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“Who did this?”
Jughead blinks in response to Archie’s question—so slow, it’s less a blink and more a brief closing of his eyes. Archie is staring at him with his eyebrows furrowed and brown eyes wide. He isn’t quick to anger, which is one reason Jughead has always liked him. Archie cares about his friends deeply, but it takes a lot to make him angry on their behalf. More than just a bruise on Jughead’s face.
It’s reassuring.
“Juggie?”
Jughead snaps out of his daze and says, “Nothing,” before realizing that Archie isn’t going to leave it alone with that lame response. Especially since Jughead answered the wrong question.
Shit.
He sees the moment Archie registers his response in the subtle tightening of Archie’s jaw. Jughead shifts back, ever so slightly, though he doesn’t have far to go, sitting on Archie’s bed with his friend kneeling in front of him. Archie stands and Jughead holds his breath, but his friend just moves to lean against the wall, increasing the distance between them. Jughead exhales silently, hating the fear that closes his throat and sends his heart racing.
Archie crosses his arms, lets them fall to his side, settles on shoving his hands in his pockets. He’s looking at the floor when he asks, “Was it the jocks at school?”
Jughead scoffs. “As if I’d let them get a swing in,” he says. Then thinks: You’re an idiot. He should’ve let Archie believe it was the jocks.
“Who, then?” Archie is looking at him now, seemingly unable to settle on a feeling if his constantly changing expression is anything to go by.
Jughead sees concern, confusion, mild irritation. Nothing dangerous. Not yet. What he doesn’t see: understanding, realization. It speaks well of Archie’s life that even now, with the evidence painted across Jughead’s cheek and with what Archie does know, he still doesn’t put two and two together and come up with four. Jughead wishes he was that oblivious, that naive. But he knows better. He’s always known better. “It’s not important,” he finally says.
Archie doesn’t even blink. “The hell it isn’t. What happened?”
Jughead shrugs—a mistake, because he winces and Archie notices. Jughead opens his mouth to say something to distract Archie from investigating, but his friend is already across the room before Jughead can find the words. He thinks he should try to hold his shirt down, but his arms don’t move, and Archie kneels down again and reveals the mottled bruises staining Jughead’s abdomen.
Archie lets Jughead’s shirt fall. His eyes flash upward. They’re narrowed. Dark. “What. Happened,” he says, a tightness in his voice that wasn’t there before.
Jughead decides honesty is the path of least resistance here, so he says, “I got kicked around a bit. I’m fine.” He keeps his eyes averted, though, away from the anger now creeping onto Archie’s face in the form of a clenched jaw and pursed lips.
“By who?”
Jughead pretends confusion to buy time. He didn’t think this through. Didn’t think what might happen if he went to Archie with his guard down.
Now he regrets it.
Archie stands again, but he doesn’t move away this time. “Don’t play dumb with me, Jughead. Who did this?”
Jughead twists his fingers together. Thinks of what might happen if he tells Archie. Thinks of trying to lie. Thinks of telling the truth. He settles on neutral territory. “You know my dad drinks. He’s not- Sometimes, he gets- It’s just. How it is.”
Archie inhales like someone punched him (Jughead is intimately familiar with that sound). “Are you trying to say that- that your dad—” He breaks off, turning his back to Jughead and taking a few steps away.
Jughead doesn’t answer. Archie didn’t finish the question, so technically, Jughead doesn’t have to answer. This is the rule he’s decided to live by.
Archie whips back around, and it’s the speed of his movement that makes Jughead jerk back and snap his eyes up to Archie’s face—and his expression that flickers between confusion, disbelief, and his rare anger. “Your dad hit you?”
Jughead stands up, too antsy to remain sitting. He looks out the window at the quiet street. “It’s not that bad,” he starts.
But Archie doesn’t let him finish. “Not that ba—” He cuts himself off, and now he sounds purely frustrated. “He’s your dad, Jughead. He’s your dad and he’s abusing you, and that’s not okay!”
