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~* ~*~
He feels… heavy. Like a stone sinking into water. Into a deep, bottomless lake. Blue, neither warm nor cold, just there, closing in over his head, all around, growing darker and darker as the light bleeding in from up above grows dimmer and fades. And all he wants to do is lie down and not move at all and just feel himself sinking. There’s a strange kind of calm in letting the sadness wrap around him like a thick blanket, in doing nothing at all about it. A soft sort of numbness that he almost even welcomes.
Fighting it is so much harder. Fighting it hurts. All fighting does is make it worse.
Jughead’s been dealing with this shit for long enough that he knows the warning signs, knows that it’s about to get bad, but he just – there’s been so much going on. His dad’s in prison, not being able to stay with Archie and Mr. A anymore, worming his way out of foster care through an arrangement with his foster parents that’ll let him stay at his dad’s trailer. Changing schools and leaving all of his friends behind and feeling like it’s something he deserves, like it’s a punishment he should welcome, even if he can’t quite put into words why. Then the Serpents, joining a fucking gang to somehow try and keep the peace between the Northside and the Southside and figuring out along the way, to his great surprise, that he might actually kind of even like these people. That maybe a lot of the conceptions he’d had about them through his experiences with his dad might have been wrong. And finally, Betty breaking up with him through Archie. Delivering the knock-out blow and jump-starting that much too familiar downward spiral.
All of it like wading through mud, the struggle to keep himself moving growing more and more draining, and then, one morning, he wakes up and he just can’t anymore. His arms and legs feel like his bones have been filled with lead overnight and his heart is so heavy he can’t lift his chest off of the mattress. And he knows that he should be doing things. That he still has that prescription open, even though he hasn’t needed it in a while, that the bill is probably still going to Mr. A and Jughead won’t need to worry about being able to pay for it himself, no matter how it miffs him that he’s being a burden to someone. Especially Mr. A. More of a burden, perhaps.
He knows he should get up, get dressed, go to school, to that Serpents meeting later this afternoon, call his dad’s lawyer again to make sure the guy’s still doing his fucking job. Find a way to mend things with Archie at least, if not with Betty. But the thought of all that just makes him want to close his eyes and go back to sleep and not wake up again for a very long time so that he won’t have to deal with the way it makes him feel anymore.
If nothing else, he should at least get his laptop from his school bag and try to write. That’s the one thing that always helps somehow. Having to sort through his thoughts and emotions, beat them into shape and make sense of them in a way that he can put onto a page. It’s the best way to clear his head, to get all of that bullshit inside of him out into the world and take away some of its power over him. But what would he even write about? The mystery around Jason Blossom’s murder has been solved. That part of his book is wrapped up and done with. At least in theory. Sure, he could write about what things are like now, start a new chapter. But all the thought of that does is make him feel even more tired, even more heavy, and that, of all things, is the biggest warning sign he’s consciously choosing to ignore.
Things have never been fucking easy for him and this isn’t even the worst they’ve been either. He was fucking homeless for half a year. And he doesn’t think anything is ever going to feel as bad as watching his mom drive off with Jellybean in the backseat and deep down already knowing that she won’t be coming back for him despite her promises. Realizing that all of the progress he’d thought his dad had made, all of the hope he’d gained for their family coming back together after all, had been nothing but a hoax to keep him from finding out about Jason.
Figuring out that his best friends in the world, the only two people he’d truly believed he could trust with his life despite copious evidence to the contrary, had betrayed him and gone behind his back to try and pin a fucking murder on his dad. All of that had been worse than this. But at least, through most of it, he hadn’t been alone, not entirely. He’d been able to comfort himself with the thought of his friends, of Archie and Betty, even if not with their actual presence.
And then Betty had happened, wonder of wonders. An actual taste of what it meant to not be alone for real for the first time ever. To have someone who felt that way about him, Betty of all people, the girl he’d spent his entire childhood with. The girl he’d spent more than half of that time secretly crushing on, but had been too scared to admit to. The absolute amazement at the fact that his gamble had worked out in his favor and instead of ruining their friendship he’d actually gained a partner, careful and tentative, soft and sweet and so very hopeful. Without a doubt the best thing that had ever happened to him.
And then losing that again, in such a fucked-up way. And he knows he’s being an ass for feeling sorry for himself like that, for wallowing in it instead of getting his shit together and moving on the way he should. Because at least he’s not homeless anymore. At least he’s not lying under a fucking bridge at the docks right now with the freezing rain pouring down all around him and a guy he’s going to watch get beaten to death without doing shit about it in a little while making sure he stays safe through the night. At least he knows that his dad didn’t actually kill Jason Blossom, even though it still looks like he’s going to go to jail for a long fucking time for all of his other transgressions.
At least he can close his eyes and go back to sleep after he’s just so mustered enough energy to turn off his phone. That’s a luxury he hasn’t had in a long while. And maybe he doesn’t really have it now, either, because again, there’s so much he should be doing. But he just – he fucking can’t.
~*~*~
He doesn’t know how long he sleeps, only that it’s light, and then it’s not. Time works strangely when he’s like this. Sometimes he just forgets what it feels like entirely.
He gets up to go to the bathroom, when he has no other choice unless he wants to piss his bed and at least that thought is enough to get him moving for the five minutes it takes him to get there and back. His stomach is empty enough that it hurts and he vaguely wonders if he should make himself something to eat as he glances at the kitchen in passing.
But the only thing he’s got is a pack of instant mac and cheese and he’d have to clean a pot to make it and he ran out of milk yesterday anyway and all of that just seems like so monumental a task, so completely insurmountable, that he simply sighs and gives up. Trudges back into the bedroom, crawls under the covers and closes his eyes again until the world does him the favor of fading out. He can hardly even feel himself anymore anyway. The hunger makes him light, weightless almost, kind of like he’s actually floating, and maybe that’s a good thing. Or so he tries to tell himself.
~*~*~
He hears voices every now and again. Drifting in from outside of the trailer. Sometimes, someone stops to knock at the front door. First lightly, questioningly, but as time passes by it grows more insistent with each new bout, louder and so obtrusive Jughead shoves a pillow over his head just to block it out until whoever it is leaves again.
The world can fucking do without him for a couple of days. He doesn’t owe it shit. Because what has it ever fucking done for him anyway? And maybe that’s not entirely fair, but he’s so far beyond caring that the thought is there and gone again from one heartbeat to the next. No traces left behind as it gets swallowed up by the darkness inside of him.
He’ll get his ass out of bed in a bit. Make himself move again, make himself function. All he needs is a little more rest, a little more peace and quiet, a little more time. Or so he keeps telling himself in his more lucid moments, before he drifts back off into that deep, familiar haze of depression and numbness, sinking into it like he would into the arms of an old friend.
~*~*~
The sound of someone angrily beating on his front door jerks Jughead out of a weird dream about floating in empty space, planets passing by slowly, stars blinking through the endless void occasionally. But most prominently, darkness. Complete and endless. And even with his eyes fluttering open, he feels hazy and strange and only half-aware.
“Come on, we’ve been here four days in a row, Toni. What makes you think he’s even home? Maybe he packed his shit and ran off or something stupid like that. I fucking told you the guy’s no Serpent material.” A strangely familiar voice grouses, drifting into the trailer dull and muted and Jughead has to strain to understand the words, to make sense of them. It almost seems like too much effort.
“Oh, shut up about that, Sweet Pea. He made it through initiation, so he’s one of us. You fucking know the rules and so does he. ‘No Serpent left behind’, ever. Besides, something’s not right. He just drops off of the face of the earth, his phone has been turned off since Monday. I’m not giving up until we figure out what the Hell is going on.” Yeah, that’s definitely Toni. Jughead feels a tiny flicker of fondness, there and gone again. Not enough energy to hold onto it. And all that short burst of feeling does is hurt anyway.
