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ericgamalinda · 4 years ago

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Sod Manila!

From EMPIRE OF MEMORY, 1992 / 2014

AT HALF PAST THREE in the afternoon of July 5, 1966, a mob hired by President Ferdinand Marcos chased the Beatles out of Manila International Airport. I remember the jittery footage of the scene being replayed over and over on The News Tonite on Channel 5. A grim-looking commentator was saying the Fab but Discourteous Four had shamelessly humiliated the First Lady and her children by refusing to pay a courtesy call at Malacañang Palace. Imelda Marcos herself hastily issued a statement saying the Beatles were to be treated humanely despite the snub, but this was said after the fact—after the Beatles had been kicked, spat at, cursed, and chased into a waiting jet.

Julian Hidalgo, known by the nickname Jun, took me and my sister Delphi to the Beatles’ concert at Rizal Memorial Stadium. At that time he was courting my sister and was hoping to win me over by playing the older brother. They were both nineteen, and the rituals of this older generation meant nothing to me beyond free passes to a number of movies, where I had to chaperone Delphi. The three of us would witness, not by accident, the Beatles being beaten up at the airport, and for some time we would bond in a special way—conspirators mystically united by an adventure whose significance would only dawn on us long after the event had passed. Jun explained a few details about this incident to me eighteen years later, when, in the ironic twists of fate that coursed through our lives during the dictatorship, he and I became colleagues once again in the censorship office in Malacañang. But in 1966 we were young, brash, and bold with hope, and like the entire country, we seemed on the verge of a privileged destiny.

Three days before the concert, Jun rushed to our house with three front-row tickets. Delphi’s eyes widened like 45s. “Where did you get the money this time, ha?” she asked incredulously. “The First Lady gave them to me,” Jun said proudly. And, in response to our howls of disbelief, “Well, actually, this reporter from the Manila Times gave them to me. The First Lady was giving away sacks of rice and tickets last week. This reporter owed me for a tip I gave him years ago, the one that got him the Press Club award. He wanted the rice, I asked for the tickets. He was one of those Perry Como types.” Imelda Marcos had flown in friends and media to celebrate her birthday on her native island of Leyte. There was roast suckling pig and a rondalla playing all day. She herself obliged requests for a song with a tearful ballad in the dialect, “Ang Irog Nga Tuna,” My Motherland. To commemorate the sentimental reunion, each guest went home with the rice and tickets. “Now that’s style,” Delphi said. Then, upon reflection: “They won’t let Alfonso in.” “Of course they would!” I protested. I was just thirteen but I was already as tall as she was. “That’s not the point,” Jun said impatiently. “I’m going to get myself assigned to cover the Beatles and we can talk to them ourselves.” “All the other reporters will beat you to it,” I said. Jun was stringing for the Manila Times and was convinced that getting an exclusive interview would land him a job as a staff reporter. “All the other reporters listen to nothing but Ray Conniff,” he said. “Besides, nobody knows where they’re staying. But I do.” Jun’s modus operandi wasn’t going to be that easy. He managed to get stage passes for the three of us, which turned out to be inutile. It was the official pass, printed and distributed in London, that we had to wangle if we were to get near the Beatles. “Go ahead and do your job,” Delphi told him icily. “We’ll see you at the stadium.” “I can still get you the pass,” Jun said. “Somehow.” He was beginning to realize that concert security would directly affect his personal relationships. But not even his religious coverage of pre-concert press briefings seemed to help. Local promoters announced that the Beatles’ only press conference was going to be held at the War Room of the Philippine Navy headquarters, and that the concert was being staged, not by coincidence, on the fourth of July as a birthday gift to the Republic (July 4th) and the First Lady (July 2nd). Other questions were left unanswered. Had the Beatles secretly arrived by submarine? “That’s confidential.” Were they actually going to stay at the Palace? “That’s confidential.” In the end somebody asked if the Beatles actually existed, and the joke was that that, too, was confidential. The excitement was further fueled by a series of wire stories the dailies ran on page one, including coverage of the Beatles’ world tour, warnings of possible riots all over the world, and a rare discordant moment in Tokyo, where a reporter asked the group, “What are you going to be when you grow up?” The reply: “If you grow up yourself you’d know better than to ask that question.” Radio stations kept playing the Beatles’ hits (most requested: “Yesterday” and “Help!”), and DZUW, Rainy Day Radio, preempted everyone and began playing the new single, “Paperback Writer.” The Philippine Security Corporation created the biggest stir when it insured the Beatles for a million pesos. Two hundred Philippine Constabulary troopers, seven hundred policemen, detachments from the Pasay City and Parañaque police, the Civil Aeronautics Administration, the Bureau of Customs, and the Marines were on red alert. The First Lady bought fifteen hundred tickets and distributed them to volunteer recruits to Vietnam, who were going to be the show’s guests of honor. Pro-Beatle fan clubs were staging rallies, counterpointed by anti-Beatle demonstrations where placards said, “No one is more popular than Jesus!!!” Government bureaucrats had to drive away contractors who were bribing them with concert tickets. On the eve of the Beatles’ arrival, a young colegiala threatened to jump off the roof of the Bank of the Philippine Islands building unless she was granted a private audience with the band. Backstage at the Rizal Memorial Stadium, an air-conditioned dressing room was hastily installed a day before the concert, complete with state-of-the-art TV monitors and audio equipment. Quarter-page ads appeared in the dailies for a week, announcing concert schedules and sponsors. Finally, on July 3, the day of the Beatles’ arrival, a full-page splash appeared in all the dailies:

