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It was almost too easy to get back to normal.
Burgers, walking home together, hanging out in his treehouse. It was easy again. Comfortable. Normal. Jughead could feel the slick weight from the summer start to uncoil itself from his belly and dissipate over the weeks that followed Archie's apology at the football game. It wasn’t gone, and he wasn’t fine, but each day was a little easier.
They returned to rhythm, routine. On the walk home they’d head automatically to Jughead's backyard, (unless Jug nudged into Archie's elbow at the turn on Maple, in which case they’d head to Pop's) where they’d take the same positions they had for 8 years. The treehouse was longer than it was deep, so Jughead would sit against the far wall and wait for the taller redhead to flop down perpendicular to him, settling his legs over Jug's.
It was easy. It was too easy.
And that's why Jughead forgets, at least temporarily. He forgets that they should really be talking about this thing (this thing) that’s happened to Archie. He forgets that there are so many more important things to discuss than the plot of the most recent book he’s reading, and how completely obvious the twists are. He forgets that there’s a murder investigation, that Archie gets a fearful look in his eyes when they pass by the music room. He forgets that he made a promise to himself to protect this boy when they were 11. He forgets because it hurts too much to remember that he failed. He forgets because with each sarcastic remark and sardonic quip he makes, Archie laughs and smiles brighter than four suns. Like he’s a teenager again.
Like they’re friends again.
So that’s how Jughead finds himself in his treehouse on a Thursday after school with Archie Andrews, backpack and satchel bag tossed into a corner. Jughead holds his book, taking a small break from his writing to read the inevitable ending of what he already explained to Archie was a “poor excuse for crime fiction”. Archie holds his guitar in his lap, legs crossed over Jug's at the shins. It’s peaceful, content, the quiet broken only by Archie's gentle humming and the plucking of the strings.
“I think…I'm going to take a break from girls for a while,” Archie says, and it takes Jughead a moment to realize he’s not singing.
“A break like ‘sworn vow of celibacy', or a break like ‘switching teams'?'” Jughead asks, eyebrow raised as he turns his gaze to his friend. Archie gifts him a small smile, tilting up one corner of his mouth.
“Depends on the players, I guess.” Jughead snorts in reply and turns his head to look out the window. He can see the roof of his house, the upstairs bathroom window, and a stretch of grass in the reflection. When he opens his mouth to reply, he can hear the smile in his own voice.
“Do you remember when we were 8?”
He hears Archie's soft laugh, looks over to find his friend has tucked his chin to his chest. “You mean when I told you I liked boys and you said ‘Ok’?”
“I still don’t know what response you were looking for.”
“Something a little more profound than that, probably.”
“We were eight, Arch. What do I care if you like ‘em both?”
“I asked you who you liked. You said ‘no one'.” Archie's gaze is soft, brown eyes searching Jughead’s, and he can only smile and try not to be blinded by the sun.
“Still true.”
“Then you said you liked me.”
Jughead looks back out the window, acutely aware of Archie still watching him. He gives it a few more seconds, listening to the thump of his heart and feeling the solid weight of Archie's calves against his shins.
“Still true.” He replies softly, and glances over to see the smile on his friend's face. Jughead makes a vow to never let him know that he could get away with anything just by smiling like that, the crooked one with the flash of teeth. Archie closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wood while Jughead picks his book back up.
The silence is companionable, and it isn’t until Jughead's reread the same line in his book 7 times that he feels the slick wrongness come back to life in his gut. He looks up to find Archie in the same way, eyes closed, features angelic, and hears his words again in his head.
“…break from girls.”
Grundy. Her name licks an anger through him, swift and immediate like he’s been struck. This was what they needed to talk about, needed to avoid. Something in Jughead is torn down the middle, the compass for “fight or flight” stuck in between. He fights a war on both sides and the words fall from his mouth like stones while he’s distracted.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Archie's eyes open slowly, as if he knew this was coming. And maybe he did, Jughead muses, as he remembers how predictable they used to be. “Tell you what?” The question is a stall, and Jughead barely manages to keep the sarcasm out of his reply.
“Don’t. Don’t do that now. Why didn’t you tell me about her when it happened? While it was happening?” Jughead asks, and the war inside him is decided. They need to talk about it, need to get on the same page. Any page, really, where they face each other and the 100ft tall elephant following them around like a puppy.