“Maybe he just figured he’s better off with his Northside friends, after all, and decided to ditch us.” And that would be Fangs, making the trio complete. Great. Out of all of the options Jughead has, he chooses the only one he feels he actually can, staying right where he is and waiting until they get fed up and leave again. Same as he has been. It’s not like he’d have the energy to do anything else really.
Some distant part of himself, alarmed and panicky, is trying to tell him that he needs to move, that he needs to get up and eat, become a part of this world again, before it’s actually too late. That small part that knows he’s already somehow slipped past the point that’s almost impossible to come back from on his own, that it was so fucking stupid and risky to let it get this bad in the first place. But it’s a tiny little voice from so, so far away that he can barely even hear it anymore from within this heavy fog he’s floating in. And a different part of himself, so fucking tired and cynical and hurting, a part he used to be scared of and for good reason, even if he can hardly remember why now, is whispering softly that it wouldn’t even be all that bad, if he just let himself slip away.
No more struggles, no more pain, no more sadness or betrayal or loneliness, no more people and their messy bullshit. Just darkness, peace and quiet. Non-existence.
“If you really want to check the place out so badly, I could just kick in the door. Might get us a lot farther than standing here for half an hour knocking our knuckles raw like a bunch of assholes.” Sweet Pea’s voice sounds again.
“What? No! At least let me check, if the door is locked, before you start acting like a caveman and resort to brute force.” Toni, sounding slightly taken aback but fond enough still.
“Wait a minute. Are you telling me that we’ve been standing out here for half an hour every evening for the last four days and you didn’t once check to see, if the door was open?!” Fangs, incredulous and exasperated.
“Yeah, well, you don’t just waltz into people’s homes like that unless you have good reason. But I’m really starting to get worried here.” Toni shoots back and Jughead can hear Fangs and Sweet Pea groan, even through the door and the distance down the hallway into the bedroom.
He tries to remember if he locked the door or not, but he can’t. He’s not sure. Everything is so fucking fuzzy. He can’t think and all trying does is worsen the rhythmically throbbing headache starting to spread out from his temples.
There’s a dull sense of dread at the thought of them finding him here, like this, the embarrassment of it, itching at the back of his head, but it’s not enough to actually get him to do something about it. Try as he might he can’t get himself to move, he can’t get himself to care enough to muster the energy.
“Oh, great. It’s fucking open.” Sweet Pea’s exasperated voice sounds, much louder now, definitely from inside the trailer.
“Huh. Kind of looks like nobody’s home. Those dishes are at least a week old, dude. Believe me, I have a lot of firsthand experience, I can tell.” Fangs says, a weird mix of disgust and awe in his voice, and they’re in his fucking kitchen now. How wonderful.
“Jug?” Toni calls out, her voice cutting harshly through the cotton in his head and he groans faintly, grabs one of his pillows so that he can drag it over his head and cover his ears with it. His limbs feel so fucking heavy and that small motion sucks all of the energy he’d had left right out of him. All he can do is lie there and hope that they’ll go away again, if he pretends like he’s not here.
“Well, he’s obviously not here here.” Sweet Pea chimes in, annoyed and impatient. “That leaves either the bathroom or the bedroom, if at all.”
“I don’t know. I mean, just walking into his trailer like that is fine and all, but the bedroom’s kind of off limits, right?” Fangs throws in, sounding unusually concerned.
“What? Are you afraid of walking in on something?” Toni shoots back at him and Jughead can practically hear her raised eyebrows.
“You wouldn’t believe the kind of shit I’ve seen, dude. Makes a man a bit weary is all I’m saying.” Fangs says defensively.
“I’m not leaving this fucking trailer without checking it all the way through. Even, if it’s just to keep Toni from dragging us back here. Besides, he could be lying dead in the shower or some shit like that.” Sweet Pea tags on and Jughead has no trouble at all imagining him with a scowl on his face and his big arms folded in front of his chest, ill-tempered as always. The image tugs at something sore and painful inside of him and Jughead gasps at the sudden flare of hurt before he does his best to shove it away again. He can’t do this right now.
“Alright, fine. If shit gets weird it’s totally on you, though.” Fangs gripes and huffs out a breath. Then squawks out of nowhere, loud enough to make Jughead flinch and tug the pillow more tightly over his ears.
“Come on, guys. Behave.” Toni’s voice, more muffled now, sounds fond and exasperated in equal measures.
“It smells kind of rank in here, man.” Fangs says, his voice drifting closer slowly, making the quiet dread bubbling in Jughead stomach flare brighter and he clenches his fists more tightly around the pillow covering his head. “Kind of like that one time when we were 14 and I’d nicked a Gameboy from one of those Ghoulie assholes at school and we locked ourselves into your trailer for an entire weekend? That was wild, man. Didn’t crack a window once the whole time.”
Sweet Pea huffs out a breath and Jughead can’t tell, if Sweet Pea’s amused or irritated, he’s too focused on the footsteps growing louder as they approach, the sound of the door to his bathroom being pulled open and then closed again.
“Bathroom’s clear.” Sweet Pea says, sarcasm thick in his tone.
“Well, that just leaves – oh.” Toni’s voice breaks off in the middle of her sentence and yeah, there they fucking are. Jughead can feel the weight of their eyes on him, all of them stopped short, but he refuses to move or acknowledge them, regardless of how futile that might be. He’s not fucking doing this.
“Ah, fuck.” Sweet Pea murmurs and then his heavy gait starts up again and doesn’t stop until Jughead can feel his presence right there at the side of the bed. And the next thing Jughead knows, someone’s grabbing the pillow over his head and pulling it away.
Jughead makes an undignified squeaky sound in the back of his throat at that, scrambles to hold onto the pillow but it’s no use, Sweet Pea is stronger than him by a ridiculous amount even on a good day and the pillow disappears much too quickly. Leaving Jughead feeling stupidly bare and exposed and instead of looking up to meet any of their gazes, to see the pity or the judgment or the disgust in their expressions, he brings up his hands to cover his face and tries to curl up as much as he can. An illusion of being able to hide himself away, even though the tiny little rational part of him knows that it’s only serving to make him look even more pathetic and that’s just one more reason to hate himself, isn’t it?
He hasn’t showered or dragged himself out of bed except to go to the bathroom in days. He doesn’t even want to know how awful it is, let alone have them see him like this. It would be bad enough, if it were just Toni here, but Fangs and especially Sweet Pea haven’t exactly been making a secret out of the fact that they don’t like him all that much, and the embarrassment that settles into his bones is heavy and all consuming.
“Geez.” Sweet Pea’s breath leaves him in a harsh whoosh and the mattress bounces uncomfortably when Sweet Pea plops down onto its edge without much grace. “Stop that already, Jones.”
A big, warm pair of hands wraps itself around Jughead’s wrists, surprisingly gentle for all of their strength and size, and pull until Jughead’s palms come away from his face, making the feeling of being exposed so, so much worse. Jughead tries to fight him, but fails miserably, drained and weary as he is. Instead of acknowledging his defeat, though, Jughead screws his eyes shut and twists his head to the side until his face is mashed into the pillow and it’s getting hard to breathe, as if he needs to make himself look even more pathetic. The pillow smells too strongly of himself, but it’s easy enough to ignore in his no doubt futile attempt at evasion.
“Hey. C’mon. Look at me.” Sweet Pea says, his voice firm and intent, a tone boding no argument, as if his words alone will be enough to make Jughead comply. When that doesn’t happen, Sweet Pea sets Jughead’s wrists down onto the mattress carefully and reaches out again, his fingers wrapping around Jughead’s chin and gingerly tugging at it until Jughead’s face twists away from the pillow.