LIVE! THE BEST IN THE WORLD! THE BEATLES IN MANILA With Asia’s Queen of Songs Pilita Corales Carding Cruz and his Orchestra The Wing Duo The Lemons Three Dale Adriatico The Reycard Duet and Eddie Reyes & The Downbeats!

Early that morning, Jun called us up. “Get dressed, both of you. We’re meeting the Beatles at the airport.” “What do you mean, we?” Delphi asked. “I told you we’d talk to them, didn’t I?” Jun said. “Did I ever break a promise?” On many occasions, yes, but this was one promise for which Delphi was willing to risk her life—and mine, if need be. She drove our parents’ 1964 Ford to the airport as though she wanted to mow down everything in our way, laughing as irate motorists yelled obscenities at us. When we finally met Jun at the parking lot, he handed us a pile of obviously used porter uniforms. “I paid the guy twenty pesos to rent them,” he said proudly. “Does this guy know what you’re renting them for?” Delphi asked, crinkling her nose as she daintily held her uniform away. Jun held up a bootleg 45, pressed in Hong Kong, in red vinyl. “If I get an autograph, we get a refund.”

THE CATHAY PACIFIC jet swooped in at half past four. The airport was jam-packed with the biggest crowd I had ever seen in my life: girls in bobby socks and leatherette miniskirts and boys in seersucker suits, all perspiring and scrunched against a chain-link fence. This was definitely the wrong place to be. As the jet taxied in, we tore ourselves away from the crowd and wormed our way to one of the departure exits, just in time to catch a baggage trolley rattling toward the plane. Jun hopped on, and Delphi and I awkwardly clambered after him. I was afraid Delphi’s bobbed hair would spill out of the cap she was wearing and blow our cover. But, having regained her composure, she stood handsomely in the last car, gripping the rail; it was no wonder Jun risked life, limb, and career for her. The trolley rattled past armored cars, fire trucks, riot squads, and troops of motorcycle police who were wearing special cowboy hats for this occasion. As soon as the trolley cranked to a stop under the jet, Jun hopped off. He was about to head toward the stairs when a limousine careened and cut him off. Three official-looking men dressed in formal barong Tagalog got off the limousine and rushed up to the plane. What followed was an interminable, bated-breath pause. Jun walked up the stairs and saw the officials arguing with passengers near the plane’s exit. Somebody was saying, “Is there a war going on?” Finally, one official tentatively walked out of the plane. This was enough to excite the increasingly impatient crowd, and immediately a cacophony of screams burst from the viewing deck. The screams grew louder as other officials and soldiers walked out of the plane. By the time Brian Epstein groggily stepped out, the screaming had reached earsplitting level—no matter that the soldiers surrounded the Beatles from jet to limousine and we caught glimpses of them only through spaces in the cordon sanitaire: George Harrison, his hair tousled by the humid wind, his red blazer flashing like a signal of distress, Ringo Starr in peppermint stripes and flapping foulard, Paul McCartney, round-eyed and baby-faced, and John Lennon, hiding behind dark glasses. Jun hurried down the stairs and motioned for us to follow him. “What happened in there?” Delphi asked him. “I don’t know,” Jun said. “All I heard was a lot of words your folks wouldn’t want you to hear.” “What does that mean?” Delphi asked. “Nothing we can’t find out,” said Jun.

