Chapter 3
They only got a couple of hours of sleep, blanketed over one another in Archie’s double bed, done as the dead.
Fred walks in at five, ready to ask questions, to shout, to demand, but Jughead’s arm is thrown over Archie’s chest, his leg pinning his waist down, his head buried in his neck. That gives him pause. The light from the rising sun is enough to let him notice that Jughead’s shirt has ridden up. The skin is not unbroken, the way it should be. It is not smooth, and pale, and boy-like. It is covered in bruises, mottled like the fading feathers of a dying phoenix. Reds and purples, blacks and yellow. The red is the center of the diagonal lacerations, the purple is the edges. The blacks and yellows are the bruises that line his ribs, round in most places, the size of a man’s fist, smaller and pointier in some places, the shape of a man’s boot.
He leaves them to sleep, rocks settled into his gut. He doesn’t sleep, piecing together bits of a puzzle he’s missed for years. The sneaking around, the private, worshipfulness of the treehouse. The constant sleepovers. The departure of Jughead’s mother, a quiet divorce. Jellybean’s sudden desire to be somewhere else, her three-year-in-advance solace of university.
Fred cries, thinking of the boy he has failed to treat as a second son.
On their morning of reckoning, Archie brings his hand up to the back of Jughead’s neck, playing with the hair that sticks out from beneath his beanie. His breath stops before it falls from his mouth. He’s gone a few moments later, reaching around him to grab mugs, body brushing up against his back. Jughead’s fingers shake slightly as he takes one. Archie smiles like the sun rising.
When Fred walks in, Jughead can feel the line of Archie’s body tensing beyond his now-natural strength. Slowly, he leans into him, offering the same comfort his friend has been offering him. He lets Archie press the entire line of his body against him, their shoulders brushing, Jughead only an inch taller than Archie, feeling like an adult, like someone huge and imposing. For a few moments, there is only sarrachine sweetness, the air heavy like molasses, cloying like too-much honey in tea. Jughead feels as though he has been doused in the remnants of a long undiscovered tomb, buried under the cobwebs and age-old treasures.
"Son," Fred says, and that's all it takes. Archie is collapsing under the strain of keeping secrets for months, under the building pressure of wanting to protect and allowing himself to be protected by others. He lets out one tiny sound, like a sob caught in the trap of his throat before it can begin, before Jughead is on him, wrapping arms around his waist, and pulling his head into neck, murmuring into his skin. It makes him uncomfortable. Being so close to Archie, allowing himself to be so vulnerable, so open, so protective of someone he loves so deeply (in front of witnesses, no less) makes his stomach churn. It makes him feel safe, being close to the boy he's loved since they were just kids (even in front of witnesses).
"Arch, we're moving over to the couch, okay, your dad will bring your disgusting vehicle-for-cream-and-sugar coffee with him," Jughead says, startling a laugh from Fred, yanking a tiny noise from Archie.
Jughead heart aches in his chest.
Settling themselves onto the couch proves to be a more difficult task than Jughead had previously thought, mostly because Archie has become the largest, most affectionate octopus/puppy cross species in the entire world. The inherent vulnerability that the situation brings pulls his love of touch, his tactile instincts out. Jughead sits behind Archie, his long legs drawn up on either side of the redheaded boy's hips, fingers carding through soft, sleep-sweat hair. Archie collapses into him. He tucks his knees into his chest, one arm hooking over Jughead's leg, and the other slipping across his own chest, a physical barrier between the world and his heart.
The classic demonstration of defensiveness makes Fred want to cry.
Jughead can feel the entire line of Archie against his front. He can feel the pattern of his breaths, the measured inhales and exhales, the bits that catch on the undertow, choking around sobs and sea water. It feels more intimate than helping him through a panic attack, than sleeping next to him in a bed that stinks of boy-sweat, and hormones, and honey shampoo.
"Arch," Fred says, sitting in an arm chair across from the couch. His face is calm, composed. Jughead sends him silent thanks. Seeing his father break down in fear, or discomfort is the last thing that Archie needs. "Take your time, son. Jug and I can wait a long time for you." Somehow, the words avoid condescension, avoid impatience, and settle completely on reassurance.
Archie relaxes further against Jughead.
He squeezes his knee.
Jughead noses the back of his head, ignoring the tension that spreads over Fred at the gesture, ignores his own skipping heart and doubting mind. Archie nods.
"Archie and I never did our roadtrip on the Fourth of July weekend, Mr. Andrews, which I assume you already know," Jughead says, listening to Archie's heartbeat through the muscle and sinew and bone of his back. "He told me he couldn't, because he was working with you." Fred raises an eyebrow. "I, being the sleuth that I am, called bullshit."
"Language, Jughead."
Archie snorts.
Jughead rolls his eyes. "Archie didn't come because of a girl. At the time, I assumed that was the end of it. A few weeks ago, though, I was walking by the school music room, and realized that I couldn't have been farther from the truth."
In the privacy of his head, all wrapped up in worry and Jughead, Archie wonders at the tone of voice that his friend has fallen into. It sounds like the narration of a book. He wonders if this is the voice Author Jughead uses on his novel.
Fred's eyes are beginning to take on a look of understanding mixed with horror, and Jughead winces internally.
Archie tenses against him, pulling his knees closer into himself, curling away from Jughead. The dark-haired boy frowns, pushing away the lash of hurt that strikes through him like a whip. The broken, sardonic part of his mind murmurs oh Juggie, always indulging the clichés. That's not what a belt or a whip feels like, is it?