“Look at me.” Sweet Pea repeats, more softly this time, and Jughead finally gives in and admits his defeat. There’s no way to escape this situation, so he might as well comply, he thinks, defeat settling ugly and harsh into his gut. He makes himself open his eyes excruciatingly slowly, every inch driving more of the hurt and the despair into his aching chest, like shocks of electricity rushing down his optical nerves and he can almost feel the emptiness settle into his eyes, painful and so fucking heavy, as he finally glances up at Sweet Pea.
Sweet Pea’s face is blurry at first and Jughead has to blink a couple of times until it comes into focus properly. Instead of the judgment and disgust Jughead would have expected to find there, though, to his surprise, all he sees is a quiet kind of sadness in Sweet Pea’s eyes and a resolute twist to his full lips. It blindsides Jughead somewhat and he ends up blinking at him helplessly, the concept of what to do next eluding him.
There’s a soft rustle from the direction of the hall and Jughead lets his gaze drift over to find Fangs and Toni still standing there. Both of them are wearing that same expression on their faces, or differently nuanced versions of it at least. Toni freezes once she notices Jughead looking at her, then straightens her spine and pulls back her shoulders, her expression hardening into something determined and purposeful.
“Alright. I’m going to get you a glass of water and then I’m taking care of the kitchen. You-” She turns and points a finger at Fangs, her purple nail polish a bright spark of color in the midst of Jughead’s gray little world. “-are responsible for getting food. Lots of it. Pop’s preferably.”
Fangs straightens up as well, adopts a flat, over-the-top-serious expression and gives her a stiff mock-salute, before turning on his heels and throwing a “Yes, ma’am” over his shoulder as he walks off down the hall.
A tiny little half-smile twisting up her mouth, softening the determined glint in her eyes a bit, taking the edge off of the sadness Jughead can still see hidden underneath, she turns to Sweet Pea, nodding her head in the general direction of the bed and Jughead huddled up on it. “You got this?” She asks, her tone softer than before.
“Yeah.” Sweet Pea replies, his hand finally falling away from Jughead’s chin. The first thing Jughead does with his newfound freedom is groan miserably and then close his eyes and hide himself away again. As if opting to ignore them will make them give up and go away, even as he can hear Toni’s steps retreating down the hall. Sweet Pea remains a solid presence, not moving from his place on the mattress, though.
Sweet Pea sighs heavily, but leaves him alone for the moment, at least until Jughead hears Toni come back from the kitchen and walk over to set something down onto the nightstand, then retreat again.
“Alright.” Sweet Pea finally says, his tone morose and impatient again. “Enough of this.”
And the next thing Jughead knows, he’s yelping in surprise when two strong hands push at his shoulders until he’s unceremoniously flipped onto his back, and his eyes fly open just in time to catch Sweet Pea shoving his hands under Jughead’s arms and pulling him up into a sitting position.
“Ow, fuck.” Jughead blurts out, the first words he’s spoken in days, and he flinches at how rough his voice sounds, at how raw his throat feels. His back pressed firmly against the headboard of the bed Jughead jams his hands onto the mattress to keep himself from keeling over, the world going for a neat little tilt and whirl, colors bleeding into each other and gray spots dancing across his vision as a harsh wave of dizziness washes over him. One of Sweet Pea’s hands moves up to cup Jughead’s forehead, brushing away the greasy, tangled strands of his bangs as he does so, and then pushes until Jughead gives in and leans back, his head tilted until it finds the cool plastic composite wall of the trailer to rest against.
“You’re good, just breathe through it.” Sweet Pea’s voice is calm and firm underneath his usual hard edge, and it’s like an anchor hooking itself into Jughead’s mind, pulling him into the right direction and he does his best to focus on it, to do as he’s told.
Everything hurts.
Every time he moves, every time his lungs expand as he draws in air, it jars the tender, bruised spaces inside of him, like freshly carved wounds right beneath his ribs and all he really wants to do is curl in around the hurt until it becomes bearable again. But Sweet Pea won’t let him, even as Jughead’s eyes cloud up with moisture and his breathing grows ragged, and he feels so light amidst it all, his stomach an empty, cramping mass, the feeling of hunger long gone and replaced by a strange, unhealthy faintness pulling at his limbs.
Jughead squeezes his eyes shut and does his best to breathe into the pain, to make the flares intentional, ride them out as they come, Sweet Pea’s hand sliding from his forehead to the side of his face until he’s cupping Jughead’s cheek with his thumb stroking softly through the wetness gathering at the corner of his eye, clumping Jughead’s lashes together. It’s a touch meant to sooth, kind and gentle and so at odds with the way Sweet Pea usually treats him that it’s hard to reconcile the two, and as much as Jughead wants to pull away from him and preserve at least a tiny fraction of his dignity while he still can, what he actually finds himself doing is leaning into it. Trying to chase the warmth of the touch, the offered comfort of it.
When the worst of it is over, the hurt ebbing off into something dull and throbbing, something more manageable at least for the moment, Jughead blinks his eyes back open, Sweet Pea’s face coming into focus slowly. Sweet Pea looks gruff and somber, but not judgmental. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it still takes Jughead by surprise.
“There.” Sweet Pea says and lets his hand drop away from Jughead’s face. Something in Jughead’s gut clenches unhappily at the loss, but he does his best not to think about that too hard and doesn’t say anything. He figures he’s embarrassed himself enough as it is. Sweet Pea twists around and grabs the glass from the nightstand, then holds it out to him. “Try to drink something. But go slow.”
Jughead makes himself lift his hands off of the mattress, grits his teeth at how unbalanced that simple action makes him, and does his best to ignore the slight tremor running through them as he reaches for the glass. His fingers slip on cool condensation and they brush against Sweet Pea’s as he takes the glass from him. Jughead almost drops it, taken by surprise by the unexpected weight of it, but he manages to catch himself and keep his grip. His muscles feel noodle-y and weak and he hates it. All the while Sweet Pea’s eyes follow his every move calmly as he sits and waits and watches.
The glass is cold against Jughead’s dry, chapped lips and the water that flows across his tongue is a shock to his system. He hadn't even realized how thirsty he was until right that moment, and every sip he takes is pure fucking bliss. Right up until it actually hits his stomach. Empty as it is it starts to cramp right away, rebelling against the water and sending a wave of nausea as a harsh line of defense. Jughead chokes on his next swallow and ends up with a coughing fit, the motions pulling at his chest unpleasantly and making the bruised, achy feeling worse.
Sweet Pea pulls a face at him and hurries to take the glass from Jughead before he can end up spilling its remaining contents all over the blanket and himself. It takes a bit until he finally manages to calm down and catch his breath, his stomach churning around the water, only highlighting how empty it is otherwise and making the lightheadedness seem worse than before. All Jughead wants to do is sink back onto the mattress and curl up and not move again for a really long time. But somehow, he doesn’t think he’ll be granted that mercy, not the way Sweet Pea is looking at him, all determined and businesslike, like a man on a fucking mission, and Jughead doesn’t think he’s resented anything quite that much in a pretty long while.
“Alright. Up.” Sweet Pea mumbles and the next thing Jughead knows Sweet Pea is reaching for him again. Those big, strong hands wedging themselves under his arms, palms pressed against his ribs with intent and then all Jughead can do is try to scramble along as he’s bodily dragged out of bed. The world spins around him until he’s finally got rough carpet under his feet, the ground as solid as it’s going to get. Jughead tries to stand, but his knees buckle under his own weight and Sweet Pea’s hands on him feel like the only things holding him up.
And, Jughead might be a bit on the skinny side, sure, always has been despite the amounts of food he usually inhales, but he’s still perfectly average for a guy his age, six foot tall and everything. But up this close, with Sweet Pea’s bulk a palpable, inescapable wall of muscle looming a good head over him and almost half again as broad as he is, Jughead feels small and horribly inadequate. It makes his breath catch and his chest pull tight and he resents everything about it. But most of all he resents the fact that he’s leaning on Sweet Pea, that he let things get so bad he ended up weak enough to actually need someone else’s help like that. Especially Sweet Pea of all people.