THE MANILA TIMES ran a story about the press conference at the War Room. Jun fumed over his colleague’s story, saying, “This idiot did little more than transcribe the Q&A.” It turned out, however, that the Beatles’ replies would be uncannily prophetic.

THE BEATLES! YEAH! By Bobby Tan

When did you last get a haircut? In 1933. Would you be as popular without your long hair? We can always wear wigs. How much taxes do you pay? Too much. What attracted you to your wives? Sex. Do you feel you deserve the Order of the British Empire? Yeah. But when you’re between 20 and 23, there are bound to be some criticisms. How will you solve the Vietnam War? Give it back to whoever deserves it. What’s your latest song? “Philippine Blues.” Mr. Lennon, what did you mean by Spaniard in your latest book? Have you read it? No. Then read it. If there should come a time when you have to choose between the Beatles and your family, whom would you choose? We never let our families come between us. What is your favorite song? “God Save the King.” But it’s the Queen now. “God Save the Queen” then. What will you be doing ten years from now? Why bother about ten years from now? We don’t even know if we’ll be around tomorrow.

ON THE EVE of July 4, Philippine-American Friendship Day, President Ferdinand Marcos urged Filipinos to “recall the lasting and valuable friendship between America and the Philippines” and issued a statement saying a revamp of the government bureaucracy was imminent. “Heads Will Roll!” the dailies shrilled, their bold prediction thrust audaciously by homeless street children against car windows along Highway 54. At the Quirino Grandstand the next day, the President sat in the sweltering heat as troops paraded before him. Three stations covered the Friendship Day rites, but Channel 5 ignored it completely, running instead a 24-hour update on the Beatles. Marcos seethed on the grandstand, and cameras caught the expression on his face that might have said: Damned Trillos, they really get my goat. The Trillos owned the Manila Times and many broadcast stations and refused to accommodate the First Family’s whims. But Marcos had the last laugh. On this very afternoon, back at the Palace, Imelda and the children would be having lunch with the Beatles. All television stations and newspapers had been invited for a five-minute photo opportunity—all, that is, except the Trillo network. Marcos tried to stifle a smirk as he saluted the troops. Proud and dignified in his white suit, he stood out like some sartorial titan: people said you could tell he was going in for a second term.

