty, questions struck Jughead's mind, awakening him further. He became aware of small things; like how cold the floor was beneath his bare feet, and how his blood had dried up, turning dark cardinal, diffusing into smooth stone. At some points in his life, Jughead had caught the similarities between Jason Blossom and his best friend. Chalky white skin and crimson curls that bore an almost mystical beauty in both boys. But that was where the resemblance ended. Unlike Jason, Archie's nose and cheeks were sprinkled with freckles, a factor he used to tease the redhead for. While Jason's eyes glimmered with that Blossom spark, Archie's only laughed. Archie and Jason were nothing alike. Except their looks. But even then, if Archie Andrews echoed her son, why oh why did Penelope want to hurt him? Why would she cause herself more pain?
There was only questions, and pain. As the numbing effects of the drugs drifted off, Jughead forced his brain to continue, to connect the dots. And with every piece of him that came into startling awareness, there came more agony striking down his spine, flooding his body with the type of pain he had had nightmares about. It felt like there was an inferno inside of him, a fire burning his veins inside out, while his thoughts became muggier, and reality felt like it was drifting. And wherever Betty and Archie were, they were drifting with it. No, he couldn't fall asleep now.
He couldn't.
Think. Blinking back tears, he swallowed a screech in his throat. Think!
The last piece of the puzzle came quickly, as if taking pity on his decaying mind. It was far too fast, slamming into him like an icy wave. Jughead jerked, his whole body writhing in its forced position. His hair trickled in his eyes, striking irritation through him. Archie and Betty were Summer and Autumn. Their scents made him think of swimming in the lake on stuffy August nights and swatting fireflies, and kicking through the leaves on the ground, breathing in the stink of moss thick on shedding trees. Choking out a gasp, Jughead forced himself to take another breath. Even if it was his last, he had to know.
And he was right. Terror shot through him. It felt like he was being yanked two different directions. Towards the light, oblivion, and the dark, where his friends were.
If Archie and Betty were the seasons of Summer and Autumn, then Veronica Lodge had to be Winter. She said it herself, claiming that she was the ice queen on her first day. Veronica hadn't grown up with Jughead like the others had, but Jughead felt like in all those memories of his childhood, she had been there, too. Back on Sweet Water hill, there she was; a projection, but real, if he truly believed the girl was standing there, hand in hand with Betty. Veronica was a late-comer to their town, as well as their little group. At first it had been pure circumstance. She started dating his best friend, as well as his girlfriend, so of course she was going to be hanging around with them. But the Lodge girl was eerily similar to him. They had the same taste in old movies and film star lore. Thus began their friendship. It was rocky, and wasn't as strong as Archie and Betty. But the girl still meant something to him. So when the aroma of crushed coffee beans hit him, sweet hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and that goddamn perfume she insisted on wearing, despite him being deathly allergic to it, part of him splintered.
Veronica. Of course, like Summer and Autumn, Winter was also here. Winter was trapped, mutely screaming into a darkness that wouldn't listen to her. Though where were they? Jughead couldn't feel them, tied to him. He couldn't feel anything. Only pain. Only the venom that continued to sear his veins, eliciting a cry that shattered in his throat.
As if the witch had been waiting, she finally stepped out of the darkness. Jughead lifted his head, finally, blinking rapidly. Childhood nightmares of boogeymen came back to haunt him as he watched the shadow flit across the room. The light flickered on, and Jughead bit back a cry, squeezing his eyes shut as an almost hazy allure bathed his eyelids. Snapping them open once again, the shadow had morphed into a person. But it didn't look like the witch. Which confused him. Maybe it was the drugs. He forced his fluttering eyes open, willing them to wait ... just wait. Not yet. He wasn't ready to sleep.
The figure, he recognized. How could he not? But even when Jughead shook his head, willing his perception to shift, the face didn't change. And he could only peer at this person, baffled. Because it wasn't Penelope Blossom. It wasn't the witch who had taken them, who had real motivation to take them again. After all, they had escaped the first time. So why not, huh? It made sense! Why was this person not Penelope Blossom?