Sweet Pea, who’s been looking at Jughead like he thinks Jughead’s weak and useless and insufficient all the while, like he thinks Jughead’s anything but Serpent material, like he doesn’t trust Jughead, not really. Yeah, it’s gotten better, at least a little, since Jughead passed initiation, but still. Every time Sweet Pea gives him one of those looks, all Jughead wants to do is stand up taller and fucking prove him wrong, show him that he’s more than capable of holding his own.
After seeing him like this, though, Sweet Pea’s never going to let him live it down. He’s never going to see Jughead as anything other than absolutely pathetic, same as Fangs and Toni, and that thought is enough to make tears of futile frustration and anger burn in his eyes, clouding up his vision even more. When Jughead finally makes himself lift his head and crane his neck to meet Sweet Pea’s gaze, though, there’s still no trace of judgment to be found there, only that same calm determination with a hint of frustration thrown into the mix for good measure and Jughead doesn’t fucking get why.
“God, you really need a shower, man.” Sweet Pea finally grumbles, breaking the weird tension between them, his nose wrinkling to underline his point and Jughead can fucking feel the rush of blood as it settles hotly into his face. As if he’s not miserable enough as it is. He’s such a fucking mess. His hair is greasy and tangled and he hasn’t changed clothes or washed in days. But the thought alone of actually having to do something about it is almost enough to make his knees give out again under the weight it settles onto his chest. It feels impossible.
“Yeah.” Jughead makes himself mutter and lets his head hang so that he doesn’t have to fucking look at Sweet Pea anymore. Mortified down to his bones. But then again, who does he have to blame for this mess but himself? A malicious little voice in the back of his head reminds him of that harshly.
Before he can let himself get dragged down that spiral of dark despair, though, Sweet Pea speaks again and yanks him out of it.
“Well, you better pucker the fuck up, Jones, because we’re changing that, like, now.” Sweet Pea grumbles and Jughead’s eyes fly up to his face again, wide with a sudden sense of dread, his mouth falling open to protest. But the words gathering on his tongue get cut off by a yelp, when Sweet Pea uses his grip on Jughead’s sides to spin him around and then practically starts frog-marching Jughead towards the hallway.
“What the hell?” Jughead finally manages to sputter, an irrational surge of indignation and anger heating up his face all over again. Because he doesn’t want to do this and he sure as fuck didn’t encourage them to burst in and stick their noses into his business let alone fucking manhandle him around like he’s stupid, useless kid. “What are you doing? Stop that!”
To his surprise, Sweet Pea actually listens to him, halts his step and grabs Jughead by the shoulders to spin him around again so that they’re face to face, and Jughead has to breathe through another wave of dizziness, swaying dangerously on his feet as he does.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking you to the bathroom so that you can fucking shower. I thought you were supposed to be smart? Isn’t that what you’re always rubbing under everyone’s noses? You’re a walking, talking health hazard, Jones.” Sweet Pea says, sounding not particularly amused with Jughead’s protests and Jughead clenches his jaw until the muscles ache with the resentment rising in him. Well, he hasn’t felt this fucking energetic in days, so at least there’s that, he thinks scathingly, even as a tiny little part of him – the one that’s still faintly reasonable – whispers that he’s being unfair, that he’s lashing out and trying to hurt himself by hurting the ones here to help him. But he carefully chooses to ignore that little voice, instead basking in the ache of his self-destructive anger.
“Why?” Jughead spits out, raising his arms to knock Sweet Pea’s hands off of his shoulders harshly, even though the motion and the loss of support has him swaying dangerously before he manages to find his balance, and watches the expression on Sweet Pea’s face darken with a painful kind of satisfaction. “I didn’t fucking ask for your help. You can’t just barge in here and do whatever the hell you want. This is still my life and my problems are none of your fucking business. I don’t even know why you care! You don’t even fucking like me!”
“That what you think, huh?” Sweet Pea shoots back, his eyes narrowing and anger of his own lighting them up from the inside out, his face pulling tight as he crosses his arms in front of his chest aggressively. A dark part of Jughead thrills at the sight, the anger that’s trapped in his chest. Maybe, if he pushes Sweet Pea far enough, he can make Sweet Pea punch him, maybe then he’ll be able to feel something other than the hurt and the emptiness that’s been weighing him down and mercilessly blotting out everything else. His blood is rushing loudly in his ears, fists balled at his sides and heart hammering against the inside of his ribs harshly.
“Well, you better suck it up and fucking get used to it.” Sweet Pea practically growls at him and it takes a moment for his words to actually sink in, but when they do, it stops Jughead short, brows furrowing in confusion. Caught off guard.
“Because you’re a Serpent now.” Sweet Pea goes on, his voice hard, and there’s so much weight in that one word – Serpent – Jughead can feel it settle onto his shoulders like a physical thing. “You’re one of us now, whether you fucking like it or not. You went through enough trouble to fucking make it happen. You got problems? You don’t deal with that shit alone. Because that’s part of what being a Serpent means. You’d do well to show some fucking respect.”
Jughead feels sucker punched and vaguely nauseous as Sweet Pea’s words sink into him, fists unfurling as the anger seeps out of him and leaves him feeling lost. He’s not – he doesn’t fucking know what to say to that. It definitely took the wind right out of his sails. That horrible emptiness rushing right back in to fill the space the anger had previously occupied and Jughead feels so heavy all of a sudden, all of the energy he’d just had a second ago gone. He doesn’t have the fucking capacity to figure out what to do with this right now.
“Yeah.” Sweet Pea sighs once he’s realized that he’s not going to get an actual answer, visibly deflating as he lets his arms drop back down to his sides. “Come on, asshole.”
With that, Sweet Pea’s hands find their way back to Jughead’s shoulders and Jughead doesn’t even try to protest when he’s turned around and gently pushed into moving again. Stumbling along in a haze until the door to the trailer’s tiny little bathroom is pushed open before him. Jughead just stands there motionless for a long moment, staring at the closed lid of the toilet with what feels like the weight of the entire world pushing down on him, wondering hopelessly how he’s supposed to fucking do this, when even the thought of taking another step on his own feels all but impossible.
“Are you going to be alright in there?” Sweet Pea mutters, making Jughead flinch lightly, jerking him out of the renewed downward spiral of his thoughts. Sweet Pea’s fingers tighten on Jughead’s shoulders, digging into the muscles briefly, before loosening again. “Or do I have to come in with you? Because I fucking will.”
“What? No!” Jughead blurts out, the sheer mortification conjured up by the suggestion enough to get him moving after all. Sweet Pea’s hands fall away from his shoulders as Jughead stumbles into the bathroom and shoves the door closed after himself, heart racing harshly enough he can feel it throbbing in the tips of his fingers. Because for some reason there’s not a doubt in his mind that Sweet Pea would go through with his threat, if Jughead pushed him enough. And the tiny part of himself that actually still gives a shit is utterly horrified by the prospect. That’s a humiliation he can very much do without.
He can actually hear Sweet Pea snort out an exasperated breath from the other side of the door, then footsteps slowly retreating. Jughead breathes a shuddering sigh once the footsteps have faded from his hearing. The faint clink of cutlery and the quiet murmur of running water drift over from the kitchen, dulled by the closed door, but still discernible. And he can’t help but picture Toni standing there in front of the kitchen sink in her plateau shoes and her fishnet stockings with the bright pink tips of her hair flowing down her back as she does his goddamn dishes and he feels so ashamed and so guilty all of a sudden it becomes a little hard to breathe around the ache of it.
