vague continuation of the oneshot before lol

it's 3am I'm sorry

it's 5:28 a.m., the sky is a tentative shade of blue, as if the morning is yet to be sure of itself, and they are both awake.

archie is running laps. jughead, as always, is watching.

yet at once, watching is a thing he is allowed to do.

there almost seems little fun in it anymore: taking all that is given to him upon a spoon, but he's resigned himself to comfort and ease, and mornings which he chooses for himself. for if anything can be said, it was not archie who dragged jughead out of bed at 5 in the morning to watch him run across the school field; his skin gathering dust and sweat.

yet, in many ways, archie andrews was a magnet. sunlight glistened upon his skin, as if was him alone that coaxed it from over the horizon each morning. trouble came to him like a flock of birds returning home for summer. but most of all, archie attracted jughead's stares.

jughead was yet to quite get his mind around attraction. and thursday, 5:30 a.m., the school field, was neither the place nor the time. but archie andrews had kissed him. just days prior. and his head was buzzing. non-stop constantly.

he knows he doesn't acquaint himself with school field and the sunrise for fickle things: archie's chest, the flexing of his arms; things jughead knows he's supposed to find attractive. especially in someone like archie andrews.

truly jughead comes out to see the sunrise for the very same reason archie comes to run. for who they are. even in the early morning light, archie runs like he's got the whole world on his tail, and jughead is idle, watching.

perhaps, even, jughead is all that's tailing him.

he wonders if they should talk about that kiss. with long words and hand gestures. like people do on tv. the way his mind paints romance out to be. but still jughead is in this state where the word romance sounds wrong and twisted; he wants nothing of such a world.

yet if it brings a weight off archie's chest; or at the very least grants them both an extra hour in bed, jughead will slave himself away to awkward conversation and the fickle ideas of the soft-hearted.

-

it's 4:16 p.m., and the school day rings like an echo in his ears. he is living his life in reverbs and echoes alone, it seems; yet the prospect does not terrify him as it should. whatever 'should' might make itself out to be.

archie is all hands and eyes and animated conversation as he serves up a slice of himself for the whole room to devour. jughead, is forever, silent, arms-folded, watching.

pop's is busy. busy for a small town. yet busy enough to wire jughead entirely wrong. he misses solitude - it's an odd notion, but a stark one. for since their kiss, archie has seldom left his side. as if somehow, he fears that jughead will be the one to run from him, even with his lanky legs and sedentary lifestyle.

jughead is in the corner of the booth. his booth. he doesn't recall ever wanting to share it. archie is another matter entirely - even if he is pressed up against him, loud and yet so very distant. but directly adjacent from him sits betty cooper, eyes sparked bright with wonder, watching archie as if he was carved from marble; it's more than friendly adoration, jughead knows. it even seems simple. from a distance. objectively.

there is nothing objective about archie's hands around his waist and a smell of pine and summer sun that had thrown him for days.

in answer to his own problems, jughead ignores them. and instead plays the silent observer, for that is what he knows. just as archie knows smiles and loud conversations, and having every person in the room fall for him.

he is, at least, relieved to see, that veronica appears only mildly interested in archie's stories. it's a small comfort, for as curious as it seems, jughead finds himself following her eyes back to betty more than once in a while. he wonders if he is looking at that objectively, or if it's all wrong. for jughead wonders a lot about love, for a boy who claims not to care what it means.

kevin, even, is watching archie. but jughead knows kevin is otherwise preoccupied. with some guy jughead cares too little to know too much about. he imagines archie knows the world of him. for not only does archie talk. he listens.

and archie listens with the power for jughead to realise he suddenly has a world of what to say.

but now is hardly the time nor the place.

archie laughs.

it's exhilarating.

the booth laughs with him.

on archie's right, val smiles and loops her arm around his. the room watches her, all grace and charm, as she makes light of the gesture, and looks upon archie with playful adoration. yet amidst it all, at once, archie turns to look at him.

jughead looks up. squirms out of his skin.

archie smiles. desperate. apologetic.

like he's sorry that the room is falling in love with him.

jughead shakes his head. if he was sorry, he would stop. stop what? jughead doesn't know.

