oneshots and other shit

7: i think they call it cataclysm (jughead/archie)

forgot to post this too l m a o

sometimes jughead wonders what it feels like to lose control.

but then he sees archie andrews, curled into his chest, in the five a.m. light, and decides that perhaps now is the time to stop asking questions.

perhaps now is the time to start living.

but jughead's never been sure that he knows what living feels like. not really.

sometimes, though. he thinks he might be getting close.

-

they ease into things. motions. routines. become the people they once shaped their fantasies around. at least in each other's eyes.

it's all very surreal. falsified. they know, like the sun knows the moon, that it cannot and will not last, but still they tug at it with trembling fingertips, as if it's all that's chaining them from the cliff's edge. but from their scramble to hold onto it, neither boy has a clue whether the waters below are shark-infested or an oceanic paradise, desperately missed out on.

sometimes jughead wonders. sometimes jughead dares. sometimes jughead even looks down.

because it's like freefalling when archie wakes him up with hazy eyes, lazy smiles, and a kiss.

jughead might be getting good at kissing now. he thinks. or at least decent enough at pretending. whichever it is, it makes archie smile. and that's enough.

jughead's living in double fold, as both the trembling fingertips curled around the bathroom sink, and the face in the mirror smiling back at him. the world is nightmare; sometimes there's just no telling who's the monster, because right now jughead feels like he's running from everyone and everything.

"jug." archie's voice is soft; he can hear the way he pushes his head against the closed bathroom door.

jughead makes a noise. anything.

"you alright in there?" archie's got that vague sense of concern: it's a perfected facade. he knows jughead doesn't like seeing him worry. but jughead knows him better still. and jughead just doesn't like seeing him pretend.

"yeah." he sighs, ducks his head and averts his eyes.

there's jughead-in-the-mirror, listening in; he can feel him laughing at him. his reflection doesn't care for lies, as much as jughead doesn't care for the truth.

they share more than the same skin. jughead and the face he sees in the mirror staring back at him. neither jughead is quite sure how they got here. everything was hazy dreams and running that never stops, and archie lips against his, and then a double-take against the bathroom sink.

he's aware, vaguely. of the hole he's making. picking and tearing, piece by piece, at everything that keeps archie andrews tall and golden. but he couldn't stop. not even if he wanted to.

the answers have long abandoned the both of them. jughead and his reflection. for the world is just sinking, and maybe these fingertips in a cast iron grip on the bathroom sink is the only thing jughead's got left for him.

still, he lets go. because there's nothing like feeling afraid.

there's nothing like pushing open the bathroom door and finding archie staring back at him.

archie looks at him, like he doesn't really believe he's okay. jughead reckons it's probably because he doesn't. he stands there for a moment and tries to tell himself that it doesn't matter to him. it does,