“Shit, shit, shit.” He mutters under his breath, voice rough and uneven as he reaches for the hem of his undershirt and pulls it over his head with unsteady hands. Then carefully tugs down his sweats and steps out of them and into the shower. Slowly, painfully, but managing none-the-less. Already more than he’d thought he could, but he has to do this much at least. Because they’re here and they’re trying to help, regardless of whether or not he asked them to and maybe not letting them down now is more important than feeling fucking sorry for himself. At least for a tiny little while.
So he turns on the water and twists the knob until it’s as hot as it’ll get – which is not very, but still – and does his best to pretend like that’s the only source of moisture on his face as he forces himself to go through the necessary motions and endure the pain it causes him. That hopeless feeling beneath his ribs, that deep dark sadness that cuts like bits of broken glass trapped inside his chest every time he moves. At least the hot water sliding across his skin, the grime of the past days finally washing away, helps soothe the bitter ache a little.
~*~*~
It all takes much longer than it should, but in the end Jughead manages and, stepping out of the shower and starting to dry himself off, he actually feels a little more awake than he did before, a little more like himself. And he figures that’s the best he can hope for right now. Also, it’s a testament to how fucking out of it he is that he didn’t even notice someone opening the door to the bathroom and leaving him a fresh set of clothes on the closed lid of the toilet.
He’d feel embarrassed about it, if he had any energy left.
It’s an old t-shirt and a pair of sweats, though Jughead thinks the sweats might actually be his dad’s, not his. The length of the legs is fine, but he has to tighten the drawstring around the waist a good bit to keep them from sliding off of his hips… It’s not like anyone is going to notice, or like it’s going to be worse than seeing him in the state he was in before he took a fucking shower anyway. It’s hard to properly give a shit when everything feels fucked and heavy the way it does.
He can still hear them move around in the trailer, and Jughead actually forces himself to go through brushing his teeth as well, even though it takes more energy than he’d thought he had left. It gets rid of the stale taste in his mouth at least. Though the sharp mint of his toothpaste does nothing for his empty, cramping stomach except make the nausea worse. Jughead does his best to ignore it, same as the intermittent bursts of lightheadedness, and puts his toothbrush away again before finally forcing himself to step out of the bathroom. One foot in front of the other, bare toes digging into the old, rough carpet and making him feel strangely vulnerable.
Jughead manages exactly three steps towards his bedroom, studiously away from the sound of people rummaging around in his home, before he comes up short and falters. Like walking into an invisible wall. Like being caught by an ice ray gun and turned into a fucking human pop-sickle or something equally as stupid. Because all of a sudden, he just can’t fucking see the use in moving anymore. It hurts too much. It costs too much.
A frustrated, despairing sound caught in the back of his throat, Jughead twists around until his back is pressed against the wall, then lets himself slide down along it, his ass hitting the carpet a little more heavily than he’d wanted. Then he just sits there, pulls his legs up to his chest and buries his face against his knees, soaks up the dull quality of the world around him and does his best to concentrate on breathing, that alone seeming like a thing that takes conscious effort when it really shouldn’t. This is so fucking bad, a tiny, panicky little part of him thinks, beating frantically against the apathy inside of him, fighting a losing battle, just like he’s done so many times before in his life. He’s a raw, exposed nerve trapped in a world that takes no prisoners.
He’s so lost in his own hopeless misery, that Jughead doesn’t even hear the approaching footsteps that halt right at his side. And it catches him completely off guard when a big hand lands on his head, tugging softly at the messy strands of his damp hair. He sucks in a breath and jerks upright, dislodging the hand, only to find Sweet Pea sitting next to him on the floor in the tiny little hallway, cross-legged and frowning at Jughead like he’s trying to figure something out for himself. Though what exactly that is, Jughead couldn’t say. He feels wrong-footed and lost and the hurt-fueled anger in his chest has him clench his fists tightly where they rest on the floor at his sides. He just wants to be fucking left alone so that he can wallow in his misery in peace. But somehow he doesn’t think he’ll be that lucky any time soon.
It’s this weird back and forth between feeling too much and nothing at all that’s the worst, he thinks, and on top of all of it, the bone-crushing heaviness that never lets up, not even for a second.
“How long?” Sweet Pea finally asks, and Jughead scowls up at him, harshly yanked out of his head by the question and not very appreciative of it. Sweet Pea eyes him carefully, head tilted towards Jughead just so, as he waits Jughead out.
“’How long’ what?” Jughead snaps, his frustration bleeding into his voice and making it sound rough and unpleasant, but Sweet Pea doesn’t seem to care. Takes it in stride, without a change in his expression, and gives a one-shouldered shrug before he answers.
“How long’ve you had depression?” Sweet Pea elaborates, and Jughead can feel his eyes widening as he tries to hold Sweet Pea’s gaze, one that feels too knowing all of a sudden, like Sweet Pea’s somehow managed to look past the defenses Jughead’s so laboriously built up around himself and right at the parts Jughead feels most protective of. It sounds so nonchalant, as if Sweet Pea were talking about the fucking weather and not – not – Jughead can’t even find the right words for it. He’s supposed to be a writer for fuck’s sake, but it’s like his brain is running on 10% of its usual capacity and whenever he tries to push it further, all he gets out of it is a headache and more frustration.
Sweet Pea raises an eyebrow at him, when Jughead fails to answer, a silent prompt, and Jughead finally just sighs and lets his head thunk back against the wall, damp hair sliding across the rough wallpaper. He darts his tongue out to wet dry lips, waits out a fresh wave of nausea and lightheadedness as his stomach cramps around nothing again.
“I-” Jughead starts, stumbles over the word, stops himself, and then tries again, eyes squeezed shut as a feeble barrier against the rest of the world. ‘You’re one of us now. You don’t deal with that shit alone.’, the words crowd into his mind unbidden, the weight of them palpable, but not like the heaviness threatening to cave in his ribs and crush his lungs. Painful, in a way that makes him want to curl in on himself and reach out a hand to touch, to make sure that Sweet Pea is real and solid next to him, to lean into him, and it fucking scares Jughead because he’s not used to needing someone like this. He can’t fucking afford to.
“I don’t know.” Jughead finally manages, voice strained and throaty. He keeps his eyes firmly shut as he goes on, not ready to look at Sweet Pea and see his expression while he speaks. “A couple of years? It started when – when my dad lost the house, I think? Maybe before that? I don’t really know. It was just, the arguing and the screaming and the crying. It got so bad before my mom left. I saw a therapist like a year or two before high school? Couldn’t afford more than three/four sessions. Just enough to get diagnosed and a prescription. But that’s it. Most of the time it’s not that bad. I mean, it’s not great? But it’s enough to still get by? Sometimes, though, it just gets like this and I – I used to – when things were still good between us, I’d stay with Archie for a bit, you know? Just until the meds kicked in. But that’s not really an option anymore, I guess.”
Jughead ends his rambling with a long gush of air shuddering out of his lungs, fingers digging into the rough carpet harshly. He hadn’t meant to say that much, but it’d just – once he’d started he hadn’t been able to stop himself, all of it just gushing out like a slew of word-vomit, and he already regrets it. The urge to curl in on himself and hide away growing stronger until it’s all he can do to fight it off. No need to make himself look even more pathetic, really. God, he’s so fucked.
“You still have that prescription?” Sweet Pea asks, after a pause, and Jughead blinks his eyes open in confusion, not sure what to make of Sweet Pea’s studiously calm expression as he glances up at the other boy. The non-reaction feels so anti-climatic it throws Jughead for a loop. None of this is turning out anything like what he would have expected and he’s not sure how to handle that. Whether to be angry about it or grateful. What a mess.
