#im very tired and don’t feel too good bc my nose is congested

[technicallyaminecraftsimp]

Oh mysterious creatutre............ where did you cone from............ whoever is your creatro............... the beauty of life an I right

[sicklylittlesnowflake]

I don't know wether or not you ship bughead but here's a prompt anyway- how about one where jughead is homeless and on the street and he's really sick and there's a really big storm and the thunder doesn't help his headache and the rain gets him really wet and he ends up at Betty's window and she takes care of him. You're writing is amazing so I thought I would drop you and idea!

(Hey honey! Im sorry but I personally don’t ship these two, it’s just not for me but I do adore their dynamic in a friendship kind of way so I still wanted to write this bc I like this a lot!! Hope that’s ok with you!! While this is written to be strictly platonic I guess you could read this through ship goggles if you want tho!)

What exactly is a home?

Jughead thinks about this over and over again, hoping that maybe eventually he’ll find the answer, but the question only becomes more frustrating and probes him so much that it’s like it’s stabbing him repeatedly.

He is a Type 5 on the enneagram, he is an investigator, he needs to push the limits of understanding. Jughead craves answers and knowledge, he is fuelled by the desire to understand the world he is born to, to gain knowledge on the nature of his kind.

Jughead is plagued by this question, it stings him because he doesn’t know the answer. In the most human way possible, he cannot understand what he’s never known. Will he ever get the answer? Or is he just doomed and destined to never have a home, always a loner on the sidetracks, watching the world go by, seeing a lot but never experiencing?

Jughead had built a wall so thick around himself that he doesn’t understand his own feelings; is he genuinely this sad about life or is this just the fever that plagues his body? There is a sadness that looms over him as the cold rain splatters on his skin, soaking his skin and dampening his bones.

The rain pours harder, raining down on him hard and harsh like a waterfall, causing him to sprint towards the closest tree. He feels so miserable he doesn’t even know if the droplets on his face are his own tears or the rain. Maybe a mixture of both.

He cowers under the tree, the little bit of shelter the tree does provide a much needed change. The rain still leaks through, a lighter sprinkling of rain still hitting his bitterly cold, pale skin. He’s so cold he’s numb, goosebumps and snow white skin. He shivers and trembles violently, sniffling wetly as he rubs at his nose weakly.

It’s just his luck this is happening to him. Perhaps this was just the satirical, darkly comedic plot of his life. He often wondered if perhaps all of Earth was merely an entertainment show like some weird Truman Show type and his particular life story was created for those sadistic types who liked watching people be sad.

Sleeping on park benches was bound to get him sick. He knew it was coming, besides, even if he did have a roof to live under he would still be sick anyway because that’s the way his cruel body worked.

Being sick and homeless and having to sleep on a park bench was horrible enough, in his opinion, but of course, of course, that wasn’t enough. Of course it had to pour lashing rain.

A drop of water fell down one of the tree leaves, delicately dropping on Jughead’s already sensitive nose. His nose twitched, and suddenly his breath was hitching and he was inhaling sharply to pitch forward with an explosive, congested sneeze. He groaned, thinking he was done when a piece of his hair fell onto his nose and tickled it further, causing him to explode with two more harsh, wet sneezes. He doesn’t even care about how loud he is, he’s sick and miserable, he shouldn’t have to restrain his powerful sneezes. The universe owes him that at the very least.

Jughead pushed the hair away from his nose frustratedly, scrunching his nose to get rid of the irritating tickle. He rubs at his reddened nose, cringing as he feels a little bit of wetness in it, but hey, nobody can see how disgusting he is now. He groans, and lets out a chorus of congested little coughs that stab at his chest.

He slides down against the tree miserably, sniffling wetly as he wipes his runny nose on his soaked sleeve. He shakes violently, teeth chattering and hugging himself (wow, is that how pathetic he’s gotten?). Despite how cold he’s feeling, there’s a little bit of warmth radiating off him from a sure fever that he’s had the whole day. He feels woozy and definitely very off, very feverish and generally unwell. He just wants this night to end.

Jughead is thinking about all the happy (or seemingly happy) little families of Riverdale all bundled up in their blankets and nice heaters to brave this storm. He hopes that fantasising about it would make him feel a little warmer. After another obnoxiously loud sneeze, he’s accepted that he’s doomed to a night of the freezing cold and rain when a flash of lightning blinds him, then he hears the thunder loudly rumbling shortly after.