Maybe he was in denial. Jughead leaned back, or at least tried to, letting out a hiss, when the figure reached forwards, gripping hold of his beanie nestled over his hair and yanking it off. He couldn't resist a whimper, and immediately hated himself for sounding so weak. The Shadow. That's what he'd call this person, because he couldn't coherently think of this person's name, despite it being on his lips. The Shadow chuckled.
"You won't be needing this."
Through flickering lashes, Jughead was only aware of the sudden explosion of flame lighting up the din, and the reek of burning wool seeping into his nose. He could only watch, his chest aching, as bright orange and red began to lick across the hat, eating it up, until there was nothing left but the smell of charred wool turned his stomach. The remains were dropped onto the ground, a sickly smile spreading over lips he'd known for a long time. Dark eyes he trusted. When a sharp cry sliced through the overbearing silence, Jughead straightened up, hissing out when every piece of him screamed in protest.
"Why are you doing this to us?"
The voice was Summer. When she spoke, part of him was okay again. He felt like if she continued, all of him would heal. The pain would stop its raging strike through his body.
But it didn't.
Instead, Betty let out a shriek. The sound of flesh hitting concrete flooring, and all he could do was twist his head, desperate to see her.
"Silly Betty." The Shadow murmured, their voice a teasing cackle. "You're not supposed to speak, unless you're being spoken to."
The girl was silent. Jughead listened out for hitched breathing, but there was nothing. After what felt like hours had passed by in a matter of minutes, Jughead held his breath. He could speak. He could do this. Sucking in a breath, he forced the words out, uncaring how much they hurt. "Don't hurt her," he managed to get out, the latter word coming out slurred. "Don't hurt them. Just tell us why you're doing this. Please."
At first, there was nothing.
Then, another yelp. This time male. The sound of wood hitting concrete, followed by the sickening thump of a body hitting the ground. Archie.
This time he did cry out. For both of them. "Betty?" Jughead panted, trying to blink back tears. "Archie?!" Again … nothing. Only their shallow breath flitting through broken lips. But it was something. Even if it was so little, it was a sign of life. That they were holding on like him, and weren't letting go. Even if he couldn't hear Veronica, he could smell her, sense her pain. A city girl who he at first thought nothing of, meant everything to him, and he silently cried out to her. Jughead's lungs swelled up, his chest felt like it was going to explode. They couldn't give up. Not when they had been through so much together. It was the four of them against the town, against the world.
Always.
"You really don't know when to shut up, do you, Jughead Jones?" Their voice scathed his skull, and Jughead struggled violently. But he couldn't speak. In fear of what consequences it would bring. He didn't need to speak, however. The Shadow made its way to him, and when he forced himself to look, despite the fear eating him up inside, there was only the person he had trusted with his life, clutching a dagger, stained crimson. All at once Jughead knew where the crimson had come from. Why his friends had cried out in pain, before hitting the ground. Letting out a sharp breath, he choked back a sob.
The red on the blade was so deep. There was so much of it. It took everything in him not to scream, to cry, to beg them to save the ones he loved.
But he stayed still and stubbornly silent, as they edged towards him with the blade, and there were so many questions. Why them? Why now? Why this? Why did he have to die?
He felt the zip ties being cut first, and with no strength, he flopped forward, crashing into the concrete floor. And the shadow didn't waste time. They knelt over him silently, and as he curled into himself, searching for Betty and Archie and Veronica in the darkness, Jughead came to the realization that he didn't want to die. He was 17 years old, it … it wasn't fair. He longed to reach out for the others, cradle them. But they were too far away, and he was too weak to move, to roll over, to defend himself.
He was all too aware suddenly, of something soft covering his eyes. Colored cloth. Before something sticky was pressed over his lips, muffling his cry of alarm when panic clenched his chest. "Be a good boy and keep quiet, alright?" He felt their hands going through his hair, playing with strands between their fingers. Letting out a muffled sob, he complied. "Accept your fate, Hellcaster."
The pain spiked, almost dazzling clarity, when the blade slid in, and he felt it, slicing through him. He choked out a sob, reaching out, further, further, for Betty. For Archie and Veronica.
Betty, where was she? Where were Archie and Veronica?
