with love.

i’ve said it elsewhere but there’s a reason women like the characters that men don’t identify with and it’s unfortunate that the men writing these shows don’t capitalize on it when women are responsible for the largest portion of their audience and merchandise buying 

or: seven times jughead didn’t confess he loved betty and one time he did. some tooth rotting fluff to get us thru quarantine. the structure and concept of this fic is inspired by this. enjoy!

1. 

He knew that Archie’s bachelor party was going to end badly for him. It had started with Archie pressing a tequila shot into his hand before they had even gone to dinner, c’mon, Jug, it’s the only bachelor party I’m ever going to have! while Reggie and Moose had cheered in the background. He took the shot, lukewarm citrus and a rubbing alcohol bite. They drank steadily through dinner, boisterous and loud, and now they’re in a packed strip club, sweaty and bright with flashing lights.

He hasn’t been this drunk since college, five years at least, and he can feel himself slurring as he talks to Archie, everything hysterically funny all of a sudden. Betty texts him, a selfie of her and Veronica in a sleek looking bar, holding up their glasses of wine. Hope you’re having fun! she sends, and Jughead tries to formulate a text back, si goood i miss yoi so mughc, followed by a truly horrendous string of emojis.

Betty’s contact info lights up on the screen with an incoming call, and Jughead stumbles outside, away from the boiling music of the club. The night air is sharp with cold, and he sucks in an inhale, trying to clear the spinning in his brain.

“Hello?” he slurs into the phone, leaning heavily against the brick wall. Betty laughs, amused, and he misses her terribly, misses her even though he saw her that morning.

“Hi, Juggie,” she says. “Having fun?”

“I’m never doing tequila shots again,” he says, vowels blurry around the edge. “Not even for Archie.”

She laughs again, tinkling and amused, Veronica’s tipsy bright voice in the background. “You’re going to be okay getting home?” she asks, the faintest slip of concern in her voice.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and suddenly the last round of shots catches up with him, any facade of sobriety gone. “I miss you so much,” he whispers into the phone, the words mushy and almost indiscernible. “Love you.”

There’s a quick, sharp intake of breath Jughead is almost too inebriated to catch.

“I’ll see you soon,” she says before the call clicks off. They don’t discuss it.