“I – yeah.” Jughead makes himself say, lifts up a heavy palm to rub at his eyes and press fingers into his temple, where a dull headache is throbbing rhythmically, in tune with the beat of his pulse. “But I don’t have any here. I know I should be taking them all the time, but I hate the way they make me feel. Like they’re numbing down a part of myself that’s just gone, when I do. And the prescription is with a pharmacy on the Northside anyway. I guess I should have gone, but I-”
Jughead cuts himself off before he can start to ramble again, that unsettled, aimless restlessness in his gut making him shift and ball up his hands into fists, before releasing them again. He doesn’t know what to do with himself and he’s already so fucking tired of it. Sweet Pea’s still just sitting there looking at him, patient and calm like he never is and it grates at Jughead’s nerves like nails on a fucking chalkboard for some reason.
“Why are you so fucking cool with all of this?!” Jughead finally blurts out, unable to keep his frustration and the irrational anger bleeding through down any longer. The words just explode right out of him, his tone almost accusing, like he’s trying to pick a fight and maybe that’s just what he needs right now. Find a way to hurt the people that are trying to help him, push them away after Sweet Pea said that Jughead belongs, prove Sweet Pea wrong, give himself another, much more tangible reason to hurt the way he is already. Make the pain sharper and more satisfying.
But all Sweet Pea does is raise an unimpressed eyebrow at Jughead and huff out a flat laugh.
“Well, welcome to the fucking Southside, Jones.” Sweet Pea shoots back, just the tiniest bit of bite to his voice before that seeps away and all that’s left is that damn calm again. “Have you looked around since you got here? We’re living in a fucking trailer park. I know it’s different for you because you actually grew up on the Northside, but when you grow up around here things are pretty fucking simple. You start out with fuck all and you end with fuck all.”
“If you somehow manage to survive your fucking childhood, get through school and everything, you have exactly three options: Join the military, which might pay well but will get you fucking killed or on disability for the rest of your life; Somehow manage to get a shitty job or three and work until you drop dead just to try and scrape by; Or you join a gang and inevitably end up behind bars for dealing drugs or worse. Unless you’re lucky and you join the Serpents, then you can maybe have the gang part without the prison bit, but you’re still stuck with the shit jobs nobody else wants to do and the barely being able to survive bit. Nobody fucking wants to live like that. But it’s not like people’ve got a choice. So it’s really not that surprising that pretty much anyone you talk to around here knows someone with fucking depression and/or some kind of addiction.”
Jughead’s mouth drops open slightly, trying to come up with something to say, trying to pick any one out of the mess of thoughts whirling around in his head, but Sweet Pea’s not done talking, yet, and Jughead doesn’t get a chance to.
“This?” Sweet Pea says, his hand coming up to draw a circle into the air with his index finger, indicating the trailer and Jughead and the larger situation at hand. “Is nothing new. You’re not actually that special, Jones. My mom’s worse. Fangs’ dad is an addict and in jail and his uncle tried to blow out his brains a year or so ago. Only reason it didn’t work is because his shotgun jammed. And Toni? Her best friend back when she was still living out of town with her dad actually killed herself. Around here, life is shit. That’s just what you get. You didn’t invent suffering you know? But that’s why it’s so important we stick together. The Serpents are a family. And we look out for our own. ‘No Serpent stands alone’. No matter what.”
The words sink into Jughead like little daggers, twisting in his chest, sharp and ruthless, even though they’re spoken so flatly, so matter-of-fact. He can feel the lump moving up into his throat, the way his chest tightens around the harsh flare of pain, hands clutching at the carpet uselessly as his eyes start to burn, pressure building up behind them and he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to fucking break down in front of Sweet Pea of all people, but he can’t stop himself, can’t stop the tears from leaking out or the way his chest constricts on every shuddering breath, making it hitch awfully. He just doesn’t know what to do with any of it.
“Ah, fuck.” Sweet Pea mutters, actually sounding a bit uncomfortable now, and Jughead screws his eyes shut and presses his face against his knees, doing his best to cover himself, when trying to stop himself from crying proves all but impossible. It doesn’t just feel like his own pain weighing him down, it feels like the fucked-up state of the world around him settling in over the top of that as well, until it seems almost impossible to breathe around. How the hell is anything ever supposed to be OK again? And he knows he’s being an idiot, and overly dramatic, and irresponsible, but that doesn’t really change a thing about the way he feels right now.
Jughead flinches, when a warm weight suddenly settles across his shoulders, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s Sweet Pea’s arm. Pulling Jughead in closer until he’s wedged up against Sweet Pea’s side, tilting towards him precariously. And his first impulse is to jerk away, to put a decent amount of distance between them again, but, embarrassingly, the impulse that follows just seconds after, is one to lean closer. To borrow himself into the offered warmth and solidity of Sweet Pea’s awkward embrace, the comfort that he’s offering, no matter how embarrassing that would be. In the end, he does neither, remains frozen as he is, tears soaking into the knees of his sweatpants and refusing to stop.
Distantly, Jughead is aware of another set of feet padding closer, the rustle of cloth as someone else moves nearby, then another body pressing in against his shins, arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders and back, crossing over Sweet Pea’s. The soft scent of Toni’s perfume drifting in through his semi-clogged nose, her hair tickling the bare skin of his arms as it falls around him like a curtain. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to either, when she’s right there like that.
Without thinking, Jughead tilts his head until his face is pressed against her shoulder instead of his knees, and his arms come up to wrap around her, hands fisting into the fabric of her top as he sobs out a wet breath. And he remembers that night after his initiation, Toni soft and warm as she leaned into him, her kiss and touch a comfort he’d fallen into so readily. But there’s nothing sexual about it now, all trace of that gone, leaving behind only the innocent warmth of her embrace.
The front door opens loudly, someone stomping in, accompanied by the sound of paper bags being crinkled, and Fangs’ voice sounds out through the trailer. “Hey, I’m back. I got food!”
The paper bags rustle again, then the thump of shoes hitting the carpet and socked feet approaching ,and Jughead can’t help but duck his head a little, press his face a bit more firmly into Toni’s shoulder.
“Oh, hey! A group hug!” Fangs exclaims, his voice loud this close, the excitement in it almost jarring with the state that Jughead is in right now. And the next thing Jughead knows, there’s a dull thud right next to him, knees hitting the floor, and then another weight drapes over his back and side, knocking the breath right out of his aching lungs.
“Oof, Fangs!” Toni mutters, sounding a tad breathless herself, but she doesn’t make a move to pull away.
They’re heavy, all of them, and it should be claustrophobic and uncomfortable and demeaning, but for some reason it’s not. It’s like their bodies are forming a cocoon of warmth around him, like blankets only heavier and more solid, more real, more alive. And it hurts so fucking badly, he’s shaking with it, unable to stop the tears no matter how much he wants to. Because he’s used to being alone. He’s been alone for so goddamn long, and he doesn’t want this. It’s new and too much, too intense, and he doesn’t want to be weak enough to need it.
But at the same time, he’s holding on as tightly as he can, clinging with all he’s worth, and he doesn’t think there’s a thing in the world that could make him let go right now.
Jughead has no idea how long they sit there like that, how long it takes until the tears run dry and he manages to calm down again, although it feels like a really long time. Eventually, Jughead manages to make himself let go of Toni, and somehow that’s the sign for everyone to start untangling themselves and straighten up. His legs ache and his ass has gone numb and he still feels heavy and dull and like there’s too much hurt to safely contain trapped inside of his chest, but somehow he finds himself caring just a tiny bit less about all of it. He feels more solid. Less like a ghost and more like an actual person, closer to that vague memory of who he’s supposed to be that’s still stuck at the back of his mind.
Toni sits back on her heels across from him, a sad little smile pulling at her lips as she watches Jughead wipe his face clumsily with the sleeve of his t-shirt, trying futilely to regain some form of composure and dignity. Sweet Pea is the only one still touching him, his hand resting carefully in between Jughead’s shoulder blades, and somehow Jughead feels grateful for it. Like Sweet Pea’s palm pressing softly down on his spine is what’s keeping him grounded, keeping him from losing his footing again and floating off like a helium filled balloon with its string cut.