“It's not that simple.” Archie’s words are halting. Betrayal, unwanted and so infrequent that Jughead almost doesn’t recognize it, slides to the forefront of his thoughts.
“What? Archie, we’ve been best friends since we understood what the words meant. I told you when my mom took my sister and left. I told you when my dad started drinking too much. I told you. And you, what? Can’t tell me when you're-“ Jughead halts mid-sentence. He wasn’t supposed to say this much, wasn’t supposed to let the coil in his gut tighten and tighten. There are paths in front of him, words he can choose to say, but none of them will take the haunted look out of Archie's eyes. He lets out a noise instead, something close to a choked-off curse, and throws his head back against the wall with a solid thud. The pain is easier to focus on, the dull ache that matches his suddenly-erratic heartbeat a desperate anchor.
“I thought,” Archie starts, and his voice is so soft that Jughead closes his eyes. Incapable of facing his friend as the sting of his outburst still lingers. “you'd be mad.”
“Mad?” Jughead seethes, before he can stop himself. His eyes fly open, finding the other's face in an instant. Archie’s flinch is minute, almost unnoticeable, but Jughead feels it like a shot. He thunks his head back again as punishment, gaze to the ceiling, fists clenched on his thighs. Archie laughs, devoid of any real humour, and Jughead can see him scrub a hand over his face.
“Kinda like that.”
Jughead counts to ten, tries to think of burger toppings, anything to get his mind off the rage coursing through his system. A thought comes to him suddenly, and he lingers on a blink. Of course.
“You didn’t think I'd be mad at you, did you?” The answering silence is immediately deafening, and Jughead's heart gives a solid pump. “Arch?” Quiet reigns, and Jughead turns his head to look at his friend.
“Archibald Andrews, look at me.” Archie tilts his head back to rest softly against the wood, bringing his gaze up to Jughead's. “How could you possibly think I would be mad at you for what she did?” He asks, voice closer to pleading than he’d like.
“Because, Jug, it’s partly on me. It’s half my own fault.” His voice is still too soft, too tired, and Jughead's mouth is dry. He can taste acid on the back of his tongue like a battery.
“No, it’s not.” Jughead’s voice cracks on the last word and he doesn’t try it again.
“It is. It takes-“
“Please, please do not say the words ‘it takes two to tango' right now.” Archie takes a breath and lets it out on a sigh, gaze steady. “Jesus christ.” The words sound like a laugh or the beginning of a sob, Jughead can’t tell which. There's silence again, both boys watching the other as Jughead tries to arrange his thoughts into less of a dull roar.
“Ok. Ok, listen. I’m going to say this one time because you need to hear it, and you need to hear it from me. None of this is your fault. You are sixteen, Archie, and she is a grown woman who should know better. She was supposed to teach you music, not the exact wrong way to love someone. Love is not controlling. You shouldn’t feel afraid to speak up, or like you’re doing something wrong. She took advantage of you. You got jacked from doing manual labour and she jumped on you like feeding time at the fucking zoo. She used you, and then got scared and lied to you about you getting in trouble with the police. That’s bullshit. She wants you to protect her, protect her reputation, and hide this summer under the rug with the dust bunnies and old remotes. All you would get is a stern lecture and a lot of attention. And I know, I know that’s not what you want, and that’s why you won’t tell anyone about it, won’t let me go to the cops and throw her under every bus I can find. I don’t give a shit about her, Arch, but if you tell me right now that silence is what you want, that it’ll help you feel better, then I will stand beside you and keep my mouth shut forever. I will. Understand me when I tell you that this is your choice, not hers.”
Jughead leans back and allows the wood behind him to hold him up, unsure of if his ears will ever stop ringing. He feels somehow both empty and too full, like his organs have been replaced with active volcanos. The fight against his own anger could be called a draw, if he were feeling generous, but there was no stopping his words after he started. Archie stares at the wall across from him, and for a moment Jughead can’t remember what peace feels like. The silence stretches for a time, broken only by their breathing and Jughead swallowing around the sudden lump behind his adam's apple. Finally, Archie speaks.
“If I say that it’s what I want, that I can’t deal with any media circus, or the way my dad will look at me with pity, or how Reggie and half the guys on the team will treat me like…some kind of twisted hero,” he starts, and Jughead’s fingernails dig into his palms as Archie looks back over at him. He sounds so much more tired than he did before. “If I tell you that, and promise it’s the truth, then you'll promise there'll be no 'bus-throwing-under'?”
