Chapter Text
It’s not unusual for you to come home bloody and battered.
You spend your nights at the Southside boxing rink, racking up a reputation and moving your way to the top. You end the night with a busted lip and some bloody knuckles, but it’s worth it.
The cash that lines your pocket makes the bruised ribs and split cheek much easier to handle.
“I can’t believe you won’t just friggin’ listen to me,” he grumbles, tossing some epsom salt into the warm bath water to help dull the ache. He made you a glass of water as well, a few ibuprofen on the counter to accompany the drink. You try not to laugh; it’ll make your ribs hurt.
Sweet Pea has been your only constant in life ever since you’ve been in the Southside. He lives in the trailer next to yours, so he always offers to drive you to and from the gym because you’re never in any shape to drive yourself home when the match is over. Pea also is the one to take care of you because your parents couldn’t be bothered to stick around after your teen years.
“Can we skip the parental speech tonight, Sweets?” you ask through breathless pants. You wince as you try and get into the tub without reopening every wound on your body.
He glances over at you once you’ve tapped on the edge of the tub to let him know you’re in, “But that’s my favorite part - I love how you don’t ever listen to me.”
“Save the self-righteous, hypocritical bull crap, Pea,” you scoff, tilting your head back. “You and Fangs are out at night, beating up Ghoulies and protecting your own. Don’t act like I don’t hear your motorcycle rev up at night when you leave.”
Sweet Pea licks his lips and rubs his hands over his face in exasperation. You don’t ever let him get away with anything, that’s for sure.
You wave your hand, “I can take care of myself, Pea. If it bothers you this much, then just go home.”
“I can’t leave you,” he says quickly, grabbing the first aid kit and a couple of rags out of the drawers. Pea gets down on his knees beside the tub and gets to work on scrubbing the crusted blood from your wounds.
“How’s things going with Jos?” you ask, looking over your shoulder as he cleans the split skin on your shoulder. “You sleeping together yet?”
You’re sure that when he runs the sponge over the cut that he’s beingextra thorough. You wince, but he speaks, “I saw Josie and Archie making out in the music room the other day. It’s pretty clear how she feels - or doesn’t.”
“Pea,” you turn to face him, your wet hand cupping his cheek. You feel your eyes soften the longer you look at him, “She didn’t deserve you. She made that abundantly clear the second she called you a fling.”
“That’s all it was,” SP shrugs, a mundane look on his face. “Maybe Andrews can help her out, he likes music and all that. I’m just a Serpent.”
You grab him by the jaw and force him to look you in the eyes, “Don’t you ever let someone else define you. Not anyone, and especially not Josie. You’re so much more than just a Serpent, Sweets.”
His eyes dart downward but you don’t make it out to be anything special. You release him and let your hand fall back into the bubbly water. You sigh, “I don’t know how people can treat one another like that, Pea. I’m sorry you had to be on the receiving end of it all.”
“It’s okay,” Sweet Pea shrugs nonchalantly. He doesn’t look you in the eyes as he cleans the wound on your cheekbone. It’s leaking crimson and he winces as he rolls the rag against the open cut.
“If this is about money, I-”
“This ain’t about anything, Pea. This is about me. It’s what I want.”
“You and Andrews make quite the pair,” he scoffs, replacing the bloody rag for a clean one.
You choose not to respond, and he finishes mopping up your blood, cleaning it out and watching as the water slowly turns red.
“Time for stitches.”
He walks out of the bathroom long enough to let you drain the water and dry yourself off. Pea even laid out fresh clothes for you on the counter. How he has time to do these things for you, you’ll never know. What you do know is that all you have in this life is each other now. Toni has run off to be with Cheryl, to partner with the Pretty Poisons to clean up the Southside. Fangs has been missing for years, ever since the Farm chose their ascension night. FP and Jughead moved to the Northside years ago, and Pea can’t fault them for trying to give Jellybean a better life.
The thin t-shirt you’re sporting was Sweet Pea’s at some point in life. It’s threadbare, but it’s perfect to wear after a match because it doesn’t suffocate you in your sleep. The arms are cut out, so it makes it easy for the both of you to apply bandages and wraps to the various parts of your body that usually end up battered and bruised. The neck is wide, stretched from use, and it’s fraying at the edges.
SP unloads a decent amount of the medical supplies, ready to get to work on the cuts on your face first. He takes a q-tip with ointment laden on it and starts to smear it onto every inch of broken skin that mars your face and neck.
“Sooner or later you’re going to have too many scars to count,” he mutters, cinching together a butterfly stitch on your forehead. Sweet Pea brushes your hair away from your face, his fingertips lingering on your jaw and neck.
“Scars are cool,” you shrug, dismissing his worried tone. “All the Serpents have them.”
Sweet Pea shakes his head, “You don’t have to do this, you can make more of yourself in better ways. You don’t have to just punch your way out.”
“S’the only thing I’m good at, Sweets.” You look up at him through your lashes. His brown eyes are warm, asking you silent questions just with the colors swirling around in his irises.
His thumb brushes over a bruise on your jaw, “I can’t watch you kill yourself for the rest of your life.”
