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Jughead used to love food. He wishes he still did. But now, the burgers and milkshakes and everything he used to find comfort in just remind him of what he used to have, everything he's lost.
The smell of grease and salt come laden with memories of a time when he and Archie were so close, sitting in Pop's at every time of day and laughing under neon signs and being best friends, strong and inseparable.
It used to make him happy.
It used to be the only way he could imagine them, in their own private bubble of warmth and light.
But he's cold now. His appetite is gone, has been since Archie's been gone. He's not sure if it'll ever be back. Or if Archie will. If the wound of being left will ever scab over or heal, if he'll ever look at diner food and feel anything but a hollow sense of loss, the creeping edge of nausea.
He's trembling hands and an empty stomach, and he doesn't feel quite whole anymore, like he's starting to disappear. A transparent boy, finally an excuse for Archie to look right through him.
He feels like he hasn't moved in months, fused himself to vinyl seating like a lifeline, retreated into the darkest corner. He's watched Archie walk in, seen him sit down with Betty or Veronica or both of them, ripped his own heart out staring at Archie smile without him, laugh without him, be fine without him.
He's seen Archie bite into burgers and felt sickness well up in him, betrayed by both of the things he loved most.
In those moments, he needed to be far away, to run, to vomit, but instead he sat still. He breathed in, and felt everything inside him caving in. Breathed out his racing thoughts, everything he could've said but didn't.
Inhale, exhale, go through the motions. Pretend he's not breaking.
Imagine every apology he doesn't owe, every scenario where Archie decides he's worth the effort to reconnect.
Wait until Archie leaves, then let it get to him. Let the memories be too much. Let the sight and the smell of a stranger's food across the shop bring up every moment of loneliness, let it build, let the nausea well up.
Think about Archie and feel everything shatter all over again.
Get up and vomit.
So he doesn't eat, pushes down the sickness, tries his best not to think about the past.
He orders black coffee now, writes his novel, and lets his chest and his stomach ache.
-
Jughead's getting better. They're getting better.
Archie apologized.
Archie asked if they could be friends again, and he found himself saying "Over many burgers, and many days", without thinking, without getting his words caught on his sickness for the first time in months, and the implication that he hadn't changed at all was laughable.
It was a complete lie, but he couldn't help but be amazed at his brain's willingness to overwrite what he'd done to himself.
Maybe he could change back, maybe he could put this behind him.
Archie had no idea. Didn't even suspect anything had been wrong with Jughead during the months they hadn't spoken.
He'd tell him, sometime. When things weren't so fragile, maybe, or just when he needed Archie most. When he needed to hear that Archie wasn't going to leave him again.
For now, he was going to go back to himself. He was determined to make himself right again.
-
The time to tell Archie comes sooner rather than later.
The first time they hang out again, as it goes.
He thought he could do it, he really did, but he's sitting across the booth from Archie and it's going great and they're reminiscing and bridging the gaps in their memories from summer, filling each other in on their lives, and then their food comes.
Their waiter slides Jughead's plate across the table toward him with a smile and he freezes. He can't stop staring at it blankly, can't fight the hollow, panicky feeling growing in his chest even though Archie is right there, there's no reason for him to be upset.
Archie is right there, right across from him, and now he's looking at him with so much concern Jughead doesn't want to meet his eyes.
He should've known it wouldn't be this easy.
"Jug.... is everything okay?"
It's a question, but the tone of Archie's voice says that he already knows the answer.
"Actually, now that you mention it, no. I hate this song,"
He attempts, grateful for the soft pop music barely audible in the quiet diner, letting him delay the inevitable for at least a little longer.
But he knows his voice is wavering, and he still hasn't looked up. If he looked up, Archie would see the tears gathering in his eyes.
He's trying to maintain some semblance of calm, trying to push everything back down inside himself where it belongs.
He just wanted to be normal again. To have a good night with Archie like old times.
He didn't expect this to be so hard.
There's a pause, a long stretch of still silence, and he can feel Archie's eyes wandering over his face, searching. After what feels like an eternity, Jughead glances up to see horrified realization written on Archie's face, and he knows Archie just now noticed how much he looks like shit.
He knows the dark circles around his eyes look like fresh bruises against his pale skin, that his cheeks are slightly sunken, that even with a hoodie underneath, he's swimming in his jacket that fit him perfectly last fall. He knows he looks much more like a cheap dracula knock-off than a healthy teenage boy.
When he finally speaks again, Archie's voice is gentle.
"Jughead. Are you.... have you.... been eating?"
He's connected all the pieces, leaving Jughead nowhere to hide.
Even after all this time apart, Archie would know if he lied.
"No."
It comes out like a whisper, a confession he never wanted to give.
His hands are in his lap and he's staring at them now, focusing on his own nervous fidgeting so he doesn't have to see Archie's reaction or look at the burger going cold in front of him.
There are tears falling onto his palms, and his vision is blurring, and he can feel a sob threatening to rise out of his throat.
His hair is falling in front of his face, and he hopes he doesn't look like as much of a mess as he feels.
Maybe Archie will just ignore the fact that he's crying and let everything just. Reset, let them both forget this ever happened, that he ever had to know the extent of Jughead's damage.
No such luck.
While he was busy trying to hide his tear-streaked face, Archie had slid out of his side of the booth, was now kneeling on the floor next to Jughead.
Archie reaches a hand out for one of Jughead's, gently uncurling his tense fingers and slotting their hands together.
Jughead lifts his face to look at his best friend, and he knows he must look like a mess, but all he can see in Archie's face is concern and genuine sadness.
Softly, Archie asks "Why?", and Jughead barks out a short, bitter laugh that makes Archie flinch.
"Why do you think?"
Jughead's words have more than a little venom in them, and he doesn't want to fight, but he's just so tired.
Of lying to himself, to Archie. Of pretending that everything can just be exactly like it was, like they can forget the summer ever happened and like they can ignore what tore them apart and like it didn't break him into smaller pieces than he knew possible.
And he can't help but start sobbing, every emotion he'd pushed down erupting out of him all at once in violent bursts and ragged wails and he's hyperventilating between every frantic gasp and Archie is standing and wrapping his arms around Jughead and pulling him sideways into his chest and holding him and letting him soak his shirt with tears and snot like none of that matters to him, and eventually Jughead's sobbing calms to quiet whimpering and he can finally catch his breath.
They sit there for a long time, Archie next to him in the booth rubbing Jughead's back, Jughead's face still pressed into Archie's chest, and he's just breathing, still shaking but slowly coming back to himself.
Their food is still untouched, their issues still unresolved, but they will try again.
Jughead will try again.