stop being so archie andrews. jughead supposes. but archie andrews has this burning golden spark to him that jughead would hate to see go.

so he plays nice, shakes out a smile, and turns his head back out to the table. but for the first time in his life, jughead isn't hungry anymore.

from the opposite corner of the booth there's a giggle. teasing. deliberate.

jughead is at breaking point. he almost wants to kiss archie again in front of everyone. just to make it stop. he's always been very belligerent about proving a point.

but cheryl blossom is not looking at archie, but at him. and her eyes speak not of adoration, but of mischief, running wild to the song of secrets.

jughead's heart is at the back of his throat.

she knows. she knows. she knows.

but cheryl looks down. and says nothing at all. and jughead is grateful, like he's never known grateful before. after all, he doesn't think he's ever waged away a secret so tumultuous before.

archie laughs. again. and it's like the banking of summer into fall.

jughead wants to put his fist through something. to spark an ache to rival the one plundering his chest. for it's this desperately soppy emotional thing that he doesn't for the life of him know what to do with.

-

it's 9:59 p.m., and they are shadows of people in the kitchen light. archie has left the fridge door open; it extends its tongue at the room in a jeer of fluorescent blue light. the cold hums away to itself, making light work of the thick summer air; the boys, in their state, are grateful.

archie's got ice in a glass of lemonade. it's neither half-way full, nor half-way empty; he is yet to even start it. but still jughead watches, expectantly; for something, somewhere, inside of him, rears its head as archie knocks the glass back against his lips, and the ice throws itself against his lips like it wants to leave bruises. jughead thinks he knows the feeling.

but jughead's got ice around his knuckles, bandaged tightly and still seeping red. he's never punched walls before. sixteen seems as good an age as any start.

but it doesn't help, for archie fusses over him like he's paralysed from the waist down, and jughead doesn't think he can survive much more of the way archie presses their shoulders together, leaning his head over, so close that jughead can taste it.

"also." jughead remarks; eyebrows thrown high, disquieted. "what are we going to tell your dad?"

archie inclines his head up to the ceiling, as if he can somehow feel the hole jughead left in his bedroom wall from here. perhaps it was always there. only now made physical.

he laughs.

it's nothing like at pop's. it's private. intimate. them.

whoever they are. whatever they mean.

jughead is allowed to look. allowed to smile. allowed to laugh right back with him. it maybe even feels right.

"maybe you should have thought about that before sending your fist into my wall, hey?" archie is amused, if not a little concerned. it's charming, as archie andrews tends to be.

jughead says nothing. for archie's got that look in his eyes from their night. and jughead might just be forever lost for words.

besides, his hand is numb up to his wrist. he should have more on his mind. now is hardly the place, hardly the time.

archie smiles. slides a half glass of lemonade across the counter to jug to finish, and closes the fridge door.

it seems, by gesture, it's up for him to decide whether things are half-empty, or half-full.

jughead downs it all before fate can prompt to make such a decision. he's scared. of long words and complicated answers to unfathomable questions. just as any teenage boy should be. for all he cares, fate can fuck off and come back another day.

he slams the glass back down on the table with a triumphant bang. and belches, loud, obnoxious, unafraid.

somehow, archie laughs.

only then is jughead sick to his stomach.

-

it's 3:33 a.m., jughead has died six times in his dreams. he wants out. he wants up. he wants away. darkness is no friend to him, even as archie sleeps, soundly, only metres away.

they don't share the bed. because archie still winks at girls, and sweats away his problems. and jughead is brooding and punches walls, and makes daytime entertainment for cheryl blossom. they don't share the bed because still, they sleep in entirely different worlds.

perhaps there's a wall between them. sixty feet high. for sometimes jughead thinks archie speaks in a language he can never understand.

it's a language that seems to revolve around girls and love, and what it means to blush. surprisingly, it's a language that veronica, too, seems to speak very well.

he rubs his eyes, and threw the darkness dares out to make out the crack his fist left in the wall. he's still not sure whether he's sorry or not. perhaps morning will tell.

but jughead seeks answers, even in the shadow of the moon, of nights that trace theirs in whispers, and hesitant dances. but now is neither the place, nor the time. for archie sleeps, like the mountain, like the trees. and jughead is a pebble at his feet, tossing and turning in the wind.

still, he knows that they'll wake in an hour and a half. and run through the motions of distant routines. jughead thinks he might even be delirious enough to find some comfort in that.

as a last thought before sleep drags him down by the hair on his neck, jughead dares to wonder if there might be a day he grows tired of watching, of being all eyes. if there's a day he might start running too.

yet there's this thing jughead fears about running; it comes back to archie, as all things do - for he fears that even with all his efforts, he'll never quite run fast enough to catch him.