“Then don’t watch,” you snap, your voice steely and quiet.
Sweet Pea’s teeth wrap around his bottom lip, trying hard to keep his commentary to himself. Instead, he moves on to wrapping up your knuckles in gauze, taping them at the wrists.
He puts away the supplies in your cabinet and then turns to walk out the bathroom door, but you limp towards him to grab his wrist.
“Pea?” You cough at the exertion. “You don’t wanna stay and watch a movie like always?”
The last person you have in this world licks his lips and shrugs his shoulders, “You told me not to watch anymore. I’m just listening to your advice.”
And then he leaves without another word.
-
Weeks pass, and you throw yourself into your boxing matches. You fight opponents much stronger than you, you take hits harder than you ever should have. You don’t care because you don’t feel anything until you land inside that ring.
“Come at me, c’mon!” you scream, slapping your gloves together and bearing your teeth. “Is that all you got?!”
She rages at you and manages to get a good uppercut in before you slam into her chest and throw her onto the mat. Her back cracks and your body heaves in exhaustion.
“Yeah, that’s right! Stay down!” You seethe between your mouthguard, stalking her in circles, praying that she gets up so you can lay into her again.
Moments pass, and the referee declares you the winner.
The crowd goes wild, you receive your wad of cash, and then you trudge home.
It’s harder to ride your motorcycle with your injuries, but you manage. There are nights that you want to miss Sweet Pea’s truck, but you force yourself to wince and bear it.
That’s how your days replay. You have nothing but your fists, absolutely nothing, but you have to be okay with that because it’s your own fault.
It takes another two weeks for a fight to get too violent.
The girl has you against the ropes, her fists drilling into your abdomen. You can hear your ribs crunching as she piles into you. The crowd is so loud that it hurts your ears, but the throbbing in your head drowns most of the sound into a blur of screams. You shout in pain and double over, giving her a clean shot at your head.
Your body flounders to the ground and the ref pushes her off to the other end of the ring so he can count you down. With every number that he rattles off, you feel a piece of your soul die. Tears are streaming down your face as you force yourself to slam your fists into the mat and push your body upright.
“You can fight?” the referee asks you.
“I’m good.”
He doesn’t look like he believes you, so you scream at him, “I’m good, ref! Now let me go!”
The referee claps his hands together and you’re back at one another’s throats. You get a string of punches in, surely she’s hurting, but it does not stop her from slamming her knee into your gut.
You hear someone scream out in the crowd, but you barely have time to take notice of it as she grabs you around the waist and throws you down onto the mat.
“Get up!” she screams in your face, spit and blood flying all over you. You wince at the contact, but she screams at you again.
Her foot connects with your ribs, again and again, but you can’t find it in you to tap out, to tell everyone that you’re finished.
“Stop the fight!” you hear from the stands. It gets closer as it repeats itself, “Stop the damn fight!”
You reach up to try and punch her in the face, but instead she is straddling you and pinning your arms above your head with one hand and continuously punching you with the other.
“Get off her!”
You recognize the voice, turning your face just enough to catch a glimpse of his brown eyes. A tear drips down your cheek and the final punch lands across your face.
All you see is darkness.
When you wake, your whole body is weighted, tied down to a bed that you cannot escape from. Your eyelids are heavy, your breath is short. You want to sit up, but find that you aren’t in control of your own limbs.
You push yourself until finally your eyes are unglued and you can blearily glance around the room you’re in.
It’s very bland.
The room is painted white, the curtains made of fabric that looks like it is from decades past, and the scent of antiseptic fills your nostrils until they burn. There is a blanket covering your body, a machine beeping in your ear as it tracks your vitals. You’re not sure how you got here or how long you’ve been out, but as soon as your eyes focus, you zero in on the figure sleeping on the couch next to your bed.
You want to laugh, but your chest is in catastrophic pain. Instead, you focus on examining your roommate as he sleeps curled in on himself, a blanket laid over the top of him but still unable to cover his tall form.
His hair is a mess, covering his forehead and falling in his eyes. His cheek is pressed into the pillow, lips full and parted as he breathes steadily through them. The tattoo on his neck draws your attention and you find your eyes drawn to it like never before.
He is dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, the sleeves cut off to expose his tan skin and cut muscles. You wish that he were closer, but you’re glad that he’s not as the tears begin to leak from the corners of your eyes.
As if he has some sort of super power to sense whenever you’re in pain, Sweet Pea stirs from his sleep and sits up on the couch. He grunts as he stretches out his limbs, pops echoing in the room.
You sniffle against your will, the movement making you cry out in pain, and in a flash, Sweet Pea is by your side.
“Hey,” he reaches out and grabs your hand. “Hey, you’re okay now. We got you here in time.”
Sweet’s gentle fingers brush over your cheeks and he wipes the tears away. He smiles but you can tell he’s in pain himself, “Don’t cry.”
The doctors separate you as they flood the room, rattling off medical terms to one another so much that they make your head spin. Sweet Pea is constant, holding your hand tightly in his own no matter how inconvenient it may be for the nurses who are hovering by your bedside.
