Work Text:
THEN
This is the story he grows up to hear: a curse is placed upon a man, who passes it down to his daughter, who passes it down to her chid. It’s expected, unavoidable — inherited by the firstborn and given away to the next generation. No amount of planning ahead gives way to an exit, the kind of magic that cannot be overridden or replaced.
This is the story he grows up to learn: a true love’s kiss will put the curse on hold until it’s time for the next generation to pass its threshold, so on and so forth, but the curse can only be delayed, never broken. As was his grandfather’s destiny, so was his father’s, so will be his, eventually.
This is the story no one talks about: a firstborn becomes a vessel for sacrifice of the kind no one ever truly acknowledges, because dying for love is far too cruel to be spoken of.
NOW
Jughead’s expression is serene in a way everyone who’s known him for longer than five minutes can acknowledge is unnatural. Sweet Pea — who’s known him his whole life — can barely look at him without anger rearing its ugly head.
He’s not entirely sure what he’s angry about, because none of this was unexpected. A magical unbreakable curse is just the kind of thing one learns to expect from a Jones, because that’s what they’re known for. FP might wear a crown, and the Serpents respect him above all else, but he’s never tried hiding the truth of it from anyone. Eternal sleep is the collateral damage Jughead would never be able to escape from, one he could never hope to evade.
Maybe that’s what gets Sweet Pea the most: a curse is not something he can fight against. He’s not a natural born spellcaster like Toni, never learned how to use runes, and even if he did, this is not something he could’ve stopped. Jughead was always meant to fall asleep and never wake up, a weight put upon his shoulders by the nature of being firstborn of a cursed king, and there’s absolutely nothing someone like Sweet Pea could’ve done to stop it.
It still bothers him, is the problem. The stillness, the quiet — from the first time he saw him Jughead’s only ever been a stubborn, annoying know-it-all, so busy on his high horse of righteousness Sweet Pea had spent the entirety of their first encounters doing everything he could to get him out of it. They got along like a house on fire, and Sweet Pea feels wrong-footed in the silence that comes from having his best friend fated to eternal slumber by a foe he can neither fight nor conquer.
He stands guard by his bedside, knight armor gleaming under candlelight, and wishes, selfishly, that Jughead was born anything but the King’s son.
BEFORE
On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, Jughead doesn’t wear his whoopee cap.
It’s a victory for his mother, who’s always attempting to remind him how unseemly and unroyal it looks to dress like a commoner, but strange for everyone who knows how much he loves the ugly thing. Sweet Pea himself has to stop the immediate, almost instinctual urge to tease him about it — one look at Jughead’s mouth tells him of discomfort strong enough not to be hidden, and so Sweet Pea swallows the mockery before it can get past his lips.
No one actually expects Jughead to be productive the day before what might as well be certain death, but Jughead’s bull-headed like his father and sticks to routine like he’ll stop the curse through sheer force of will. If there’s someone that could, that someone is Jughead, but Sweet Pea doesn’t dwell too much on that, because he’s too busy trying to force himself into not thinking about it.
There’s nothing Sweet Pea wishes more than the curse to be lifted. There’s nothing he wishes more than to have something, anything to come up and stop it, end it before it can ever truly begin. There’s a chance, small as it may be, that a solution shows itself before things can get bad, but Sweet Pea’s not putting his hopes on that — he’d rather pretend he can’t see the storm coming, this one time, and he doesn’t seem to be alone in that.
The one and only time Jughead’s composure cracks is far into the night, when the weight of companionship shifts into something far too heavy for them to name. He’s twisting the whoopee cap in his hands, knuckles white, eyes low. It’s late enough that Sweet Pea should leave him be — bid him goodnight, make himself scarce, stay by the door while he waits for a miracle he knows won’t come to be.
He doesn’t. His feet, rooted on the ground, refuse to lead him away.
“Stay with me?”
Always, Sweet Pea doesn’t say — can’t bring himself to, words rotting into his mouth before he gets to try them. It’s duty and punishment both, being fully aware he wouldn’t, couldn’t ever leave, even if ordered. Jughead doesn’t need to carry that on top of everything else.
“Until you wake up.” he promises.
Jughead’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Until I wake up.”
THEN
Jughead is a child spoiled by circumstance and single-minded by nature, used to getting his way by order or impertinence, and the first evening they spend together causes irreparable damage to some of the Crown’s most prized furniture.
Sweet Pea’s mother is horrified, of course, pulls on his ear until he’s almost forehead to the ground in an attempt to apologize for something he refuses to take any fault in, but the King takes one look at irreplaceable burned furniture and the prince’s soot-covered face and laughs himself silly. It’s a reaction so out of the ordinary, even for such an easy-going royal, that Sweet Pea’s mother forgets she’s furious at him for the sake of staring, caught off guard.