The quick upturn of Jughead's lip cannot be considered a smile in any regard. He wants to go back on the terms he set. He doesn’t want to agree, wants to rage and fight and protect his friend against this terrible thing, this terrible person, who Jughead makes a silent promise to hate forever.
“Please, Juggie.”
The nickname is a low blow, but as Jughead notices the moisture in Archie's eyes, he feels his resistance begin to seep out of him. He compromises his acquiescence instead. “You have to tell me you'll work on not blaming yourself anymore, and mean it.” At Archie’s shallow nod, he adds “And you have to promise it on the treehouse.” The smile he receives is too small, too quick, but it was there, and Jughead's at least thankful that he thought to tack on their childhood method of ‘super important unbreakable promises'.
“Ok. I promise on the treehouse, then, that it’s my choice. I just want to let it go, Jug. I want to be done with it.”
Jughead feels an ounce of pressure leave his chest, and takes a deeper breath in comfort. “Fine. I promise, on the treehouse, to leave her the fuck alone. If you ever change your mind, though, let me know.” The soft snort of laughter from Archie sounds like victory.
There's more silence, but easier breathing. Jughead begins to work on relaxing his fists and settling the tar in his stomach, and with each finger he unclenches he feels less like there’s a vice around his heart. Archie is staring down at his feet, face less shadowed than before.
“So, are we ok? You’re not mad?” Archie asks.
“At you? No. Bygones, and all that.” He celebrates the success of freeing one hand by picking lint off his shirt, and his next words surprise them both. “But at her? I'm furious.” His teeth ache with the bile that’s crawled its way back up his throat. He has the sudden urge to lean out the door of the treehouse and spit out some of the poison in his mouth, but holds himself back by sheer force of will. There’s the noise of his jeans squeaking, and he looks down to find his fists clenched again. He’s not sure if he swears out loud or just in his head.
A glance over at Archie finds him staring back, eyes filled with more sadness than Jughead ever wants to see again. “Are you mad at me?” he asks, voice softer this time. Now Archie looks bewildered, startled, and hurries to answer.
“What? No. Jug, what…why would I be-“
“I figured if we were asking stupid questions, I'd figuratively throw my hat in the ring.” He tries a smile and hopes it doesn’t look as thin as it feels, but Archie laughs in relief and reaches over to shove him playfully in the shoulder. Another weight is lifted, and Jughead feels more in the line of his clavicle where Archie's finger brushed than he does in the rest of his body.
It takes no time for them to regain their companionable silence, and no time at all for Archie to break it again.
“I’m sorry, Jug.” The words are soft but reverent. “I’m so sorry. For the summer, for not…I’m sorry.” Jughead feels a twinge somewhere in his heart and spends a second wondering how he got through the last few months without this boy.
“Me too.” He finds he can’t look Archie in the eye, his gaze too much of something Jughead never knew the name for. “And that should mean something, it’s not very often a ‘local weirdo' like me apologizes. You must be something special, Archie Andrews.” He can see Archie's frown, knew he’d focus on the wrong part of his sentence.
“Don’t call yourself that. That’s not what I think of you.”
Jughead smiles, eyes on the leaves through the window. “I know, Arch, don’t worry. We’re going to be fine, you and I. We've got each other, right?”
“Yeah.” And then a softer “Always.”
Jughead turns to smile at his friend, finding the same smile reflecting back at him. He didn’t miss the quiet, but it comes back anyway. He doesn’t want to pick up his book back up, doesn’t want to study or write or do some inane homework. He wants to sit with Archie in this bubble they’ve created in his treehouse, a solace from anything and anyone outside the walls. It feels like hours when Archie speaks again, though it’s probably not more than a few minutes.
“Do you think…” he pauses, frowning slightly while Jughead flexes his hands.
“Frequently. In fact, probably more often than you.” The rib is automatic and without malice. Archie’s smile is nervous; Jughead furrows his brows at him as he reaches up to fix his beanie more solidly on his head.
“Do you think - I want to – okay I…I want to try something, but it has the possibility of backfiring. If I’m wrong, I need you to do me a favour and just tell me and not…panic.” There’s a look in Archie's eyes, something close to fear, and Jughead feels his heart kick up speed again.
