Chapter 2
When Archie talks to him at the rally, Jughead finally starts to realize just how well they know each other.
When Jughead says it's cool and Archie pauses, just looking at him, eyebrows raised, mouth tightened back into his face, he knows that he's asking his silent permission for a hug. Jughead hates that his voice cracks when he tells Archie they won't hug in front of the entire town. He'd never had his gut ache from loss and his heart pound from excitement, not all at the same time. Archie knows that he’s feeling stuff in his gut that he’d rather not. He arches his eyebrow, cocks his head to the side and knows that Archie knows he means to say, ‘I told you so, Arch. Of course, she won’t talk to Weatherbee with you, she’s manipulating you, fucking cougar.’ Archie knows, Jughead knows. It's all testament to how long they've known each other - to the distance they've created, to the apologies they have yet to say, the things they have yet to explain. It's a myriad of difficult conversations hiding behind every smile. Before Archie runs back to the field, he gives Jughead a quick, wide, lightning strike of a grin and he can’t help the smile that picks up in return. He can’t stop it even if he really wanted to.
“Hey Jughead.”
He knows that voice, but he refuses to look up. He refuses to let himself smile, doesn’t allow it to sprawl over his face like a contended kitten.
“Can –” Archie’s voice cracks and Jughead looks up sharply, hands stilling across the keyboard.
Archibald Andrews Archibald Andrews Archibald Andrews Archibald Andr
Archie looks… small. For the first time since before the summer, he stands with his shoulders slightly hunched in on himself, one hand reaching up to grip at the strap of his backpack, the other tucking into the skin at the back of his neck, shy and insecure. Jughead blinks once. Twice. He feels a surge of protectiveness. For a fleeting moment, he wants to wrap the other boy in a blanket and take him to the coast, like they’d planned to do for the Fourth of July weekend. He wants to take his football gear and letterman jacket and all the expectations they come with and leave them in Riverdale, he wants to leave the guitar and the stress it brings, the memories of Ms. Grundy it undoubtedly carries. It’s enough to make Jughead clear his throat, tapping his fingers against the keyboard, embarrassed and slightly ruddy. He hopes the lights of Pop’s obscure his face from the other boy.
“C – could I sit here?” Archie is standing on the far side of the booth, the same as Betty the day before.
Jughead wonders if Betty put Archie up to this. His actions are mirroring hers so well – though for once she had been the more confident party – and they both are using similar words. Maybe, Jughead muses, they just know each other that well, are just that succinct and synchronized. His mind wanders briefly over his own habits. Are there any that Archie has stolen from him? Has he stolen any from Archie?
He doesn’t know what to do with this shy, on edge redheaded boy. Even when they’d been friends and they had trusted each other with everything, their conversations had seldom drifted into the deep or difficult. They had been mutual distractions for one another, a means of escape, an anchor into new worlds.
“It’s got your name on it. Metaphorically, of course.” The half-hearted joke makes Archie smile, and Jughead ducks his head, nose wrinkling in fondness.
As Archie sits, they’re completely silent. Jughead tugs at the sleeves of his jacket once or twice, pulls at his collar, stretches it away from his collarbones, frowns as Archie’s eyes get stuck there, tracing along the skin. Jughead snorts. “Dude, my eyes are up here.”
Archie’s eyes are moving up to meet his in a moment, big and wide, his cheeks flushed. He looks down and to the left. When he doesn’t say anything more, Jughead can feel the skin of his hands and face pull against the wrongness of quiet unsure scared nervous wrong wrong wrong Archie.
Pop brings them two plates piled high with extra fries and huge burgers. Jughead knows that one of the burgers has no pickles, no onions, but extra cheese, while the other with everything except tomatoes because Archie has always hated them. He forgets that Pop has their order memorized. Weeks upon weeks upon years of summers spent together here skip across his mind like stones and Jughead ignores the feeling that wells up in him, stubborn and insecure. Pop doesn’t really serve anyone anymore, unless it’s one of his favourites. (He usually brings Jughead his burgers, sits down across from the boy and forces him to talk, asking about his writing and politics and what’s happening in the world, but never school, or his father, or his sister. Recently, Archie hasn’t been a sanctuary topic of conversation either). Jughead hesitates for a moment, giving Pop a faint smile as he sets the plates down, before looking at Archie. He trusts Pop. He doesn’t mind if he hears the person he’s allowing himself to be for a few moments.