CALLA LILIES were brought in at nine by Emma Fernandez, one of the Blue Ladies, so-called because Imelda Marcos had them wear nothing but blue. The flowers adorned the corridors of the palace all the way to the formal dining hall, where about a hundred youngsters, ages three to fifteen, listlessly waited for the Beatles. Imee, the eldest of the Marcos children, sporting a new bobcut hairdo, sat at the head of the table. Her younger sister Irene sat beside her, reticent and uncomfortable in Sunday clothes. Ferdinand Junior, master Bongbong to one and all, was wearing a bowtie and a starched cotton shirt, and his attire apparently made him restless, as he kept sliding off his seat to pace the floor. Around them were children of ministers, generals, business tycoons, and friends of the family, sitting under buntings of red, white, and blue and paper flags of the United States and the Philippines. Imelda Marcos walked in at exactly eleven. Emma Fernandez approached her, wringing her hands, and whispered in her ear: “They’re late!” Imelda brushed her off, an imperceptible smile parting her lips. She kissed the children one by one, Imee dodging and receiving instead a red smear on the ear. She inspected the cutlery, the lilies, the nameplates: two R’s each for Harrison and Starr, check; two N’s for Lennon; and no A in Mc. She scanned the room proudly, deflecting the grateful, expectant faces, the small fingers clutching cardboard tickets to the concert. At half past eleven the children began complaining, so breadsticks and some juice were served. Imelda walked around the hall, stopping to strike a pose for the palace photographers. “Good shot, Madame!” The photographers were the best in the field, plucked out of the newsrooms to accompany her on all her itineraries. They had been sufficiently instructed on which angle to shoot from and which side to take, and anyone who took the wrong shot was dismissed posthaste, his camera and negatives confiscated. The children were more difficult to shoot: bratty and impatient, they always came out pouting, with their chins stuck out. It was always best to avoid them. Unknown to this gathering, a commotion was going on at the lobby of the Manila Hotel. On hand were Brian Epstein and members of the concert crew; Colonel Justin Flores and Captain Nilo Cunanan of the Philippine Constabulary; Sonny Balatbat, the teenage son of Secretary of State Roberto Balatbat; Captain Fred Santos of the Presidential Guard; Major Tommy Young and Colonel Efren Morales of the Manila Police District; and local promoter Rene Amos. “We had an agreement,” Colonel Flores was saying. “We sent a telegram to Tokyo.” “I don’t know about any fucking telegram,” Epstein replied. “The First Lady and the children have been waiting all morning.” “Nobody told them to wait.” “The First Lady will be very, very disappointed.” Brian Epstein looked the colonel in the eye and said, “If they want to see the Beatles, let them come here.” At the stroke of noon, Imelda Marcos rose from her chair and walked out of the dining hall. “The children can wait,” she said, “but I have more important things to do.” As soon as she was gone, Imee pushed back her chair, fished out her ticket, and tore it in two. The other children followed, and for a few seconds there was no sound in the hall but the sound of tickets being torn. Bongbong hovered near the plate that had been reserved for John Lennon. “I really much prefer the Rolling Stones,” he said. Photographers caught the young master at that moment, his eyes wide and blank. Imee looked at him and remarked, “The only Beatles song I liked was ‘Run for Your Life.’” She looked around the hall defiantly. She had never been so embarrassed in her life. People always said that among the three Marcos children, she was the sensitive one. That morning she seemed she was about to cry.

The Beatles: Mass Hysteria! By Jun Hidalgo

Eighty thousand hysterical fans cramped into Rizal Memorial Stadium to watch the Beatles, the largest crowd Manila has seen since the Elorde-Ortiz boxing match in the same stadium. While traffic snarled to a standstill along Dakota Street, 720 policemen, 35 special detectives and the entire contingent of the Manila Fire Department stood guard as the Liverpool quartet performed their hits before thousands of cheering and screaming fans, many of whom had waited to get inside the stadium since early morning…

WHEN THE GATES finally opened, all hell broke loose. I held on to Delphi, who held on to Jun, and the three of us braved the onslaught as we squeezed past security and found ourselves, miraculously intact, on the front row beside the Vox speakers. “I don’t want to sit here,” Delphi protested. “We’re going to blast our ears off!” “Relax,” Jun said. “Everybody’ll be screaming anyway. We have the best seats in the house.” Everyone in the stadium was a mophead, except the Vietnam volunteers sitting in our row, whose heads had been cleanly shaved. They were young men plucked from the provinces, and many of them were never coming home again. I was so relieved I had grown my hair longer that summer. My hair was a clear sign that, despite my young age, I had gained honorary membership in the exclusive cabal of this generation. You could tell who the pigs were: they were the ones who roamed around, their ears pink and their heads shaved clean like the Vietnam volunteers. Some of them had guns under into their belts; they had been warned that a riot could break out.

…Soaked in sweat, Beatles fans impatiently heckled the opening acts, and emcees had to threaten the crowd that the Beatles would not perform until the audience simmered down.

And when the Beatles finally opened with “I Wanna Be Your Man,” you could feel the excitement ripping through you, a detonation of such magnitude your entire being seemed to explode. I couldn’t hear anything except a long, extended shrill—the whole stadium screaming its lungs out. I looked at Delphi. She was holding her head between her hands and her eyes were bulging out and her mouth was stretched to an 0, and all I could hear was this long, high-pitched scream coming out of her mouth. I had never seen Delphi like that before, and I would never, for the rest of her life, see her as remorselessly young as she was that afternoon.