The sound explodes in his ears, chilling him even further than he is so he turns to ice. The lightning that flashes in front of him blinds him, leaving him petrified and paralysed, terrified.

His breathing starts to pick up, his blood running cold as his chest suddenly becomes heavy, and it’s not from his cough. He’s being suffocated, as anxiety rushes throughout his body and shutting him down as his breathing is shallow and barely enough oxygen is being supplied in his system. He feels faint.

One of the many consequences of being homeless is that Jughead is off his anxiety meds; and going through his day to day is hard enough, but something like a loud storm offsetting his anxiety? It’s cruel.

Jughead knows he can’t stay here, but there is literally nowhere to go. The strike of light flashes in his eyes and jars him,  he feels faint and weak. The thunder is growling again and the explosion of sound rattles his brain and intensifies his headache. The pain is enough for him to leave the sanctuary that is his tree and he’s sprinting. Running as fast as his sick body can, letting his feet take him wherever they’re planning.

Running burns at his chest, because Jughead can barely breathe because he’s sick and anxious and he’s also incredibly unfit. He skips gym for a reason. As he runs he coughs harshly, spluttering as he runs his heart out.

Then suddenly he’s coming to a halt, as his foot miscalculates a step and lunges out too far, and he’s slipping on the slippery pavement, out of the somewhat firm grass. He slips across the road, managing to save his chin with his arms. He’s scraped, and a short sensation of pain rushes through him.

Exhausted, he is face down against the road. He’s too sick and too tired, his chest heavy from anxiety, but he can’t just sleep on the road like this. The thunder and lightning wake him up again, as well as intensify his headache.

Jughead lifts his head up, and sees two familiar houses that leave him feeling just a tad warmer.

By instinct his gaze shifts over to Archie’s house, he thinks about his best friend who he has just rekindled with, and the kindness of Fred Andrews. But then he remembers why they were split apart in the first place, Grundy, and how Archie does not need another problem right now. Archie needs time to heal.

Then his gaze pans over to the sweet, American Dream of a house. The Cooper household.

It’s not the same kind of warmth he thinks of when he sees Archie’s house, but it still warmth, and it’s just as good. And Jughead is so cold, and he needs it.

Jughead coughs, picking himself off the ground and approaching the household. He doesn’t even know what time it is, and if Betty is still awake, but his heart cannot take this storm.

He staggers and stumbles over to the Cooper house, his body racked by his violent shivering. His legs shake, barely supporting himself and he needs to take his time. He sniffles, running a finger under his nose and shuffles through the damp, glistening grass. Jughead spots a ladder just sitting outside, next to a bunch of hardware tools. He speculates it’s just Hal Cooper fixing up the house.

A thought crosses his mind and Jughead is against it, it’s awfully cliche and disgustingly Nicholas Sparks-esque and not him, he’s not into that, but there is literally no other way. He gets a grip on the ladder and carefully uproots it, and balances it on the window he knows by heart is Betty Cooper’s. He’s spent most of his life in Archie Andrews’ bedroom, he knows who the window across from his belongs to.

Once he thinks the ladder is steady, Jughead stifles a forceful cough into his sodden sleeve, it scrapes against his throats and burns. He escalates the ladder slowly, the ladder eerily shaking slightly as his body trembles from the cold, and as he is almost to the top his nose tickles, of course. Jughead is bad at stifling, and always needs his hands to do it, but his hands are firmly balancing himself on the ladder and if he lets go to stifle, he’ll fall down and cause a commotion. But if he sneezes freely, the loud sound would also cause a commotion.

Jughead can’t think of what to do because his body is bracing itself to sneeze and somehow he managed a harsh stifle that sounds so painful, and most definitely is painful. It scrapes against his throat horridly and leaves a dull ache in his sinuses. Someone stirs within the household, and Jughead freezes.

Betty Cooper makes her presence known by checking her window, and when she looks out she widens her eyes at the sight. Jughead manages a weak, sheepish but charming smile at her. He can faintly hear her soft gasp as she yanks the window open, and offers him a hand and helps him into her bedroom.

She doesn’t know where to start, whisper screaming, “Jughead?! You’re soaked!”

He smirks, “I figured you would appreciate me putting aside my pretentiousness and give it up for a more cliché, romantic Romeo type exterior.”

Betty rolls her eyes playfully, “Yuck, I don’t want a Romeo like you. I’d prefer someone who wasn’t quite a wreck, thank you very much.”