“Arch, what’s going on?”
Jughead’s voice is unbearably soft, still firm around the edges, but he sounds so much like Jellybean that he stops to remind himself to breathe for a moment. Pop’s face is careful, slightly guarded. The old man’s eyes look shinier than usual and he takes a steadying breath as he moves back towards the counter, one hand on Jughead’s shoulder, squeezing as he goes.
Archie looks up. He’s looking up at Jughead for the first time since they were little and the gap of what is now a half an inch was six. They had both been such gangly boys, but Archie had been small enough for him to jump up onto Jughead’s shoulders, giggling when they stumbled. His eyes are wide, but kind of distant, kind of frantic. His hands are shaking as he reaches them across the table, catching around the plates. Even from his side of the booth, Jughead can hear Archie’s breaths coming in and out harsher than before, a little more laboured, a little rough. The skin of his face, usually pink, and dotted with freckles has gone red, sweat gathered in the corners of his forehead, clinging to his skin and his hair. He brings a hand up to his chest to press against his breastbone, wincing. Jughead’s eyes are flitting across Archie, watching as the symptoms present themselves one by one, cautious, and quick. He reaches out and grabs both of his hands in a tight, nearly bruising, grip.
“Archie,” he says, voice a little harder than before, tilting up at the end in the form of a question. He’s never watched Archie have a panic attack before, has only (and occasionally) spoken to the boy through bathroom doors, listening to the ragged breathing and quiet sobs. Archie’s eyes dart up to meet his, before clenching tight, the muscles in his jaw tensing, the hands in Jughead’s seizing.
“J-J-Jug-g-ie,” he says, shuttering as he inhales. “Fuck,” he gasps, exhaling, glancing at Pop, who’s moving over to their table quickly, looking concerned. Jughead glances around as he stands awkwardly, still holding Archie’s hands, checking the restaurant for other patrons. It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday night, and the diner is appropriately empty.
“Son, is there –”
“I got it, Pop,” he interrupts, slightly sharper than he means to be, fighting a rise of bile forming in the back of his throat. He’s angry, can feel it biting at the edges of his words and his teeth, wanting out. He’ll wants to fight whatever has Archie panicking. He takes a breath and flashes Pop a tiny smile, just managing to cock up the corners of his mouth in reassurance. Judging by the older man’s face, he doesn’t succeed. “I’ve got him, Pop.” His voice is gentler this time and the man blinks in surprise. “He’ll be fine, I promise, I can get him through it. Will you bring some water?” He can’t bring himself to make any sarcastic comments or witty jokes. Everything he says burns up on his tongue like chili powder, and all he can think about is Archie and more Archie. He sits down in the booth next to Archie, pressing into the boy’s side slightly. Half-expecting him to back himself into the corner of the booth he slips an arm around Archie’s waist, keeping him close. Jughead swallows against a something that builds up in his throat when the other boy melts into him, chest still heaving, fingers clenching spastically in his shirt.
“Arch, listen to me, can you hear me?” He can feel him nod from where his face is tucked into his neck. He grabs one of Archie’s hands and presses it against his own chest, overexaggerating his breathing, drawing out the inhales and deepening the exhales. “Archie, look at me. Can you smell the constant greasiness, hey, buddy?” He makes a funny little noise in the back of throat and Jughead winces when he thinks that may have been a laugh. “Can you see the big red signs in the windows?” He watches Archie’s eyes flicker to the windows and his breath momentarily calm. He keeps going. He talks about the colours in the booths and the fabric of Archie’s letterman jacket. He has him dip his fingers into the water, feeling the cold water under the beds of his fingernails. He moves Archie out of the booth slowly, until he’s sitting on the floor, his back to the seat, legs straight out in front of him. Gripping at his feet, Jughead says his name softly and slowly until he curls his toes in and out, flexing his feet, grounding down into the tiled floors.
