accusation.

THERE’S NO MALICE TO HIS TONE, no locked up sentiments -- just truth.  late night always attracting strays to pop’s chock’lit shoppe, tonight colours him no more surprised than 2am reggie eating his weight in fries for attempted sobriety.  

rain pelts down, beating glass panelling in hidden mantra.  and perhaps the stars have aligned tonight, sending him someone interesting enough to write about.  either way, he’ll tempt the blade pressed to his throat, curiosity always insatiable.   

but here, they’re drifting in earth 1.0.  here, he makes no such promises.

the universe never flicks him tips to map-read minefields, just oh, and by the way crumbs after the blast to trace back to the motive and its engineer. archie didn’t realize—- he hadn’t decided to numb parts of himself with some gnarled padding, but now he’s being disarmed of its necessity and he’s hurting out of his skin from an achy, thawing fondness.  

he can still speak jughead (and jughead’s at least curious, because that’s a thrown bone, even though he doesn’t deserve it).  — so he shakes his head.

❛i wouldn’t want her to. ever.❜  ever again.

the sky bruises as the sun pushes down, lush red around its molten edge.

missed you. 

from here on, anything he says is too cheap and everything he doesn’t say is too heavy. he thinks he’s closer to understanding jughead’s (overloud) apathy to out-there sentiment as preemptive stitches – and archie is comfortable in their difference. 

he zips up his guitar back to sleep.

❛i could eat something. d’you wanna—…? dad’s probably gonna send me, anyway, so.❜ 

JUST LIKE OLD TIMES.  their rehearsed narrative a modern classic putting shakespeare’s emotionally constipated tybalt capulet to shame.  but no star-crossed lovers lay here.  just two friends, once equal, now rifted.

do you even want to fit the narrative anymore, archie? did you ever want to fit the narrative?

that letterman jacket says otherwise. that singing voice -- that want for fame and fortune and popularity -- that drive for approval from those superstars mocked at 4am companionship.

are you a traitor now, archie? or is this who you’ve always been?

     ❛ –i could eat, if you’re buying. ❜

money, money, money.  a concept loathed by those without beds to sleep in, without couches to surf, without the luxury of security at 2am, sleeping at a bus stop with a knapsack under head.  it’s the kind of concept a teenage boy shouldn’t have to worry about -- unless he grows up too fast, but never quite fills those adult shoes.

archie is troy bolton