They leave, eventually, and the two of you settle into an uncomfortable silence. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand and it makes you tear up all over again. All of the nightmares and the anger come rushing back at once, overwhelming your soul and forcing a bubble of fear through your throat.
“I’m so s-sorry, Pea.”
You break down into tears, your shoulders shaking despite the pain. Your sobs echo in the hospital room, the walls doing little to dim the noise. You sniffle, shaking your head, “I should have never said that to you. I-It was stupid and it was selfish and I was angry.”
“I know,” he brings your knuckles to his lips. “I forgive you, okay? It’s okay, just-”
“No, it’s not okay! It isn’t okay. I pushed away the only person who cared for me, who put me back together after I was done tearing myself apart. I-I can’t believe,” your voice falters and you fear it may break. “I just want to go home.”
Sweet Pea nods, chewing on his lower lip. “I know. Just give it some time.”
You throw your head back and stare up at the ceiling, wonder just how much longer that may be.
-
You’re tucked away in your bed when you hear him pacing in the living room. You sit up, your sleeveless shirt pooling at your waist. You stand, holding onto your side as you make your way to where Sweet Pea is mumbling to himself the next room over.
“Hey,” you murmur, leaning into the doorway.
He looks up from his pacing, his hand covering his face. His eyes wander over your frame and you try your hardest not to blush. He’s seen you practically naked before as he washes your wounds and stitches you back to your whole self. How is this any different?
“Hey,” Pea echoes. He takes a few steps towards you, “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Heard you in here, figured I’d give you some company.”
Sweet Pea reaches out and runs his thumb over the scar on your cheek bone. You watch as his eyes soften the longer his touch lingers. You lean into his fingers and he catches you with his hand.
“I’m sorry I left that night,” he whispers as if afraid of breaking the atmosphere. “I should’ve stayed.”
“I should have never told you to leave,” you admit, turning to kiss his wrist. You take a deep breath, “I-I was scared, and I didn’t like what you were saying and so I pushed you away. That’s not how you treat people - definitely not the people you love.”
His eyes connect with yours, a certain electricity running through them now. The touch of his hand expands to your neck, the base of your hair, and your fingers tremble as you press your palms to his chest. He smiles, a rare sight, and he cups your cheeks in his hands as he brings his lips down on yours.
Sweet Pea’s mouth is warm, his touch gentle, and he captivates you in a way that you know you’ll never find in anyone else. Your body aches as you sway in his arms, but you disregard the strain as you push yourself onto your toes to kiss him harder.
Your hands travel to his shoulders, fingernails digging into his back as you desperately try to convey your feelings through your lips. You can’t help but gasp as his teeth sink into your lower lip. Your fingernails bite further into his shoulder blades at the action and then it is his turn to wince into your touch.
“I missed you,” he breathes against your neck. His lips trail over your jugular and you find yourself ready to fly. Your back is pressed to the wall as his confessions fall over you, “I thought that you were dead that night, that I would never see you again. I thought I would never get the chance-”
His tongue presses flat against your collarbone and you press yourself closer to him. You drop your forehead to his chest in just enough time to hear him say, “I love you.”
As soon as the words are free, it’s like the two of you cannot get enough of one another. His hands travel your body like his kisses, unable to be satiated as they map out the contours and edges of your bones and skin and muscle. Your lips tangle together and your teeth clack against one another. You do not care how sloppy this is because this is all you’ve ever wanted.
Sweet Pea maneuvers the two of you back towards your bedroom, hoisting you up onto the bed as he runs his hands over your thighs. He hooks his hands under your knees and pushes you back so your head is close to the headboard. The look he sends you makes your blood boil and your cheeks burn.
“Wait,” you grab him by the nape of his neck, “I-I love you too.”
-
His index finger travels over the scars on your chest. He stops at a few, investigating them further. His thumbnail trails along hairline scars, his pinky finger dipping over deeper cuts. The pads of his fingers dance across the bruises on your ribs, staining them purple and yellow.
You reach up and cup his cheek in your hand, your own thumb brushing over the scar that mars his lip. He catches your finger between the bite of his teeth and playfully smirks down at you as you try to force him to release it. You burst into laughter and tuck your head under his chin, feeling him pull your body closer.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he whispers into your hair. He kisses the top of your head and burrows his nose into the crown of your head. “I’ve wanted to, for years, but I never could force myself to do it.”
“It’s okay, it’s my own fault for being so stubborn.” You look up at him and he steals a kiss from your lips. His palms are flat against your back, fingerprints finding the scars on your back as he continues his exploration.
“I love you,” he smiles as he looks down at you. The expression lightens his eyes, darkens his cheeks. He kisses your lips and murmurs the words again and again, “I love you, I love you, I love you-”
You laugh against his mouth and he does not relent as he slips his tongue between your teeth. Your bodies are flush against one another under the sheets and you’re not sure why you ever put this off.
Sweet Pea kisses his way down your jaw to your throat, “I love you.”
“I-I love yo-you too,” you manage, your eyes shuttering closed as his lips make swift work of your body. His hands are all over you and suddenly you’re drowning in him and you don’t want to come up for air.