Jughead laughs a little at that, knowing full well romance wasn’t for him. It never was, and he wasn’t quite sure if it ever will. It was a funny joke though, in an ironic kind of sense.

Jughead shivers intensely, wrapping soaked arms around himself in an attempt to keep himself warm and Betty frowns.

She places a hand on Jughead’s forehead, he’s too weak to protest like he usually would, and her frown is worsened, “You’re burning up! What are you doing in the rain like this, you idiot?”

Jughead stifles a series of congested coughs into his shoulder, and looks up at her blearily and whispers, “I promise I just need to stay here while it rains, just for tonight, I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow morning.”

Betty looks at him with a look he can’t quite decipher–a weird mix of sympathy, confusion, heartbreak and understanding. One thing Jughead loves about her is that unlike Archie, bless him, she is less naive and is better at reading in between the lines, and doesn’t blurt out things by accident that doesn’t help. Because Betty doesn’t question him, she doesn’t say anything.

She opens her drawers and pulls out an oversized t shirt she had gotten at a camp and a big sweatshirt she got at some volunteering event, and a pair of bigger sweatpants that she wears when it’s cold. She hopes it will fit him, and passes them over to him.

“I’m going to get you some tea and medicine, get changed into these while I’m  gone, you’re soaked to the bone,” She fussed worriedly, her voice low and whispery.

Jughead shakes his head violently, “No no no, you don’t have to..your parents..”

Betty lets out a fond chuckle, “Jughead, trust me, I know the ins and outs of this place. I am a pro at not waking my parents, I will be just fine.”

“Betty–” Jughead protests but Betty has already left him to his own devices.

He sighs guiltily, sniffling again and coughing chestily, feeling his lungs strain and feel blocked from phlegm. He groaned softly and quickly stripped his wet clothing off him and dried himself off with a towel. He donned the soft, warm and fresh clothing given to him and couldn’t help the soft moan of relief as his body warmed up a little. He felt comforted and warm in these new clothes.

Jughead quietly pushes the window open again, and wrings out his wet clothing out of the window–and when he finishes he folds them carefully and skilfully. He shakes his backpack out of the window too to get the water out of it, and places the backpack on the floor when he finishes. While waiting, he grabs at the towel he used to dry himself off to start drying at his dark, wet hair which was surely going to be a huge curly mess once it dried.

Betty slowly and nimbly reenters the room,  a steaming cup of tea and medicine in her hands.

Jughead smiles to greet her but the smile is wiped off his face quickly as his nose twitches irritably, as he inhales sharply and buries his face into the towel he was holding to muffle two explosions.

“Bless you,” Betty chuckles and sets the tray down on a table. “You know, for a person so quiet, you really can’t sneeze quietly.”

Jughead chuckled and sniffles, his voice stuffed up and an octave lower, he sounds pathetic, “I guess it makes up for all my time sulking alone.”

Betty stifles her hearty laughter, a little upset she can’t laugh louder because she can’t wake her parents. She reaches for a box of tissues neatly placed by her bedside table and chucks it at him.

“Wow, I can’t believe you can’t appreciate the wonderful, chocolatey huskiness of my voice, do you really want to get rid of it so easily?” Jughead jokes emptily, his jokes not quite as full, feeling hollow and like he’s not even there. He’s clearly not doing too good, and Betty is only now realising that he’s shaking and his breathing is definitely very off.

She watches him worriedly as she picks up the medicine packet and opens it up and gets a pill, and she picks up the tea cup. Jughead blows his nose weakly, the sound sounding horribly sickly. She frowns again and passes the medicine and the tea.

Jughead utters a small thank you before popping the pill into his mouth and downing the pill with the tea. The warmth of the liquid is remarkably soothing against his raw throat, and the warming sensation spreads throughout his body and he feels a lot better. But Betty is frowning at how Jughead’s hands shake as he sips at the tea.

Jughead’s chest is still heavy, and it still hurts to breathe and there’s still a cold pang in the middle of his chest. He puts down the tea and his lip trembles, trying to calm himself down but then he can hear the loud crackling of the thunder again and he starts to lose control. His breathing is erratic, and he can’t hide the look of terror in his face any longer.

Betty kneels down next to him, and slowly reaches for his hands, “Is this okay?”

Jughead nods weakly, and lets her take his hands and rub little circles into them comfortingly.