THE MORNING AFTER the concert, Jun asked Delphi if we could take the Ford to Manila Hotel. “Why do you have to take us along?” Delphi asked him. It was clear that for her the concert had been the high point of our adventure. “We still have to get that interview, don’t we?” Jun reminded her. “Besides,” he added, “I need you to cover for me,” Jun said. “Cover?” asked Delphi. “As in war?” “Looks like war it’s going to be,” said Jun. Jun had bribed someone from room service to let him take a snack to the Beatles. I was going to pose as a bellhop. Delphi was going to be a chambermaid. Apparently our plan was to swoop down on them in the name of impeccable service, with Jun secretly recording this invasion with the help of a pocket-sized tape recorder. As usual, he had the uniforms ready, rented for the day for half his month’s wages. “The hotel laundry boy’s a childhood friend of mine.” “You’re the company you keep,” Delphi teased him, because she knew it tortured him whenever she did that. I wore the monkey suit perfectly, but somehow it still didn’t feel right. I looked at myself in the men’s room mirror and knew I was too young for the role. And Delphi looked incongruous as the chambermaid: her bob cut was too in. As it turned out, all my misgivings would be proven true. We crossed the lobby to the service elevator. Jun walked several paces ahead of us, nonchalantly jiggling the car keys, but I kept glancing nervously around. “Hoy, where you going?” Jun didn’t seem to hear the house detective call us, or maybe the detective didn’t notice him walking past. I felt a hand grab my collar and pull me aside. Immediately, Delphi was all over the detective, hitting him with her fists: “You take your hands off my brother or I’ll kick your teeth in!” Struggling out of the detective’s chokehold, I could see Jun hesitating by the elevator. I motioned for him to go. The detective dragged Delphi and me out to a backroom where several other detectives were playing poker. “Oy, got two more right here!”

AS HE RECALLED LATER, Jun wheeled the tray into Suite 402 expecting to find telltale debris of a post-concert party (and hence an excuse for us to mop up). What he came upon was something less festive. “Compliments of the house, sir,” he announced cheerfully as he came in. George Harrison and Brian Epstein were sitting on the sofa, and Paul McCartney was precariously perched on the TV set, brooding. The three of them apparently had been having an argument and they all looked up, surprised, at the intruder. “All right,” Epstein said, curtly. “Bring it in.” “I’ll have to mix the dip here, sir,” Jun said, to prolong the intrusion. “House specialty.” Nobody seemed to hear him. George Harrison continued the conversation, “We came here to sing. We didn’t come here to drink tea and shake hands.” “That’s precisely the reason we’ve got to pay customs the bond for the equipment,” said Epstein. “Let them keep the money then,” Paul said. “Everyone says here come those rich mopheads to make more money. We don’t care about the money.” “We didn’t even want to come here,” George reminded them. “The only reason we came here,” added Paul, “was because these people were always saying why don’t you come over here? We didn’t want to offend anyone, did we? We just came here to sing. You there,” indicating Jun, who jumped with surprise. “Do you speak English?” “Fairly well,” replied Jun. “Does the government control the press here, as they do the customs people, the airport managers, and the police?” “Not yet,” said Jun. Paul then observed that everything was “so American in this country, it’s eerie, man!” He also remarked that many people were exploited by a wealthy and powerful few. Epstein wanted to know how he knew that, as the others had simply not heard of the country before, and Paul replied that he had been reading one of the local papers. “What are we supposed to do?” he asked. “Show up and say, ‘Well, here we are, we’re sorry we’re late!’ We weren’t supposed to be here in the first place. Why should we apologize for something that’s not our fault?” At that point John Lennon and Ringo Starr, who had been booked in the adjacent suite, walked in. Ringo, sweating and tousled, plopped into the sofa between Epstein and George Harrison. John Lennon, wearing his dark glasses, walked straight to the window and looked out. “We’ve got a few things to learn about the Philippines, lads,” he said. “First of all is how to get out.”