“Sure, Arch. You’re scaring me a little, though.” Jughead matches Archie’s stare, only dropping eye contact to watch the other boy bite his lip before starting to rearrange himself. He moves one leg off of Jughead’s own and shifts closer. Jughead opens his mouth, but Archie beats him to speaking.
“Don’t panic.” He repeats, and Jughead only has a second to process the reminder before he feels lips on his. His breath gets caught somewhere behind his ribs, his whole body stilling. It takes him a second to realize Archie has frozen too, not touching him anywhere else, waiting for a reaction. For a fleeting moment, Jughead remembers the week after Archie told him he liked boys and girls, and Jughead had kissed him in the Andrews' pool “just to see what the fuss was about”.
He closes his eyes and breathes in slow, smelling sweat and cinnamon and the same orange scented body wash that Archie’s been using for years. He moves just as slowly, afraid of both startling his friend and taking the moment too quickly. Pressing his lips more firmly against Archie’s, smile quirking up the corners, he reaches out to ground himself with a hand on Archie's forearm. The reaction is immediate: where Jughead took his time to respond, Archie is tilting his head and sliding forward. A hand comes up to cup the side of Jughead’s face, and he can feel the same warm starbursts that he felt along his collarbone minutes earlier. When Archie pulls away he doesn’t go far. Jughead sees the same crooked grin that could start wars through lowered lashes and he focuses on Archie's mouth as he speaks.
“That went better than expected.”
“Was I supposed to kill you?”
“You have some thinly veiled anger issues. I had visions of you literally kicking me out the door of this treehouse.” Jughead laughs loud and true and easy, and Archie takes the opportunity to watch his eyes crinkle, his chest shake.
“Shut up.” Jughead manages to mutter, still smiling, and curls his fingers in Archie's shirt to coax him forward.
“’Kay.” Archie murmurs into the space between them and leans in.
They should talk about this, too, Jughead thinks belatedly, but it’s easy again to forget. It’s easy to slide his lips along Archie's, it’s easy to part them when he feels a tongue run along the seam. It’s easy to breathe a sigh into the other's mouth, to flatten his palm against Archie’s chest and feel his heart beat quick and sure. It’s easy to kiss him, and too easy to tilt his head back for a new angle when Archie moves forward again, settling himself over Jughead with a knee on either side of his thighs.
They kiss until Jughead's head starts to get foggy, and the only things he can think of are his hands on the tops of Archie’s thighs and how much he likes listening to their breaths stop and start. The hand on his face slides around the back of his neck to tilt his chin up more and twist in the hairs at his nape. Jughead does nothing to suppress the full body shiver that firms his fingers and curls his toes, and instead quietly delights in the hiccup of breath Archie gives in response to the pressure on his legs.
“Is this the cliché part of the movie where the two friends admit to harbouring feelings for one another for years?” Archie murmurs against his lips, and Jughead crinkles his nose in distaste.
“It really better not be.” He huffs, and Archie's laugh washes over his face like a sunbeam. A decision is made in Jughead's mind largely without his input as he distracts himself with more kissing. “I knew when we were 12. I probably knew years earlier but just didn’t pay attention to it.” As Archie laughs on cue, Jughead swallows it greedily, licking into his mouth. “Well? Go on, then. May as well tell me.” He coaxes, eyeing the delightful flush that’s worked its way up the redhead's neck.
“Do you remember when we were 8?” Archie mimics, in a terrible mockery of Jughead’s voice from earlier. A whoosh of blood seems to flood Jughead's body, something in him feels almost weightless.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“What the fuck, Arch. Eight years? We literally just talked about telling each other things.”
“I know, it’s kind of what gave me the final kick to do something. And by the way, I'd be offended by your reaction if I didn’t know you so well.” Archie’s still laughing, eyes flitting over Jughead's face.
“My reaction? Let’s talk about reaction times. I’m going to need more than a second to understand you being this slow on the draw, pal.”
“Okay, Mr. Probably-longer-than-four-years.”
Jughead’s laughing again before he can reply, and instead picks the path of least resistance. His hands slide up higher on Archie's legs, allowing him to tuck fingers into his pockets and leverage himself up to kiss him. For a moment their teeth clack together as they try and figure out how to kiss and laugh at the same time, but neither of them seems to care.