This situation has happened between them many times before, but it hadn’t happened since they were children. They are childhood friends, after all, they’ve seen each other grow. Betty’s been with Jughead when he’s had panic attacks like this, and while Archie literally didn’t know what to do there was some instinct in her that somehow understood. When they were all 13 Jughead started taking medicine and they didn’t happen as much. Betty wonders why they’ve started again, and the answer her brain gives her is one that she doesn’t like.

Jughead is looking away, eyes darting to the ceiling and to the floor.

“Hey, can you look at me?” Betty says softly, and Jughead does. He looks up at her and the kindness in her eyes is enough for him to steady himself so slightly and she’s so firm and confident that he feels a little more assured. Safe.

“Can you try and copy me? Take your time,” She whispers coaxingly, taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly. Jughead tries to copy her, he is ragged and off rhythm for a little bit, but eventually he matches with her rhythm.

“You’re doing so well, Juggie,” Betty reassures. He feels a little more alive then, now that his body was taking in the oxygen it needed to survive.

He lets out shaky breaths, concentrating on a steady rhythm, and eventually his chest hurts a lot less. He’s a lot lighter. He coughs harshly into his sleeve, restraining the sound so he doesn’t wake Betty’s parents, but it strains his throat.

Jughead picks up the tea again, and sips at it and cherishes the hot liquid that flows down his throat and massages it.

“God, Jug, you should’ve come sooner, being sick in the rain like that was a dumb move,” She whispers as she boops him on his sensitive nose playfully.

A tickle creeps up on him and he pinches his nose and stifles three sneezes, letting out a soft groan when he finishes.

“Bless you,” Betty whispers, stifling her giggles. She leans in again to for his temperature; he’s burning up, but it’s not too bad. Jughead knows if he hadn’t come at all, he would be a lot worse. Betty seems to think the same.

“I’m glad you came to me tonight,” She whispers softly, her eyes kind and genuine.

She chuckles softly, getting up to drape a blanket over him, “Knowing you, your most likely action would be to hide under a tree the whole night.”

Jughead manages a shaky chuckle, pulling the blanket closer around him, letting the warmth blanket him so he can bask in its warmth, “You know, I was going to.”

Betty smirked, “and what changed your mind?”

His eyes soften, “The storm. I..it was too loud and..uh, my heart couldn’t take it.”

He feels so vulnerable, and he detests it. He loathes being outside of the safe walls he has built for himself, as much as they make him feel stifled, being outside of them makes him feel watched and judged and so alienated. Even more detached than he already is.

“Edgy Jughead Jones can’t handle a storm,” Betty jokes.

Jughead can’t help but smile, she knows him so well. She knows that the most she can do for him is to take him away from all of this.

Betty softens a little, and sighs, “But..you do know the obligatory ‘what’s going on’ speech is going to have to happen, right?”

Jughead nods.

“So, what’s going on?”

Jughead feels a pang of pain strike through his chest, tears prick his eyes and he looks away. He doesn’t know where to start, so overwhelmed by it all because he doesn’t know  what’s going on in his life. He’s never asked himself that question, he’s too scared to confront it in fear that if he lets it in, it will never come out again.

“I’m not ready to talk about it,” Jughead chokes out weakly, unsure if all the things happening to him is simply catching up to him or if the fever is speaking.

Betty doesn’t press him.

Her gaze is soft and understanding, but firm, “Alright. Okay but promise me you will, maybe not today, maybe not to me, but you will talk about this. Promise?”

She holds her pinky out just like when they children.

Jughead finds himself intertwining his pinky with hers, and he nods. Perhaps he is just looking for that relief and memory of his lost childhood, but something about how kind Betty is to him makes him genuinely promise.

Times like these make Jughead remember that his life isn’t just a Shakespearean tragedy, he has friends who love him. Friends who will always be there for him.

“Promise,” Jughead smiles.

Betty smiles at him sadly, “..So..do you know what you’re doing?”

Jughead shrugs, “I’ll..figure it out when tomorrow comes.”

This is the way his life has gone, living each day by day, any sense of security completely gone.

“..I always do.”

Betty reaches out, her hand comforting on his arm. Her smile is so warm and welcoming, “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

He doesn’t really know what to say, because a few tear spills from his eyes and he lets out a shaky breath, managing a weak smile.

‘What makes a home?’ he thinks.

Jughead’s not really sure if he’s ever going to be able to answer the question, (maybe there are some things he will never truly understand, he can only experience), but this is the closest answer he can get for now. That’s alright with him.