THE MANILA HOTEL DETECTIVES deftly disposed of Delphi and me with a push via the back door, where a sign said THROUGH THIS DOOR PASS THE MOST COURTEOUS EMPLOYEES OF MANILA. We walked back to the Ford in the parking lot and waited for less than an hour when Jun, struggling out of the hotel uniform and back to mufti, sprinted toward us and hopped into the driver’s seat. “Get in!” he shouted. “We’re going to the airport!” “Did you get the interview?” Delphi asked. “Better,” Jun said. “The Beatles are going to try to leave this afternoon. They’re paying something like forty-five thousand dollars as a bond or something. Customs is charging them so much money in taxes for the concert.” “Wait a minute,” Delphi protested. “Is that legal?” “Who cares?” Jun said. “All I know is they’re paying the bond and now all they want to do is to get out. But they think something’s going to happen at the airport. There’s been talk of arrest and detention.” “Who said that?” Delphi asked. “John Lennon, I think. I don’t know. I was mixing that stupid dip.” We were driving toward the south highway now, past the mammoth hulls of ships docked at Manila Bay. “You know all those people who’ve been trying to get the Beatles to go to the palace? You know why they were so keen on bringing the band over to Imelda’s luncheon?” “Can’t waste all that food, right?” Delphi said. “Bright girl, but no. There’s going to be a major revamp soon. It’s all over the papers, if you’ve been paying attention. All these guys are going to get the top posts. Well, most of them were, until the Beatles screwed everything up.” “What guys? Who?” “That Colonel Fred Santos, the one who led the group to talk to Epstein, he’s being groomed to head the Presidential Guard. Real heavy-duty position, accompanying the First Family all over the world, luxury apartment at the Palace, the works. There’s one Colonel Flores, Justin Flores I think, who’s bound to be chief of the constabulary. Then there’s Colonel Efren Morales, most likely head of the Manila Police.” “But these are junior officers,” Delphi said. “Marcos can’t just promote them to top posts.” “That’s the point. Marcos is going to bypass everybody and build up an army of his own. All these new guys will be licking his boots and there’s nothing the generals can do about it. That young mophead, the son of Balatbat, he was there for his father, who’s going to be reappointed secretary of state. And if I’m not mistaken, Salvador Roda, the airport manager, wants to take over customs. The man’s going to be a millionaire, kickbacks and all.” “How do you know all that?” Delphi demanded. “Homework,” Jun said, swerving the car toward the airport, his reply drowned out by the droning of jets. “I’m the best damned reporter in the city, and everybody’s going to find out why.”

SALVADOR RODA was briefing the press agitatedly at the VIP lounge of the airport that afternoon, explaining why the republic was withdrawing security for the Beatles and why customs had slapped a hundred-thousand-peso tax on Liverpudlian income. “Too much Filipino money wasted on such a paltry entourage, gentlemen of the press, and not one centavo of the profits going to the nation. Puta, that doesn’t make sense, di ba?” We walked up the escalators to the second floor to change into our porter uniforms, which we had lugged in backpacks. “This airport gets worse every time I come here,” Delphi complained. “Nothing’s working.” “And there’s nobody around,” observed Jun. The entire second floor was deserted. “Lucky for us,” he said, pushing Delphi into the ladies’ room and then pulling me into the adjoining gents’. We changed into the uniforms and stuffed our clothes above the water tanks. “You think there’s going to be trouble?” I asked Jun. “Will you guys back out if I told you there might?” I had to give that some thought. In the past Jun had taken Delphi and me on some insane adventures, mostly juvenile pranks that left us breathlessly exhilarated, but with no real sense of danger. For the first time I was afraid we were up against something, well, real. “We’ll stick around,” I said, tentatively. He put his arm around me and said, “Kapatid! That’s my brother!”

JULY 5, 2 P.M. THE BEATLES arrived at the airport in a Manila Hotel taxi. They weren’t wasting any time. They ran straight up the escalators, their crew lugging whatever equipment they could carry. At the foot of the escalators a group of women—society matrons and young college girls—had managed to slip past the deserted security posts and, seeing the Beatles arrive, they lunged for the group, screaming and tearing at the band’s clothes. Flashbulbs blinded the band as photographers crowded at the top of the stairs. It would have taken a miracle for the band to tear themselves away from the mob and to reach, as they did in a bedraggled way, the only booth open for passport clearance, where Roda had been waiting with the manifest for Flight CX 196. “Beatles here!” he hollered imperiously, and the band followed his voice meekly, almost contritely. Behind the booth a crowd that had checked in earlier restlessly ogled. “Those aren’t passengers,” Jun observed as we stole past a booth. “They look like the people we saw earlier with Roda.” “Beatles out!” Roda boomed. And then it happened. As the Beatles and their crew filed past the booth, the crowd that had been waiting there seemed to swell like a wave and engulfed the band, pulling them into an undertow of fists and knee jabs. There was a thud—Epstein falling groggily, then being dragged to his feet by security police. Someone was cursing in Tagalog: Heto’ng sa ‘yo bwakang inang putang inang tarantado ka! Take that you m*#f@%ing*@^*r!!! Paul McCartney surfaced for air, his chubby face crunched in unmistakable terror. He pulled away from the crowd, and the other three staggered behind him. Somebody gave Ringo Starr a loud whack on the shoulder and pulled at John Lennon, who yanked his arm away, tearing his coat sleeve. That was when we started running after them—the three of us, and the whole mob. The crowd overtook Delphi, who was shoved aside brusquely. They were inching in on me when the exit doors flew open into the searing afternoon. From the view deck hundreds of fans who had been waiting for hours started screaming. The band clambered up the plane. I kept my eye on the plane, where Jun was already catching up with John Lennon. “Please, Mr. Lennon,” he pleaded. “Let me help you with your bags!” At the foot of the stairs a panting John Lennon turned to him and said, “A friendly soul, for a change. Thanks, but we’re leaving.” “I’m sorry,” Jun said, trembling. John Lennon bolted up the stairs. At the top he stopped and took off his coat and threw it down to Jun. “Here,” he said. “Tell your friends the Beatles gave it to you.”