It takes twenty, thirty, forty minutes and Jughead hurts by the time it’s over. Watching his best friend go through a panic attack, watching someone he cares about so deeply and trusts so strongly lose themselves has him shaken to the core. “Drink some water,” he orders shortly after Archie breaths normally for a few moments, hands still clenched in the fabric of his jeans. He nods tightly. Jughead reaches a hand towards him and flinches back when Archie pulls in towards himself, away from him. He carefully moves a few inches away from where he’d been sitting, pressed up against Archie’s side, one hand on the back of his neck, playing with his bright bright hair. He makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat and grips at his jeans.
“I’m sorry, Jug,” Archie’s voice cracks across the words as he says them, hoarse from crying. He looks up at Jughead and his eyes are red.
“I’m assuming you didn’t arrange a panic attack for four oclock in the morning at Pop’s, dude,” Jughead says half-heartedly. “It’s not your fault.”
“I should be –”
“You should be what, Arch? Stronger? Better? Mental health’s a bitch, pal, and being the star quarterback doesn’t stop it from being like that.” Archie doesn’t say anything, bringing the water up to his mouth and taking careful, mechanical sips. Jughead sighs.
“If I had a panic attack would you think I was weak?”
“What?” Archie says, snapping his head quickly to look over at Jughead. “No, of course not. Jug, has –”
“Christ, Archie, it was an example, I’m fine.” Relief washes over Archie’s expression and Jughead lets a smile tuck into the corner of his mouth.
“See? Obviously, I don’t think you’re weak. Your ability to punish yourself for things that aren’t your fault is a rare and wondrous talent you have there, my friend.”
Archie takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Grundy – I – she – I don’t know what to do, I’m scared, Jug.”
“It’s her fault, Arch, you know that.”
“I don’t want to hurt her, okay, she doesn’t deserve…”
Jughead forces himself to take a long, slow inhale before he rips into Archie for blaming himself for being raped by an older woman in a position of power over him who’s been manipulating him for months. God, he’s gonna fight Grundy so hard.
“I know that it was statutory rape,” Archie says, stuttering over the words. Jughead watches Pop tense up from his spot behind the bar, his back to them. “But I consented.”
“Lawfully –”
“Fuck the law, Jughead, it was still wrong. I was still wrong. And now I don’t know what to do, because she’s teaching me music and I – I love it, Jug, I can’t give that up.”
“I don’t care,” Jughead snaps, turning towards Archie, making fierce eye contact with him. Archie balks for a moment, caught off guard. “She broke the law, she raped a sixteen-year-old boy.” Jughead’s voice breaks, and Archie just stares at him, mouth lax, brows furrowed. “She hurt my best friend, Archie. I won’t let her do it again.”
For a few seconds, nothing happens. Pop, behind the bar, is turned to face them, eyes bright with tears. Jughead is staring at Archie, wide-eyed, frantic, and angry. Then Archie dives towards Jughead, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him in, into his lap, wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders. It’s by far the worst hug Jughead has ever had the pleasure of being apart of and he loves it. He clings to Archie’s shoulders, muttering into his hair as he cries into the soft material of his black hoodie. His hands span the entire width of Jughead’s back, from left ribs to right. Archie smells like the honey shampoo he’s used for years, like sweat and salt and sugar. He smells a little like Pop’s burgers. Jughead smiles, big and unstoppable and wide and laughs into Archie’s hair when he sees Pop staring in surprise.
Even if Archie is crying, even he’s suffering from panic attacks caused by cougar music teachers, he’s with Jughead. Even if Archie’s hands across his ribs hurt the bruises there from weeks before, they’re safe, here, on the floor of Pop’s dinner in the middle of the nights with Fred undoubtedly worried, if he has Archie so close to him, he can’t get hurt. Right now, that’s all he needs.
In the morning, this will sound ridiculous. It will sound completely and utterly mushy and gross and holy fuck Jughead get your shit together.
In the morning, Fred will be worried and they will have conversations they need to have. Archie will cry as he explains to his father what happens. He will lean into Jughead when he explains why they stopped talking over the summer. Archie will shake when he tells his father he was at Sweet Water River and heard a gunshot and if it wasn’t Jason Blossom dying, who was it? In the morning, Archie will notice the fact that Jughead winces he hugs him and refuses to change in front of him. They will have an argument about Jughead’s father. He will finally tell Archie where his sister, and mother, have gone.
But for now, in the light of Pop’s, they have their evening of youth, however mangled and bloody. The reckoning can wait.