His eyesight blurred, but not because tears were welling up. Everything became fuzzy; then he saw nothing at all. His consciousness was floating through an empty space filled with a thick static. Throughout the inky space, Jughead's heartbeat pounded loudly, echoing in his ears, reverberating in his skull, alongside fading pleas for help, dying in his throat. Until all feeling drained away, like it was being washed down a plughole. Everything. His breath, his thoughts, every terrified cry curled on his tongue until -
Until the light.
Everyone knows that you don't reach for the light, because that meant truly giving up, and entering oblivion. But it was a different kind of light. It wasn't warm. It was - cold, startling white bathing his face. If pain was one direction, then this was another.
He held on, though, despite the fleeting feeling of pain grabbing at his ankles and yanking hard, attempting to bring him back into whatever cruel fate had befell on him. He didn't want to be in pain. He didn't want to count the seconds and minutes until it stopped. He kicked it away, and embraced the light, no matter how scared he was. Because it was Betty's golden hair in the summer breeze, her pale pink dress which danced around her. It was Archie's laughing smile, and caramel curls. And lastly, it was Veronica's glittering green eyes, scarlet lips curled into a smile as she clutched her caramel macchiato, ready to spill gossip as they sat in their booth in Pops.
Memories long suppressed came rushing back. All their firsts. That first smile Betty had given him in kindergarten, as she shyly handed over the last carton of milk, the first time Archie had made him laugh, after toppling over his chair in the first grade, while insisting it "wasn't that funny!" with a telltale smile on his own lips. and of course- that first smirk Veronica had shot him, the curl of curiosity on her lip when they caught each other's eye on the first day of Sophomore year. All the scents, their scents, Autumn, Summer and Winter came together, dancing in his nostrils as Jughead finally let himself be enveloped by not just the light and the memories, but the ones he loved.
That was … until he was yanked back like an elastic band, tumbling from the light, from both lights, which held two paths. He was pulled away from the sweet smells, the promise of golden gates and sweet nothings for eternity. All of it disappeared in a matter of seconds, catapulting Jughead down a whole different path.
But this time, the pain followed in his wake.
"What do you mean you're throwing up, mi amour?" Stepping out of her red Corvette, Cheryl Blossom found her lips forming a pout. Riverdale High loomed in front of her, and she sent her usual glare to onlookers. It was a pretty Fall morning, and leaves covered the pathway while the sun peeked through tumultuous clouds. Every click of her heel signaled to her fellow student that she, Cheryl Marjorie Blossom, wasn't in the mood. She shooed a group of Freshman out of the way, her fingers tightening around her phone. "No, I understand," Cheryl continued, chiding herself for insinuating that her girlfriend got herself sick on purpose. "Rest. I will bring soup to your sunny abode after school."
"No soup, babe. I can't even keep a glass of water down." Toni groaned down the phone, and Cheryl's own gut turned at the thought of her girlfriend alone at home, puking her guts up. "Are you sure?" her tone grew concerned as she stepped through the entrance, perfectly made up eyes already scanning the halls for the usual suspects. But something was- different. The Bulldogs and Vixens were nowhere to be seen.
"Huh." Cheryl turned her nose up at the absence of her fellow classmates. "I think whatever you've got has spread, dear Tee Tee. Did you eat something?"
"It's just a bug, Cheryl." Toni was chuckling now, and just the sound sent butterflies exploding in her chest. "I'm not dying..." Toni's words collapsed into static in her ears when Cheryl noticed a familiar head of brown curls stalking the hallway, looking incredibly lost. Kevin Keller. He was dressed normally, nothing was different about him, so why did her chest clench at the sight? Lifting her phone from her ear, Cheryl cleared her throat loudly. It was only her and the boy, and when he noticed her, the boy nearly jumped a mile. Cheryl couldn't resist a smirk. "Kevin." she nodded at him. "You look like you've been given a day to live. Care to share why you look like a disheveled werewolf?"
The boy blinked at her, before straightening up. He looked like he'd barely slept, dark circles prominent on pale cheeks, his backpack which was hanging over his shoulder spilling books. The boy tried to smile, but Cheryl knew a forced grin when she saw one. Kevin Keller looked like death, and she shouldn't care. But there was a brewing feeling in her gut that wouldn't go away. Slowly, she lifted her phone to her ear, said goodbye to Toni, and pushed it into the pocket of her jacket before folding her arms.