Archie moves his other hand to frame Jughead’s face while the dark haired boy's hands creep out of his pockets and slide up to sit on his hips. Their lips slide together like silk and Jughead finds himself lost in it, brought back into himself with a shock when Archie makes a soft noise in his throat. Jughead’s fingers slide up over Archie's belt, over the firmness of his hipbones, across the taut skin of his stomach and the dips of his abs. Archie makes another noise and pulls away, resting his forehead against Jughead’s.
“Wait,” he says, breathlessly, and Jughead freezes immediately. Archie’s fingers are still tucked in his hair, and he can feel the tremor run through them. “Jug, I need…” Jughead’s stomach flips, and he smoothes his thumb over Archie’s skin slowly.
“Arch, look at me.” Archie pulls his forehead away with some reluctance and meets his eyes. Jughead searches his face, ignoring for now his swollen lips and the flush on his cheeks. He can see no trace of the ghost in his friend's eyes, chased away earlier by their assurances and childish promises, but there’s still a fear there - an apprehension Jughead understands with a burgeoning sadness. “It’s ok. Tell me what you need.”
“This isn’t about her. I don’t want this to be about her, Jug, I want this to be about us. I can't-“ he breaks off to run a hand through his hair, pushing strands back from his face. That same something in Jughead’s heart constricts again as he watches his friend’s eyes flit across the room like an injured animal searching for escape. He pulls his hands back slowly in an attempt to give Archie space, but hands grab his immediately and hold them in place. Archie’s looking at him again, face stricken, and Jughead can’t figure out where his confidence from earlier has gone. “No, no no no Jug that’s what I’m trying to say. I’m not using you for something, for anything, please-“
“Hey, Arch, ok. It’s ok. I get it. I’m not going anywhere. I think I'd know by now when you’re lying to me. Take a breath.” They breathe together for a few moments and Jughead watches the anxiety begin to bleed from the corners of his friend. The vice clenches on his heart, but as he waits for the now all-too-familiar twist in his gut, he feels only light in its place. He smiles, soft and small, but Archie matches it just the same.
“What do you need, Arch?” he says again, just as soft, and Archie lets go of his hands. They keep their eyes trained on each other as Archie struggles through another demon. Jughead knows it won’t be the last, with a stone in his stomach like lead. It takes a few more seconds for Archie to relax, but Jughead knows he'll wait for as long as it takes. When peace settles over him again like dust on his skin, Archie lets his head fall forward onto Jughead’s.
“You, Jug. Just you.” He murmurs, leaning in again. Their kiss this time is slow, less ramped up like before, but Jughead finds his breath caught just the same. He reminds himself to take it easy, go slow, this is a first for everything, and he repeats this like a mantra in his head as Archie's hands come back around his head. He feels fingers in his hair, carding through the loose strands at the back under his beanie, and lets out a shaky breath against the other's lips.
Archie settles over him more solidly, lowering his weight to Jughead’s legs, and Jughead cannot ignore the slight twitch in those hips when he runs his thumbs back over Archie's stomach.
“Arch,” he repeats, partly because he likes the way his name sounds on his tongue when he’s breathless like this, and the realization sends a zip through his system. “What do you need?” Archie's breathing over his face with a slight hitch, and Jughead kisses him again, mostly because he can.
“Still you. I don’t know what - what do you need?” Jughead takes the time, the moment, to sort through the muddled mess of his mind for the answer.
It’s with a smile he feels through his whole body that he echoes “Still you” and tries for bold, dragging his hand over Archie’s stomach under his shirt. His nails skitter gently over skin, and the noise Archie gives in return is worth anything he has to give.
“Jug,” Archie groans and Jughead is quick to kiss him again, deciding to take charge for this, for now. He feels the tail end of the sound on his tongue, fingers tightening in his hair, and feels hungry. He moves his hands back down to Archie’s thighs, squeezing gently to see what noise that will draw out of the redhead. A groan is met with one of his own and Archie's mouth moves away to his neck. He feels heady, drunk, and tilts his head to the side easily. The trail Jughead's hands are on peak further up Archie's thighs, tightening just below his hips with a soft moan when Archie's teeth graze over the junction of his shoulder. Archie groans deep, hips twitching up again with more force. “Jug,” It’s almost a whine, a sound Jughead can feel shoot straight through to his cock.