-

it's 9:42 a.m., and cheryl blossom drags him by the collar and hauls him into an empty classroom like he's nothing more than a pebble caught on the heel of her stiletto.

jughead sighs: heavy yet complacent. he figures with this one, fate had even played nice.

the door clicks shut behind them. for they both know what this is about.

cheryl is smart. like a raven is resourceful.

and jughead just knows when and where to keep his mouth shut.

"archie andrews." she slings his name through her teeth like it's a trophy. either that or a curse. jughead is hesitant to figure which he would prefer.

she smiles. it's all lipstick and power: a spider web spun to the tune of incomprehensible chatter.

the way cheryl talks to him that friday, almost makes jughead angry that he never cared. cared enough to listen, to at least study the motions and workings of girls, as a biologist might study the innards of a frog.

jughead realises then, for the first time. that he pays the world little attention entirely. he resigns himself to archie's eyes alone, and it's then under cheryl's gaze, that he knows he was mistaken for ever believing that archie was on top of it.

he clears his throat.

"i'll keep your secret." she speaks like she hasn't quite decided whether her words are yet to form the truth or a lie.

it's devilish. intriguing.

jughead, for archie's sake, more than his own, hopes like hell she does.

"whatever that secret may be?" she inclines her head, a line throwing out bait.

he shakes his head: declining her of all to reel in. it's not the place. it's not the time.

and most of all, he knows, that it's not her business.

-

it's 8:44 a.m., a saturday. they stay in bed. neither awake nor asleep. something dreadful in between, like they don't quite have the time.

jughead drags his eyes across the room. he notes that archie's bed looks rather lonely in the morning light. it's a thought he doesn't know what to do with. yet one that wreaks havoc on his mind.

it's the cheryl blossom of thoughts it seems. for the girl is all knowing lipstick smiles that tug away at jug's insides like a sinking weight in his chest. because she's got it all wrong - definitely.

cheryl blossom thinks they're together. it's an early morning revelation, but one that wakes jughead with a start. archie too, as if his eyes had been ghosting jughead in the dark.

cheryl blossom think he's dating archie andrews.

it's like the anchor finally hit the ocean floor, for jughead stops: wide-eyed and gasping for breath. he can't breathe. like he doesn't know how. like all his lungs had known were salt water, and now some terrible disquieting thought has wrenched him upon land.

through the darkness, archie stares.

jughead curls in upon himself. knees up to his chest. hair falling into his eyes. the world flashes with shades of white.

cheryl blossom probably thinks he's gay too.

jughead counts to ten and back in his mind. but nothing works, because the world is on its side, and his knuckles and raw. and nothing works. because she knows. she knows. she knows. but she sings along to the wrong tune. to play the chords in a language archie is better versed in than himself. but she knows nothing of him at all.

for jughead realises, coming down, to the morning sun, and the curtains drawn, and archie, two feet on the bedroom floor.

their bedroom. jughead recalls. and dares to wonder what cheryl blossom would have to say about that.

jughead realises that there is nothing of him anymore.

it's this terrible feeling that slips away like broken glass down the drain. like splinters into thumbs, and a great rocky ocean to cast children underwater.

he knows then why archie takes to running. it's a feeling he's determined not to let catch him.

but jughead's drowning. and the world is spun out with blotches of black ink- and. and. and.

archie andrews. the way cheryl blossom had said his name.

with his fingers curled tight around a hand jughead cannot feel anymore.

there are these holes inside of his chest, where he thinks his heart ought to be.

jughead stays conscious long enough to think this might be them exploding. engulfing him and archie both until theres nothing left at all.

and then.

there is nothing left to run from.