"Spill." she said, cocking her head slightly. Normally, she didn't care for the boy. But he was seriously putting a downer on her mood. "Bad Grindr match?"
Kevin looked confused. "What? No! I-" he trailed off, before letting out a shaky sigh, tapping his foot impatiently. "Have you seen Betty?"
Cheryl curled her lip. "Dear cousin Betty? Not since yesterday, when she nearly made me gag at lunch, making out with her Xenomorph boyfriend."
"Boyfriends." Kevin corrected. Cheryl rolled her eyes.
"Potato, potahto. What's the problem? Are you lost without dear Betty Cooper?" she leered, unable to resist a smirk. Kevin shook his head, automatically looking defensive. He took a step back."No, I'm just worried about her, okay? She isn't answering her texts or calls, and she's totally MIA on Instagram, Twitter, even the group chat." he furrowed his eyebrows. "Now that I think about it, nobody's active on the group chat."
Cheryl shrugged. "Her phone probably died," she said. "Kevin, no offence-"
He cut her off. "Meaning full offense."
"Whatever." she waved her arm, dismissing him. "I'm just saying, maybe it's time to stop living your life vicariously through the The Sad Breakfast Club. I mean I get it, you wanna get in with them, right? Who wouldn't?" she leaned closer, enjoying the expression that blossomed on his face, how his cheeks darkened, denial flashing in torpid green eyes. "Maybe tone it down a little, hm? You're starting to act obsessed."
Kevin shrugged, a sad smile dressing his lips. "They're a lot more interesting." he said, frowning at the floor. "Why would I care about my life, when I can step into theirs?"
Before she could think of a good comeback, the boy was hunching over himself and wandering away. Cheryl watched him go. "You've got issues, Keller!" she shouted, but he didn't turn back. Even when the boy was gone, Cheryl couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from where the boy had stood. Her stomach was churning again, a wave of nausea sending bile climbing her throat. God, maybe she was sick too. Pressing her hand to her forehead, she wasn't warm. But the sick feeling followed her into her first class.
English Lit. It was a reading period, so Cheryl sat down at her usual desk, pulled out her books, and busied herself in the likes of Dickens, trying to ignore the ever growing sick feeling sending her heart into a frenzy. She hadn't thrown up in a while, not since she was a little kid. Blossom's didn't get sick, her mother had insisted, when she was small. Swallowing hard, Cheryl forced herself to concentrate, but the words blurred together. It wasn't particularly hot in the classroom, but the air felt stuffy around her. Her conversation with Kevin stayed on her mind, relaying, like a broken record, and Cheryl wasn't sure why. She didn't care about him. The weirdo could walk into a bout of traffic and she'd laugh. So why were his words sending her heart into her throat? Why did she feel like she was going to vomit, every time his expression popped into her head?
It was maybe half an hour into the lesson, when the door flew open, a blur of scruffy black curls and frenzied eyes rushing through. Despite everything, Cheryl scoffed. Of course he was late. Jughead Jones stood at the front of the class for way longer than necessary, and it was then that she noticed there was something off. The most noticeable was the boy wasn't wearing his beanie. Instead, his mop of unbrushed curls fell over his eyes. The boy looked like he'd gotten dressed in the dark usually, but this time she wondered if he'd just crawled out a dumpster. His shirt and jeans were discolored, and...was he barefoot? When he lifted his hand to run it through his curls, there were red marks blemishing his skin. Cheryl's lip curved in disgust. Did he have some kind of allergic reaction? Straightening in her chair, she couldn't resist a laugh.
"Did you swap lives with a homeless person?" Cheryl shot him a smirk, and the boy's eyes widened, almost comically. She might have laughed, if he didn't look so damn scared. Miss Simmons cleared her throat. "Miss Blossom, read in your head please."
The teacher's words struck her as odd, but Cheryl shook her head and rolled her eyes, her interest piqued. Jughead Jones stood, almost petrified, turbulent eyes on her, and only her. She tried to look away, but Jughead was still staring at her, his mouth opening and closing, but no sound coming out. Finally, she let out a sigh.