Jughead’s hands move up, fingers drawing over the buckle of Archie's belt and undoing it with a shallow clink. The button at the top of his jeans is next, and he has the zipper down an inch before Archie's sliding hands down his shoulders to follow.
“It’s ok,” Jughead says, and that has Archie leaning back to look at him, confusion momentarily overshadowing the blush on his face.
“What do you mean? What about you?”
“Later, Arch. There’s time later.” He knows the smile on his face is probably more of a smirk, if Archie’s furrowed brow is anything to go by. Archie opens his mouth to protest again but Jughead acts faster, hand turning to palm him through his jeans. The other boy's eyes slip shut immediately and he moans loud, body bucking into the contact. “Ok?” Jughead teases when the noise has stopped echoing in their ears, and Archie’s fervent nodding eases a laugh past his lips.
“Ok. Y-yeah, ok.”
It takes some maneuvering with Archie up on his knees again to slide both jeans and boxers down his hips, and Jughead knows it only takes so long because they’re splitting their attention between the task and kissing. It seems worth it, though, as Archie nips at his lip with a broken sigh when he settles back down. Jughead groans softly and pulls back, selfishly wanting to watch Archie's face when he touches him.
He’s hesitant at first, touch light as he ghosts fingers up his length, but Archie’s mouth falls open with a hiss, eyes fluttering. He bites at his lip and Jughead tracks the movement, closing his hand around the base of Archie's dick.
“A-aah…” the noise spills out of Archie and he lurches forward to kiss Jughead feverishly. One hand courses up to latch solidly in Jughead’s hair while the other clutches at his shoulder, and Jughead feels his beanie slide off his head. He squeezes once at the base, a test, and Archie bucks into him again, a sound like a whimper flooding his mouth. Greedy, Jughead moves his other hand to Archie’s hipbone and smoothes over the dip in it as he moves his fingers back up to the tip.
“Fuck,” Archie grunts and Jughead can’t help the pleased smile he dons in reply, thumb pressing over the slit to smear precum over the head. “Fuck.” The hand on his shoulder clenches once, strong, and then relaxes with a slight tremor.
A little late, Jughead realizes the problem. With no lotion or lube nearby, he wracks his inexperienced mind for a solution before pulling away from Archie with a grunt to turn his head and lick a wide stripe up the center of his palm. He catches a glimpse of Archie’s eyes, pupils blown wide and focus hazy, before realigning himself with a firm pump from base to tip.
“God, Jug-“ Another thrust of hips has Jughead twitching up his own in echo, fingernails pressed briefly into Archie’s hip for support as the noises Archie makes slide down his throat and over his spine like honey. He seals their lips together and starts a rhythm, slow and easy to start. It’s messy and uncoordinated, but Archie’s all but panting into his mouth and he can’t begin to imagine a better alternative.
Jughead twists his wrist at the tip of Archie's length, thumb once again gliding over the small opening, and the hand on his head grips at his hair tightly. Jughead moans, movement stuttering, as Archie curls his tongue around his.
“More,” Archie pants. “Please.” And Jughead twists again, earning a breathy moan of his name as a reward. “Jug…Jug, ‘m-“ he cuts off with a noise as Jughead squeezes the base again, licking once along the roof of Archie's mouth. Jughead hitches his hips up, catching a momentary bit of friction on the seam in his jeans, and lets out a sound he can’t name. He pulls back for a second to see his work, to see how wrecked Archie looks, and swoops back in to kiss swollen lips as Archie's grip tightens again in his hair.
They both groan and Jughead's fingers are firm on his hip, fist quick and steady. Archie says his name on a keening noise and Jughead smiles against his lips. He thinks it’s this, more than anything, that tips Archie over the edge. The hand on Jughead’s shoulder slides limply down to hold over Jughead’s own on the head of his cock, and Jughead can feel the pulses shoot out into their hands.
Jughead holds them steady for several heartbeats, alternating randomly between soft kisses and catching their breath. Archie pulls back eventually with a softer groan, freeing Jughead's hand to wipe on the front of his boxers as he meets his eyes. There’s a smile on both of their faces (Jughead is sure it matches), and Archie tucks himself away as he speaks.