“And if he wasn’t my dad?” Jughead snaps, suddenly angry and grasping onto it because anger pushes the fear away. “If it was someone else abusing me because my dad was too drunk to notice, that’d be okay? Because they were just another gang member and not my dad?”
Archie looks stricken, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. And that’s when Jughead realizes what he just said.
And what Archie is taking from it.
“Wait, that’s—” Jughead tries, but Archie is shaking his head as though he can erase what he just heard.
“There was someone else?” Archie asks, his voice raw and face pale. “What did they do, Juggie?”
But Jughead doesn’t answer because everything in him is screaming for him to leave. He brushes past Archie without a word, half-falling his way down the stairs. He hears Archie call his name— skip. He’s running down the sidewalk— skip. He’s on his knees in the grass and he can’t breathe, can’t focus, can’t think about that please God no.
But the memory comes unbidden—of tobacco-scented breath in his ears and nose, rough hands searching and crawling over his skin, the suffocating heat of the body against his.
He vomits into the grass and sucks in a ragged breath that breaks into a violent coughing fit. There are tears in his eyes, blurring his vision, and he blinks rapidly to clear them so he can look around. Everything is spinning around him, and his head feels lighter than air, but he has to focus on something else—anything else—to keep himself out of that memory.
All he sees is a park—and Archie.
Jughead gives in to the dizziness and falls onto the grass. He closes his eyes and submits to the memory the same way he submitted to the reality.
———
Jughead wakes, and he’s no longer in the park. He recognizes the slanted blue walls of Archie’s bedroom as he sits up. He wonders when he ended up in Archie’s bed. Wonders how long he’s been there. Wonders—
But of course, nothing happened. Jughead can be sure of that. He thinks. Because his clothes are still on. Because it’s Archie, and Archie would never...
Jughead’s skin crawls, and he stands up just as Archie enters the room with two sandwiches on a plate and a glass of water.
“You’re up,” Archie says, and there’s a new wariness to his tone and demeanor that’s never been there before.
Jughead doesn’t want to ask, but he needs to know. “How did I—” He breaks off, clearing his throat, and gestures to the bed. “You didn’t, uh, carry—”
“No,” Archie says, closing his door behind him and holding the glass of water out to Jughead. “I mean, a little bit, but my dad picked us up, so it was just to and from the car.”
Jughead’s mouth goes dry as he takes the glass. “Your dad?” His voice comes out as a whisper. “Does he- What does he, um—” He takes a sip of the water, looking anywhere but at Archie.
“He doesn’t know anything, but he’s worried.” Archie’s silence following his words feels heavy, and Jughead hears what he didn’t say: I’m worried, too.
“Well, um, thanks, but I, uh.” He puts the glass down on Archie’s bedside table. “I have to. Go.” He starts for the door, but Archie grabs his arm as he passes. His grip is loose; Jughead could easily break free, but he stops anyway, his back to his friend.
“At least eat something,” Archie says quietly. “You’re too light.”
Jughead stays still for a few moments before he moves to sit back on Archie’s bed, his arm slipping away from Archie’s fingers. He stares at the floor as Archie sits on the other end of the bed. The sandwiches appear in his peripheral vision and he takes one mechanically. It’s his favorite, turkey with mustard on potato bread, but he barely tastes it when he takes a bite.
There’s silence but for the sound of their chewing.
Then: “Can we talk, Jug?”
Jughead manages not to flinch, but his stomach twists. He should’ve denied the sandwich. He wouldn’t have anything in his stomach to throw up.
“Jughead?”
“What do you want to talk about?” Jughead asks before he has to hear Archie say his name like that again. He hates the worried caution practically radiating off Archie in waves.
“I- I don’t know where to start,” Archie says.
“That’s good.” Jughead puts the last half of his sandwich back on the plate. “We don’t have to talk about it. Ever. That’s completely fine—”
“It’s not fine!” Archie growls, standing and pacing.