-

it's 9:21 a.m., and it's jughead's fault.

he is grateful only that bathroom doors have a lock on them. yet beyond relieved that archie is in there with him.

the room is thick with the smell of vomit. it's disgusting.

but archie cranks the window open: reaching up with built arms and toned muscles, and jughead feels nothing, but this bottomless ache at the pit of his stomach, and throws his head back against the wall.

archie joins him with time. seconds or hours. jughead does not care.

they sit and stare. a game they share.

jughead knows little of who he is anymore, of what became of their morning, yet he knows archie is smiling over at him, like he hasn't just thrown his guts into the toilet and blacked out in his arms. there is nothing romantic about saturday morning.

still, it doesn't feel right.

jughead pulls his shirt over his head and stares down at his chest to inspect himself for holes.

there's nothing there; so he takes to prodding with his fingers - violent motions, as if to chase the dread out of him. but then there are archie's hands around his own, and they sit side by side like this a world they can share.

and still, silent, calm, they pretend to be.

jughead lets archie takes his hands. far away from his chest. far away from himself.

archie is warm. warm like he hasn't been sick five times in the space of fifteen minutes. warm like the summer sun knows him by name.

jughead lets archie hold him. just for that. he tells himself.

for it seems his mind has run away with his own body, and left nothing but holes to fill in its wake, so jughead lets archie take him by all he is worth. and they redefine themselves, as people, in the morning light, behind the bathroom door, in only looks and sighs.

it isn't the time nor the place.

but jughead talks because he has nothing left.

left with only an oncoming hurricane of desperate promises and steel-coated looks. he turns his head on a world he can't face and sighs.

but archie is right by his side.

"we kissed."

the words are a weight in everyone's chest. archie's feet against the running track; the laughter that dared fill the room; the fridge door open; another language in lipstick and curves; every nightmare to chase him; and archie andrews all at once.

"we did." archie smiles, nods. he's blushing.

it's different.

worlds away from the way val has him blushing at pop's; it's like he's bleeding. like they are but an open chest.

archie blushes and speaks his first word in a language that jughead knows like the back of his hand.

"i was there." he adds, light hearted, eyes to the floor.

jughead is silent. like he has a world of what to say, but nothing left to say it with.

but then archie gives his hand a squeeze. and it's like summer fields, and running away from the shadows of those who had torn them down, and jughead feels invincible, just as he catches archie's eyes.

for there's the thing about running. they ought to have set off, holding hands.

"and now we're holding hands." jughead retorts, because it's an odd thought. very un-jughead, he might proclaim. although he's just about stripped of all he could have ever claimed.

"we are." archie laughs, like he's drunk with it.

like jughead is the high he never wants to come down from.

he skirts like a dragonfly across a pond. back and forth. back and forth. back and forth. until all their time in the world runs out.

"and...?" jughead tugs at their universe with his voice, like archie's dared to have him believe that he might be the one pulling the strings.

archie, archie just is. for a moment. for two.

jughead watches; the one thing he'll never forget.

"i like it?" archie dares to put those words in his mind and turn them upon him.

jughead feels he ought to be on fire, burning, pieces of stone, fragments of glass, the broken surface tension of a never calm ocean,

but.

he smiles.

jughead jones smiles like he's coming home. and archie laughs like the world is theirs.

"i like it too."

he confesses. soft, afraid.

archie throws himself to his feet with no regard, but then hoists jughead into his arms with most care than he's ever exerted. jughead rolls his eyes so far back into his skull that he thinks he breaks something.

but then, it only makes archie smile.

"come on. shower." he insists, almost paternal. "i'll make you breakfast."

jughead is hesitant. wary all over again. he almost misses the bathroom floor.

archie reads it all from those eyes: it's terrifying. and moulds his words to fit those holes

"pancakes."

it's bribery. and jughead thinks of self-respect and the bathroom floor, but decides that now is neither the place nor the time.

"pancakes."

he agrees, like that's suddenly something he's allowed himself to do.

there's still the matter of the whole world on his mind - unanswered questions by the dozen - but he decides that for archie andrews, the whole world can wait and get in line.