“Jug, that was…” he starts, and closes the space to kiss him again, choosing actions over breathless words. Archie moves his hands to rest on Jughead’s thighs, who hitches up with a start. He swallows back what he knows is a groan as Archie’s fingers slide up to the waistband of his jeans. He opens his mouth to reply, just as Archie did, when he gets beaten to the punch. “Is this ok?” Archie’s voice is soft, eyes bright and calm on his, and Jughead's fingers twitch on his friend's thighs. He holds his gaze for a few seconds, moments, and finally smiles again.
“Yeah,” he says softly, nodding. “Yes.”
Archie's grin is crooked and Jughead's blood zips to life again as the button is popped open on his own jeans. Archie's kisses are soft, so soft on his oversensitive mouth, and a tremor runs through him in time with his zipper pulling down. They go through the same shimmying again to get Jughead’s pants down, but Archie barely lets him settle back before encircling his hand around his dick. Jughead surges forward with a hoarse groan, legs caged in by Archie's knees.
“H-aahh, fuck, Arch,” Archie hums against his lips and moves away to mirror Jughead's earlier action of gathering spit in his palm, but keeps his eyes trained on the other as he does it. A moan slips out of Jughead's mouth unhindered, and the next slick touch to his cock has his eyes squeezed shut tight and fingers digging into the fabric of Archie’s jeans.
“Fucking christ-“ his colourful choice of words cut off as Archie laughs against the corner of his mouth. Archie moves back along towards his neck again, this time stopping to briefly kiss each mole along the way, as Jughead breathes shakily and cants his hips up with the motion of Archie’s hand. He tries to hold back, tries to reign himself in a bit, but then he feels the receiving end of the same twist he’d given the redhead minutes earlier and is almost sure there’s a live wire of pleasure connecting them both. “Probably w-won’t…last long,” he hears himself moan, moving a shaky hand up under Archie’s shirt to press more crescents into his skin. Archie groans into his neck and Jughead can feel the vibrations down through to his toes.
“Arch,” Jughead knows he’s begging now, can’t find it in himself to care as Archie runs blunt nails over his scalp and nips at a spot under the edge of his jaw. He cries out and bucks upwards blindly, knees pressing out against Archie’s as the urge to spread his legs gets too great. Archie rearranges himself in an instant, moving to straddle one leg instead of both. He presses teeth into the crook of his neck again, and Jughead makes the same noise, fingers sliding around his back to press down. Jughead kicks his free leg up to bend at the knee and push out, leveraging himself up to meet Archie's hand better.
The result sets off sparks behind his eyelids and he opens them to see if there are fireworks going off in real life, too. Archie pulls back from his throat and roves his eyes over his face with a small smile, leaning in again to slide lips along his. He presses him back against the wood wall, moving his hand to the back of his neck and kneading the skin there.
Every movement Archie makes is in sync, rhythmic, like Jughead is music and he knows exactly how to stay on beat. Archie's thumb slides along the head of his cock and Jughead chokes out a noise that might be a swear for all he knows.
“Arch…Arch, please,” he moans, and Archie removes the hand from his neck. He bucks forward suddenly with more force as he feels it cradle under his balls, squeezing so gently before retreating again. “Fuck, I-“ He’s not making complete sentences, breath coming in short pants, and Archie’s other hand settles on his hip, a gentle pressure. He can just hear Archie murmur “I know,” past the rushing in his ears as his end thunders through him.
He can vaguely feel Archie's smile on his skin as he floats back down to his own body, eyes heavy when he opens them. His gaze finds Archie's and he leans forward immediately for a kiss, gentle and easy and soft. When they pull away it’s to clean up, Jughead assembling himself back into his pants with a smile as he realizes that Archie wiped his hand on his boxers, too. Archie starts to stand up and winces, instead tilting to sit between Jughead and the wall. Snug as it is, Jughead won’t complain. Archie stretches out his legs with a faint grimace, turning his head to find Jughead watching him.
“My legs are ridiculously cramped.” He explains, and Jughead raises an eyebrow.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not.” Jughead laughs softly and Archie grins. When he settles back from massaging blood flow into his legs, Jughead’s unsurprised to see a hand slide over his own on his thigh. He curls their fingers together slowly and turns to see the smile on Archie's face, his favourite.
“So,” he muses, voice as light as his heart. “Since we were 8, huh?” Archie's laughter fills him up, and he can’t help but join in.
It’s almost too easy.