"It started in the summer," Archie says, voice shaky. "After I was coming home from work one day. She was driving by and it was like 102 degrees and she offered me a lift." He exhales slowly. "She wanted more than a lift. And I let her because I didn't know what else to do or say and because my body was reacting and I was too distracted to say no. And we were… at Sweet Water River, on July Fourth, when I heard the gunshot. When we heard the gunshot."
"This is girl that you and Jughead were fighting about," Fred says slowly, "The one where you knew you had to do the right thing, even if it meant losing her." His gaze goes sharp, and misty at the same time. "She told you not to go to Sheriff Keller, didn't she?"
Archie nods, looking exhausted. "She said we'd go to jail, that I'd get expelled, that -" His voice cracks and Jughead's grip tightens in his hair, fingers pushing into muscles, smoothing over the soft cotton of his white tee shirt. "That she'd lose her job."
Fred inhales sharply. "Ms. Grundy," he says gently, ducking his head to try and make eye contact with his son. "It was Ms. Grundy, wasn't it?"
Jughead nods when Archie says nothing, looking lost. Fred seems to steel himself for a moment, drawing himself into a concentrate of father and informer. "You know that what she did was -"
"Statutory rape." Archie voice is carefully blank. Jughead is still reserving judgement for Mr. Andrews, knows that there are still ways for the man to revert to older ways, to pat his son on the back and say 'well, you'll live' before moving on. If that happens, Jughead isn't sure what he'll do. Protecting Archie at all costs is high up on his priority list, and Fred could deserve a broken nose for that. Fred gives a tiny sob, like Archie had earlier. Jughead grimaces.
Neither Andrews says anything and Jughead sighs. "The two of you need to go and see Sheriff Keller, Mr. Andrews." When Fred looks up, startled, opening his mouth to protest, Jughead cuts him off with a glare. "There isn't time to wait. The longer you wait, the more your son is hurt by an abusive, manipulative bitch."
"Yes," Fred says after long pause, his eyes holding his son's. "We'll go and talk to the Sheriff. Today, Jughead don't look at me like that."
"Can--" Archie cuts himself off, swallowing, shifting away from Jughead slightly. "Jug, do you --" He swallows. "Will you come with us?"
His voice is tiny, scared, and Jughead feels a flash of anger flood him, emptying into his fingers and his toes, making them feel stretched and electric. A woman is the reason Archie is hurting, the reason that his friend is too scared to speak to his father about something this important. "It's not like I've got any other plans," Jughead says, pulling Archie back into his chest slowly, letting his fingers twist through his ginger hair, brush over the line of his jaw gently.
"Before that," Fred says, his gaze fixed on Jughead, caught between curiosity, guilt, despair, and thoughtfulness, "Where were the two of you last night?"
"I had a panic attack," Archie says, a little more colour in his voice, "I knew Jug would be at Pop's so I went there, but I had a panic attack. About… Ms. Grundy."
"And Jughead…?"
"He got me through it, dad, he helped me remember how to breathe."
Jughead, for a split second, forgets how to breathe. How ironic, his brain supplies.
Fred nods. His eyes practically scream thank you at Jughead, who nods in detached acknowledgement.
"One more thing, Jughead," Fred says. His voice has gone soft again, gooey like Archie's does when he needs to talk about something that meet sting, "Are you gonna tell me what's going on with your dad? With the bruises on your back?"
Jughead freezes, pulling away from Archie in a moment, pushing himself back over the couch, standing in blue plaid pajama bottoms that pool around his feet and an oversized shirt of Archie's that shows off his collarbone, about to give in to flight.
"Juggie?" Archie asks, moving to stand in front of him, resisted the urge to go closer. His eyes snap to meet Archie, guarded and frowning. "Don't do this," he says, stepping forward. "Don't run, Jug, please, let us help."
"There isn't anything to do," Jughead snaps, all while leaning his body towards Archie's, "There isn't enough evidence, there aren't enough complaints from neighbours about noise, there aren't enough scars on my body, or concerned classmates, or teachers, or friends." His cheeks are red, his fists are pressed against Archie's chest in a fake premise of security. "Not enough people care, Mr. Andrews. There aren't enough of you to lock him away."
Archie looks like he's on the verge of tears, but his voice stays strong and steady, "How long?" Jughead doesn't say anything.
"Juggie."
"After mom left, after Jellybean left."
Archie's loses all of its colour in an instant. Fred, watching them both, closes his eyes against the sight for a moment.
"Jellybean left on the 20th of June." Archie's voice monotone. Jughead just looks at him, devoid.
"Yes."
"No," Archie says, voice cracking, going up to grip Jughead's shoulders, pulling him in, latching around his like finely woven lace. He presses his mouth to his temple, to his jaw, to the top of his head and his forehead, and Fred watches Jughead break. His hands come around to grasp at Archie's back and his breath heaves out in a sob.
The whole world is silent against the grief of these boys. Other than their sobs, there is little to hear. Fred fights off his own.
Archie breaks through the silence, shattering it, balling up their innocence and tossing it away, punching their childhoods in the gut.
"I'm so sorry, Princess." Jughead doesn't say anything, just grips Archie tighter. He whispers something against Archie's neck, bit-off in the middle of heaving breaths.
"'m not your princess, Arch."
Archie smiles, his teeth like razor blades, the roof of his mouth tasting like leather, his tongue feeling as though it's slipping against someone else's. Someone with lilac perfume. He presses closer to Jughead, eradicating the space between them, breathing in greasy hair that always smells like Pop Tate's burgers, and lemon soap.
"Yes, you are."