A FEW WEEKS after the Beatles’ frantic egress from Manila, Taal Volcano erupted, perhaps by way of divine castigation, as happens often in this inscrutable, illogical archipelago. The eruption buried three towns and shrouded Manila in sulfuric ash for days. A month later a lake emerged from what had been the volcano’s crater—a boiling, putrefied, honey-yellow liquefaction. The Beatles flew to New Delhi, where they were to encounter two figures that would change their lives and music: the corpulent, swaying Maharishi, and the droning, mesmerizing sitar. Back in London later, a swarm of fans greeted them carrying placards with mostly one message:

SOD MANILA!

Manila’s columnists took umbrage, and the side of the offended First Lady. Said Teodoro Valencia, who would later become the spokesman of the Marcos press: “Those Beatles are knights of the Crown of England. Now we have a more realistic understanding of what knights are. They’re snobs. But we are probably more to blame than the Beatles. We gave them too much importance.” And columnist Joe Guevarra added: “What if 80,000 people saw the Beatles? They’re too young to vote against Marcos anyway!” Imelda Marcos later announced to the lavishly sympathetic press that the incident “was regrettable. This has been a breach of Filipino hospitality.” She added that when she heard of a plot to maul the Beatles, she herself asked her brother, the tourism secretary, to make sure the Beatles got out of the airport safely. But her magnanimity did little to lessen the outrage. The Manila Bulletin declared that Malacañang Palace had received no less than two hundred letters denouncing the Beatles by that weekend. Manila councilor Gerino Tolentino proposed that the Beatles “should be banned from the city in perpetuity.” Caloocan City passed an ordinance prohibiting the sale, display, and playing of Beatles records. And Quezon City passed a law declaring the Beatles’ music satanic and the mophead hairstyle illegal. Jun Hidalgo wrote his story about the Beatles’ departure, with insider quotes taped, as an editor’s introduction to the story revealed, “while undercover as a hotel employee.” A few weeks later he was accepted into the Manila Times, where he played rookie, as was the custom then, in the snake pit of the local press: the police beat. He gave John Lennon’s coat to Delphi, who dutifully mended the sleeve, and they went steady for a while. But like most youthful relationships, the series of melodramatic misunderstandings, periodic separations, and predictable reunions finally ended in tears, and many unprintable words. My sister, older and more healthily cynical, later immigrated to the United States, from where she sent me postcards and books—and once, a note replying to one of my continuous requests for records, saying she had lost interest in the Beatles when they went psychedelic. I myself, being the obligatory late bloomer, only then began to appreciate the magical, mysterious orchestrations and raga-like trances of the band. Delphi left John Lennon’s coat with me, and I became known in school as the keeper of a holy relic. Like the martyrs, I was the object of much admiration and also much envy. One afternoon, armed with a copy of an ordinance recently passed in Manila, directors of the school rounded up several mophead boys, including myself. In one vacant classroom we were made to sit on hardboard chairs as the directors snipped our hair. I sat stolidly under the scissors, watching my hair fall in clutches on the bare cement floor. Back in my room that evening, I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. Then I folded John Lennon’s jacket tightly, stuffed it in a box, and tucked it under my books and clothes. I felt no bitterness at all. I knew that something irrevocable in my life had ended.