Jughead lowers his head and turns his face away so he can only see Archie with his peripheral vision. He controls his breathing so it’s not obvious that he’s beginning to hyperventilate. There just isn’t enough air in the room.
Archie stops pacing and faces him. “It’s not fine, Juggie,” he says, softer this time. “It’s not fine that you’re sitting there, afraid of me. It’s not fine that you’re having panic attacks in a park. It’s not fine that your dad is abusing you and it’s not fine that someone else— That someone...” He trails off, seemingly at a loss. “What did he do, Jughead?”
Please don’t make me answer, Jughead wants to say. Please don’t make me tell you, he wants to beg. But he does neither because it’s his fault that Archie is asking questions in the first place, his fault that he came here and let Archie see everything Jughead’s been hiding for so long.
Because he doesn’t want to hide anymore. He’s so tired of hiding. He’s just so tired.
“He—” Jughead’s voice feels thick, and he clears his throat. Tries again. “He liked. Pretty” —he chokes on the word— “and young. Boys. And he. He didn’t take no for an answer.”
In the quiet, neither of them breathe.
Archie pulls in a shuddering breath. “I’ll kill him.”
Jughead shivers, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around his stomach and the bruises that are beginning to ache again. “You can’t.”
“I don’t care about prison, Jughead. What he did—”
“It’s not about prison,” Jughead cuts in. “He’s not around anymore.”
“So he just got away with it?” Archie’s fist slams against the wall and Jughead flinches, squeezing his eyes shut. “Shit, Jug, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” Jughead wills his heart-rate to slow. “It’s not your fault that I’m...” He trails off, unsure how to finish his sentence. Jumpy? Nervous?
A coward?
He hears Archie slump back against the wall. “What can I do, Juggie? How can I help? Can we tell someone?”
“No!” Jughead says, too quickly, his head whipping up and eyes snapping open. “No, please. You can’t tell anyone.”
“But—”
“They’ll send me to a foster home, Archie.” Jughead can feel his desperation on his face. “Please, Archie, there’s no guarantee it’ll be better. I can’t take the chance that—” He stops before he can finish with: it’ll happen again.
Archie’s expression is torn, but he pushes himself off the wall and moves slowly to sit on the bed—close enough to touch, though he doesn’t. “Let me just tell my dad, then,” he says. “I’m sure he’ll let you move in with us.”
Jughead shakes his head. “No, he’ll feel obligated to tell Sheriff Keller, and everything will go to shit.”
“Isn’t it already there?” Archie asks, his gentle tone offsetting the harshness of his statement.
Jughead shrugs, holding back the wince this time. “At least it’s shit I know how to manage.”
Quiet falls between them again, and Jughead lets his head fall forward, eyes closed once more. He feels more drained than he has in a long time, but the tightness in his chest and the nausea in his stomach have lessened somewhat. He can’t quite tell if he’s relieved that Archie knows now, or if he’s too emotionally wrecked to care. Either way, Archie knows. Jughead isn’t entirely alone in this anymore.
He flinches at a soft touch on his shoulder, but he knows it’s just Archie, so he forces himself not to pull away. Archie’s hand slides across Jughead’s back to grip his shoulder lightly in a loose hug, and Jughead turns slightly into Archie’s embrace, allowing himself this small amount of comfort.
“We’re going to figure something out.” Archie’s voice is quiet, and Jughead lets it surround him. “I’m going to find a way to help you.”
“What if you can’t?” Jughead can only manage a whisper, but it reaches Archie anyway.
“I will,” Archie says. Confident. Determined. “I promise.”
Jughead’s heard enough broken promises in his life to never believe another one again, but this is Archie. He isn’t a genie that can magically wish everything okay with a snap of his fingers, but he’s Jughead’s friend. And he’s still here, even after everything Jughead revealed today. He’s still here, offering comfort, promising to fix everything. Jughead doesn’t know if there’s anything Archie can do, but at least he wants to try.
And in the end, that’s what matters.