“Sooo, about that food...” Fangs chimes in and Jughead glances over to find an expectant expression on his face, eyebrows wagging up and down as he grins, and Jughead can’t help snorting in amusement. Almost a little taken aback at Fangs’ enthusiasm. But yeah, maybe food actually does sound pretty good.
They all groan as they sort out stiff limbs and heave themselves onto their feet, Jughead with some help from both Fangs and Sweet Pea, and even as Sweet Pea’s hand drops away for good, their warmth still lingers. Nobody says a word about any of what just happened and Jughead is weirdly grateful.
~*~*~
“Food” turns out to be burgers and fries, onion rings and milkshakes, in abundance, all from Pop’s of course. They set up in the living room, all four of them somehow managing to squeeze onto the couch together. It’s cramped and a little uncomfortable, but Jughead can’t bring himself to mind, Sweet Pea pressing in on him on one side and Toni on the other.
The food is good, that much Jughead can say, even if it tastes duller than he remembers and he can’t quite glean the same joy from it as he normally would. He eats slowly and quietly, lethargy making his limbs feel heavier than he’s used to and his stomach forcing him to take it easy and focus on chewing thoroughly, if he wants to keep his meal down after so long going without. The others chat and joke around as they eat, like things are normal, like this is just another day of having lunch together in the cafeteria at Southside High, and Jughead lets them, sitting quietly and listening to them bicker distractedly.
The light seeping in through the windows of the trailer is taking on the hues of dusk, growing dimmer slowly, and Jughead, now that his stomach is full and he’s got no more tears left to shed, wrung out and beat, can feel fatigue pull at his eyelids, weighing down his body so much more strongly. He lets himself slump against the backrest of the couch, head lulling precariously and eyes slipping shut as he continues to float around in the chatter of his friends’ voices that fill up the space around him.
He drifts in and out for a while, bright laughter, a word spoken just a bit too loudly, pulling him back from the edge of sleep every now and again, and all the while he waits for them to realize that it’s getting kind of late and that they have school tomorrow and that it’s about time to make their excuses and go. Leaving Jughead behind with a clean kitchen, leftovers from Pop’s, the lingering memory of their warmth, and the horrible, crushing loneliness lurking just at the edge of it all. Waiting with bated breath for the moment the door to his trailer falls shut behind them to sink its claws back into him. Tear at him all the more harshly for the short bit of reprieve he’s been granted now.
And he dreads that, knows exactly what it will feel like. Fears the slowly falling night even more, the heavy darkness of it, that quiet blanket of despair he can already sense just waiting to wrap itself around him and resume its relentless choke-hold, ready to wring the life right out of him. Because that’s what this thing inside of him is, that broken, malfunctioning part of him. It won’t get better until he gets his hands on his fucking meds, and even then it’ll take a while. Somehow, he feels like crying again, but he tries his best to bite back on the sting of it, vowing to make himself hold out until they’re gone, at least. He figures he’s embarrassed himself enough today as it is. No need for any more fucking dramatics right now.
It takes him a moment to realize that it has grown oddly quiet around him and he blinks his eyes open only to find the three of them looking at him, varying amounts of concern on their faces. Jughead squirms in his seat a little, uncomfortable with being at the center of their attention like that when it feels like all of his defenses are down or malfunctioning. While at the same time trying hard to steel himself, because this it, this is where it ends.
“You look pretty tired, man.” Fangs says, a frown plastered across his features as he takes in Jughead’s state. “Maybe a good time to call it a day, huh?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Jughead forces the words out, even as they leave a bitter taste behind on his tongue. He lifts a heavy hand to wipe it across his face, but it does nothing to dispel the fatigue that’s sunken its hooks into his bones and is pulling at him relentlessly.
Toni and Sweet Pea exchange a look over Jughead’s head that he’s too weary to try and decipher, then Toni turns to him again. “We’ll pick your meds up for you tomorrow, OK? Bring them by after school.” Toni says, resolve thick in her voice, and Jughead feels a strange mix of gratitude and shame settle in his stomach. “Text me the address of the pharmacy?”
“Yeah.” Jughead repeats, feeling himself sink deeper into the worn, lumpy old cushions of the couch. Even now, with all of the effort he’s put into cleaning them, they still carry the faint scent of alcohol, sharp and biting underneath the sweeter note of the air-freshener he’d sprayed on them so liberally a while back. Artificial vanilla and orchid blossoms and spills of cheap whiskey and stale beer all mixing together, calling back memories he’d really rather not get sucked into right now.
“OK.” Toni says, some of that sadness and worry sneaking back into her eyes and Jughead drops his gaze to his lap, where his hands are resting laxly, just to not have to be confronted with it. To not be reminded of her pain on top of his own. He knows that’s selfish, but he can’t do any better right now, he just doesn’t have it in him.
“Alright, let’s do this.” Fangs chimes in, the cushions shifting and resettling when he gets up off of the couch and stretches, joints popping, pulling a grimace as they do. Toni and Sweet Pea mutter agreement and make to follow Fangs. They bustle around, picking up the leftovers and stuffing them into the fridge, tossing the remaining evidence of their shared meal into the trash, grabbing their shoes and their jackets and shrugging them on. Until all trace of them is gone from the trailer, the only thing left behind is absence in different shapes.
The absence of used dishes in the sink, of clutter on the coffee table. The absence of the hunger that’d been gnawing at him for the past days. The absence of their warmth and their presence. All wrapped together into a complicated bow of emotion Jughead doesn’t have the energy to even try and pick apart to make sense of. All he knows is that it hurts.
“Do you need anything else for now?” Toni asks, her face hovering in front of his, snapping Jughead out of his daze. He shakes his head ‘no’, not sure what else to do, and tries to ignore the way the corners of her mouth droop down as she watches him.
“We’ll be back, alright? You’re not dealing with this shit alone.” She goes on to say, determination thick in her voice, her eyes narrowed at him, as if she’s trying to beat the meaning of her words into him with just her gaze. Jughead swallows thickly around the lump in his throat and lets his eyes slip away from hers, off to the side, into the distance over her shoulder.
“Sure.” He mutters, willing them to leave already, the pressure in his chest and behind his eyes rising inexorably, becoming harder to bear with every new breath he’s forced to take. Jughead can see Toni’s mouth turn down unhappily out of the corner of his eye just so and maybe he’s being an asshole here, but he doesn’t fucking know what to do about it.
“Alright.” She mutters and straightens up.
Jughead doesn’t watch them leave. He can’t make himself. He just sits there and waits, staring at the wall across from him, so very familiar by now, and waits until he hears the door to the trailer click shut one final time.
Then he lets out the shaky breath he’d been holding and sinks into himself, like a doll who’s strings have been cut. Curls up and cants sideways until he’s laying on this side on the couch, knees tucked up against his chest and hands coming up to press against the closed lids of his eyes. As if that’ll be enough to keep the tears in. God, he hates himself so much when he’s like this. Stupid and pathetic and weak and overly dramatic to the point of being fucking ridiculous. Unable to function the way he’s supposed to, the way he needs to.
He hates everything about it with a hopeless sort of intensity and he knows he can’t make it go away or change it. All he can do is wait it out, take his meds, slowly learn how to be a semi-regular person again. Figure out how to piece his life back together as his eyes try to adjust back to the light after being trapped in this darkness for too long.
He should make himself get up, drag himself to bed at least, try to get some real sleep. Maybe he will feel better tomorrow. Maybe he’ll somehow be that lucky. He just needs to shut himself up for long enough to drift off. Ignore the fading light and the sense of isolation and dread that keeps building, ignore all of those memories of past failures and betrayal slowly starting to crowd in on him as he lies there with nothing else to do but think. Ignore the pain and the self-loathing and that horrible, malicious little voice inside of his head that grows stronger and louder with the falling dark. Whispering strings of shadow that cage in around his heart, whispering hopelessness and despair and a slow, creeping cold that feels like it’s made to freeze him right down to his core. The fear that comes along with it.