It’s the first time Sweet Pea causes unintentional trouble, but it’s certainly not the last — having his firstborn roughhousing is unexpected in a way that puts FP in a forgiving mood, willing to overlook damage in favor of getting himself acquainted with the family whose kid managed to make Jughead forgo courtly manners entirely.
They never quite let go of each other, after that.
BEFORE
Betty Cooper is called when they reach the seventh day.
It’s an obvious solution, of course. She’s kind and has a temper in her, with eyes far too innocent to be the all-seeing eyes Sweet Pea knows them to be. More than that, she has something no one else can claim: Jughead’s undoubted adoration. He loves her to bits, never tried hiding it, was never ashamed to sing her praises, and he’s been like that for years.
It makes sense. Sweet Pea may ache with it, may loathe himself for even considering stepping away for a minute, but it makes sense. And so he stays, with the ache and the discomfort and the anger, and waits for it to be over.
Betty leans in, presses her lips to Jughead’s — stays for a second, and then another.
The curse stays.
Sweet Pea looks away, heart heavy with guilt and relief in equal measure.
THEN
Jughead wears a whooppee cap that is both ugly and silly — far too big when he’s a kid, slipping down his eyes and ears and making him prone to tripping, but doesn’t look nearly as bad when he grows into it. His mother loathes the thing, would probably burn it away in a pyre if she could, but knowing how much Jughead cherishes it stops her from acting upon that desire.
Sweet Pea teases him, because of course he does. If his primary duty is to make sure no physical harm will ever come to the Serpent Prince, then he takes it upon himself to humble him a little. Following him around doesn’t equal to catering to his every whim, even if Sweet Pea does suck at denying Jughead anything.
The cap had been something of a joke, something to tease him about — playing about Jughead’s refusal to wear a crown, gifting him something Sweet Pea had been sure would be thrown out before the day came to an end. Jughead kept it, instead, and it became his most treasured companion.
Every time Sweet Pea looks at him his heart becomes a little tighter in his chest.
NOW
On the eve of the tenth day, Sweet Pea’s steadfastness breaks.
He swore an oath to King and Queen both, to protect and serve, but he was a kid first — orbiting around Jughead, following him before he had the words to name the beast that lives beneath his ribs, clamoring for things it knows it can’t have. He swore an oath, he took a mantle, but a promise had been made when his hands had learned to cradle before they did holding a sword.
Jughead has been fed and cleaned every day since the curse took hold, but no amount of care is able to hide the way his cheeks have started hollowing, the paleness of his face. Sweet Pea’s trembling fingers trace the line of his jaw, push the hair away from his face, wishing more than anything else that he never had anything to prove.
If this doesn’t work, you owe me, he thinks, childishly, too terrified to consider the thought fully but unwilling to trust this blindly. If this doesn’t work, heartbreak will be the last of his problems, and probably not something Sweet Pea will ever truly face until he has no other option. Jughead has the uncanny skill to make everything harder for him even when he’s not trying to, which is something that probably shouldn’t endear him to Sweet Pea the way it does.
If this doesn't work, you owe me, he thinks, because heartbreak will still be better than disappointment, better than guilt, better than having to face the possibility of never getting to hear him again, to tease him, to talk to him. Jughead's the one thing Sweet Pea refuses to give up on.
He wishes he had thought this through, that he had planned this better. Beggars can't be choosers, but Sweet Pea thinks he'd rather have this be underwhelming and have it work than any other option — even if they never talk about it, even if it never amounts to anything. Having a choice at all will be better than spending the rest of his life miserable, wondering if things could’ve been different, had he been a little braver.
Jughead’s expression is peaceful, no lines of tension in his brow, no lips pressed in displeasure, no spark of curiosity in the tilt of his head. Everything Sweet Pea’s known, everything he’s loved, stripped away to leave serenity behind. There’s not even a smidge of annoyance when he leans in, nothing but the quiet and steady rise and fall of Jughead’s chest, breath barely making a sound.
Sweet Pea presses his lips to Jughead’s — stays for a second, and then another.
Hope is a cruel, vengeful mistress.
The curse stays—
— and then it doesn’t.
Jughead surges forward with a sharp breath, Sweet Pea pulling back just in time to avoid accidentally butting heads. It’s a little funny, if nothing else, Jughead’s wide eyes as color rushes back to his face, and Sweet Pea swallows the lump in his throat so he can favor the teasing rising up his mouth, halfway out his lips before he gets to think them through.
He never gets to say it, never gets to utter a single word. Jughead’s surprise melts away into something gentle, entire face warm, the sun upon which Sweet Pea’s entire life orbits.
“I knew it was going to be you.”
Later, there’ll be time for teasing — for asking, for aching, for comforting. Later, Sweet Pea will have to bend the knee and explain himself, dig out his heart and expose a truth he spent his entire life pretending not to know. Later, the story will grow: a cursed prince who finds absolution in the mouth of his sworn protector, never to be kept apart.
Now, Sweet Pea leans in, the whole world in his arms, and kisses Jughead breathless.