"Miss Simmons, Jughead Jones is distracting me."
The teacher lifted her head, as well as her classmates. "Would that be via text? If he's sick, he should call Student Services, so his absence can be authorized."
"What?"
Was everyone in this classroom blind? Cheryl choked out a laugh, but before she could speak, the boy himself was careening towards her, stumbling like an out of control train, before plonking himself on her desk. Again, she would have laughed, but the combination of pain, confusion and fear igniting in his blue eyes shattered the tease in her throat. Jughead leaned forward, and in response, she reeled back, unable to speak. Because what exactly was she supposed to say? There were Kevin's words again, echoing in her mind. Jughead was trembling, she realized, his head snapping back and forth as he scanned the classroom, while his hands practically tore his hair out.
"You can see me." He breathed, and the bottom fell out of her, the breath being dragged from her lungs. But she refused to show it, even when Cheryl felt like her heart was about to explode. Jughead edged closer, his breath tickling her cheeks. "Cheryl, tell me you can see me."
She narrowed her eyes at him. This was a game, surely. This was all an elaborate prank. "Of course I can see you, Hobo," she said through gritted teeth. "Now shoo, before I forcibly remove you."
The boy didn't even flinch at her insult. Instead, he let out a soft whine, raking his fingernails down his face.
"Cheryl." Jughead's voice was a soft whimper, his blue eyes sparkling with tears. He was crying, and fuck, she didn't know what to do, because this wasn't Jughead Jones. She wasn't even sure he could cry. "Cheryl, I think- oh god, I think I'm dead."
Okay, this was ridiculous. She stood up, and Jughead stumbled back. "You will be dead if you don't get off my desk!"
"Miss Blossom!" Cheryl jumped when the teacher stood up, glaring daggers. "Would you like to share your riveting conversation with the class?"
"Gladly!" she spat. "Tell Jughead to sit on his own damn desk, and I'd be happy to fill you in."
Miss Simmons peered at her, and at the front of the class, Reggie let out a honk of a laugh, twisting in his seat. "Whatever drugs you're on, I want some."
"Reggie, that's enough." Miss Simmons cocked her head. "Cheryl, Mr Jones didn't turn up for class this morning. As you can see from his empty desk, he is absent. Are you feeling okay. Would you like go and see the nurse? You're looking awfully pale."
The teacher's words hit like a wave of icy water. Something inside her snapped, and she was looking at Jughead again; his wide eyes, shabby and discolored clothes, the marks on his arm, his missing beanie...
The boy bowed his head, before dropping to his knees. But nobody laughed or murmured in confusion. Because she was the only one who could see him. Cheryl managed to nod that she was fine, and everything was totally great- she wasn't hallucinating a possibly dead classmate. Jughead only lifted his head, shooting her a helpless look. "I know you're scared," he breathed. "Believe me, I am too. I can't remember anything, and I- oh god, I'm dead, aren't I?" The boy's words sliced into her, like a blade cutting into her back. Cheryl felt herself moving, her manicured hand pressing over her lips to stifle the vomit searing her throat. She was out of the classroom before the teacher could yell after her, and Jughead followed her, staggering, falling over himself.
"Wait! Cheryl, please!" the boy's cries rammed into her, each one louder, more hysterical. But she didn't stop until she was on her knees in a stall, puking up the breakfast bar she'd eaten earlier, trying to block him out. But his cries were alive inside of her, physical prods pushing her to the brink. Clutching the toilet bowl, she blinked rapidly.
Dreaming. She was dreaming. But as much as she tried to reassure herself, Cheryl knew it was real.
Dead. Cheryl pressed her fists into her eyes, willing the boy's ghoulish wails to fade. But they only got louder. She took a deep breath, leaning back and staring at the graffiti on the wall, scrawled in red marker. Kevin's words were suddenly so loud in her head, in almost perfect harmony with the dead boy's cries.
"Have you seen Betty? I haven't seen her since yesterday. Actually, none of them been online."
Oh, sweet mother of God.
Dead. Jughead Jones was dead, and somehow- some-fucking-how, she was the only one who could see him.
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