Jughead inhales the smell that rises up out of the cushions to greet him like an old friend, lulling him in, dragging him further down that spiral into a pit with now bottom, fingers digging into the rough fabric harshly.
He has no idea how long he lays there like that, chest hitching and face sticky wet, time a strange, murky thing that stretches and snaps in ways it normally shouldn’t, but it’s the sound of his front door opening again, that finally jerks him out of it. Jughead scrambles to sit up, reaching for them hem of his t-shirt and wiping it across his face frantically, trying to hide the traces of his breakdown. Maybe he should really start locking his fucking door, a slightly panicky little voice at the back of his head supplies unhelpfully, as he watches Sweet Pea step into the trailer once again, wearing his boots and his leather jacket over a t-shirt and sweats of his own, his school bag slung over his shoulder. The combination strange enough to make Jughead blink and stare stupidly.
Sweet Pea steps to the side and after him, Toni and Fangs file in as well, both of them in a similar getup, boots and leathers over sleepwear.
Sweet Pea drops his bag by the door and turns until his gaze finds Jughead, a frown creeping onto his face as he takes Jughead in, sitting alone in the dark, red-faced and puffy eyed and miserable. After a moment, holding Jughead’s gaze in a way that makes Jughead all too conscious of the extra heat creeping into his cheeks, embarrassed still, despite everything that’s already happened today, Sweet Pea huffs out a sigh and crosses his arms in front of his broad chest.
“What are you doing?” Sweet Pea mutters and all Jughead can do is blink at him.
“What – why are you –?” Jughead stammers, feeling like an absolute idiot, but too blindsided to make much sense of himself.
“I said we’d be back?” Toni appears in Jughead’s field of vision, boots and jacket gone, that same look of determination set firmly onto her features, accentuated by a soft frown.
Oh.
Somehow, that’s not what he’d expected at all. She reaches out a hand and he’s perplexed enough to take it, makes a surprised little sound at the back of his throat when she uses that grip to pull him to his feet, so much more strength behind the motion than Jughead would have expected from someone with a frame like hers. “You look like shit, Juggie.”
With that she turns around, using her grip on Jughead’s hand to pull him along, not leaving him any time to digest her words. The first time she’d called him that had been awkward, a strange kind of tension settling between them. One that culminated in the night after initiation. Back when she’d had nowhere to go and he’d offered for her to stay without hesitation. But it’s different now. That strange tension is gone, the memory of her touch pleasant, not awkward, but without the expectation of a repeat performance. This is something else entirely.
This is him lost and alone and her the one offering something he needs so desperately but couldn’t possibly bring himself to ask for. Not just her, though, them. Because while Jughead clumsily stumbles along as she pulls him towards his bedroom, Fangs and Sweet Pea file after them, and something unexpected and so intense it makes it difficult to drag air into his lungs for a moment pulls his chest tight. A warmth that bursts open and spreads like a pocket of hot air inside of him.
To his surprise, Jughead finds his bed with fresh sheets on it and he spends a moment standing there stupidly and just staring at it as Toni lets go of his hand flops down onto the mattress, scooting over towards the middle.
“Come on, don’t make this awkward, asshole.” Sweet Pea mutters and shoves at Jughead’s shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble another step closer to the bed. Head spinning and half-convinced that he fell asleep on his couch and he’s actually dreaming the whole fucking thing. It’s so surreal he has no idea what to do with it.
Sweet Pea grabs Jughead’s shoulders, big hands firm as his fingers dig into Jughead’s muscles through his t-shirt, and he pushes Jughead forward, leaving Jughead no choice but to let him, but to crawl onto the mattress, if he doesn’t want to face-plant onto it, just as Fangs slips in on Toni’s other side. Toni, who holds up the blanket so that Jughead can shimmy underneath, the mattress dipping again as Sweet Pea gets on after him.
It’s honestly ridiculous and Jughead has no fucking clue why the hell they all feel the need to sleep here instead of camping out on the couches in the living room like normal people – not to mention that he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that they’re doing this at all. The bed is just so big enough to fit two people comfortably, but not four. There’s not enough space, Toni’s on her back, with Fangs plastered along her side, one arm and one leg thrown over her body to keep himself from falling off of the edge of the mattress. Jughead tries to maintain a decent amount of distance, but all that gets him is Sweet Pea huffing out an annoyed breath and straight up manhandling Jughead until he’s lying on his side, crowding in on Toni in a way that makes it impossible not to touch.
Jughead makes a startled, slightly more high-pitched than he’s comfortable with, sound in the back of his throat, which drags a laugh from Toni, and she extends her arm, wedges it underneath Jughead’s head and pulls until his cheek is resting on her shoulder, one of her legs draped over both of his. And the next thing Jughead knows, Sweet Pea is slotting in along his back, big and imposing and yep, that’s definitely Sweet Pea’s arm slung over Jughead’s middle, fingers moving to cover Fangs’ where they brush against Jughead’s stomach.
Jughead has no idea what to do with his hands, no matter where he puts them it’s awkward, and eventually he just admits defeat and leaves them where they’ve landed last, one of his arms wedged between himself and Toni’s side, the other draped over her stomach, fingers loosely wrapped around Fangs’ elbow. His head spinning with the futile attempts of trying to process what the hell exactly is happening here Jughead presses his heated face into Toni’s shoulder harder, trying – probably in vain – to hide the furious blush on his cheeks. This is impossible and embarrassing and Jughead should really fucking protest and try to talk some sense back into these people, because like hell anyone’s using actual logic here.
But for some reason, he doesn’t.
He just lies there soaking it all up. The quiet, steady sound of their breathing, their scents as they mix with that of the clean sheets, their warmth as it builds around him, forming that same cocoon it had earlier. The softness of the skin he’s touching and the solidness of the bodies underneath, real and alive. The ticklish sensation of hair brushing against the tip of his nose.
For the first time since Betty, Jughead doesn’t feel alone. Because that would be absolutely impossible like this. He feels like he’s a part of something, something bigger than he himself understands quite yet. And the weight of that knowledge wraps around him like an extra blanket.
Slowly, the warmth of the bodies plastered against his seeps into him, uncaring of his reluctance to accept it, touching places he keeps so well guarded he sometimes forgets about them himself. Right into the core of him, where all of the hurt and the heaviness and numbness sit. Weaving around the wrongness like cotton softening the edges of the splinters wedged there and it feels like he can actually breathe around the pain again, more deeply than he has in days. It’s so strange and unfamiliar and Jughead doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t feel even remotely like he’s got the capacity to figure it out right now.
But maybe that’s OK, maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe this really is something that’s being given freely, no strings attached that will come back to haunt him later.
And even with all that, Jughead’s not stupid or delusional enough to think that this will miraculously solve his problems or somehow “fix” him. That’s not how it works. It’s not just going to go away. He’ll still need his meds and he’ll have to work to get back to his old self. It’ll be a process. Painstaking and slow, frustrating setbacks lurking around each new bend. The thought alone is enough to make his chest pull tighter again and so he pushes it away for now, startled by the fact that he actually can.
Because his friends are here with him and for once his mind is quiet, filled only with the steady rise and fall of Toni’s stomach beneath his arm, the low murmur of Fangs’ voice as he drifts off toward sleep, Sweet Pea’s breath gusting through his hair in rhythmic little huffs. It’s somehow enough to let him settle the knowledge inside of him that he’s going to make it through the night in one piece and that’s actually more than he’d dared hope for.
Despite the discomfort of the weird position he’s in, Jughead falls asleep easily for the first time in days, feeling safe and secure like he didn’t know he could. He’ll deal with tomorrow once it’s there.
~*~*~