#johnlennon #empireofmemory

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believe-that-you-can-my-friend · 8 years ago

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Hii! Can you do a fic in the future where jughead already published his first novel and he has like some sort of conference or sth where he gets asked questions and all and somebody asks about the girls next door and he talks so sweetly about her and like Betty is in there too and all. Idk if you get it but English isn't my first language. Oh and I love your writing btw you are really talented

#GirlNextDoor

*insert here Titanic’s “It’s been 84 years” gif* Yes, it’s a prompt!! I finally uploaded one! Easter holidays are totally messing my writing scedule and I’m so terribly sorry for that. But I’m back in the game and I promise I’ll be my usual bughead obsessed self from now on! So, I’ve finished this just before the episode aired yesterday (I was just so tired to go over it and post it after the episode ended, I’m sorry) and I’m very pleased a lot of things that I wrote became canon. I had so much fun writing this because I’m a sucker for future fics and because that’s pure fluff and a huge, much needed dose of happiness to Jughead’s life! Also I changed the request a little, I wrote this as a TV interview just to make it more grande for Juggie, I hope you don’t mind, nonnie! Thank you for requesting and for your lovely words!!!

Betty could literally feelherself bouncing on her heels with nervous excitement, the velvet material ofher blush colored pumps getting scratchy as they rubbed up against each otherbut, truly, right now, she didn’t give a damn about her potentially ruined shoes.She could only focus on the red digital numbers changing sequentially over the silverdoors of the semi-packed elevator she was in, biting her lip nervously andcounting mentally in her mind as if that way, somehow, the numbers would runfaster and the silver cage would miraculously arrive on her floor in ananosecond.

7,8, 9, 10…Ding! Betty had never felt before a bigger wave of euphoria at the sight ofthe wooden door with the silver 10B at the end of the corridor and shemaneuvered herself around a happy family of four and a middle-aged businessmanbefore pumping shoulders with Mrs. Pomphrey from the twelfth floor, causing thealways preppy and posh looking older woman to raise an exasperated eyebrow ather unusual unmannered behavior. Betty managed to send her most sweet and goodgirl smile over her shoulder, wanting to maintain her pure, naïve façadetowards their landlord, and she saw the woman shaking her head disapprovinglybut finally turning a tad lenient, regarding the young of Betty’s age, justseconds before her wrinkly and full of make-up face disappeared behind the doorsof the elevator. “The mammoth DaisyBuchanan”, Jughead’s nickname for the woman in his usual snarky tone ofvoice came to her mind and Betty burst into silent laughter as she ran down thecorridor and jiggled her keys, unlocking the apartment door in a swift motionbefore closing it with force behind her, quick fingers already tugging at thelapels of her beige, ruched sleeved, loose fit blazer.

Her Cambridge blue bag droppedto the hardware floor with a loud thud, the cotton tote bag on her shoulder filledwith documents and paperwork followed after and her bare knees under her darkgreen skirt collided with the corner of a big carton box that laid there nextto a minimal set of drawers, making her hiss in pain as she twirledungraciously to throw her blazer in the coat closet by the door in a hurry. Ithad been nearly two months now that they had moved from New York to Boston,Betty scoring an amazing opportunity for an internship at The Boston Globe a year after they hadgraduated NYU that left her ecstatic and Jughead the proudest man alive, butstill they weren’t quite settled in, similar beige boxes filled with books orutensils or other random household necessities, laying around in pretty muchevery room of their new and cozy apartment, a wonderful change of pace fromtheir old and smelly hole that it was their first apartment in New York.

Hugging her laptop bag againsther chest, Betty literally slid down the small hallway until she reached thejoined spacious living room and kitchen, unhooking the ankle strap of her leftheel and groaning in despair as she simultaneously jumped on her other foottowards the grey couch, dropping her laptop carelessly and snatching violentlythe remote control from between the fluffy pillows, pressing some keys untilshe reached the channel she wanted. Seeing that commercials were still on, theblonde girl let a loud sigh of relief.

Today was a big day for them;today her long-time boyfriend and lifetime soulmate, Jughead Jones, or mostly commonlyknown to the public, J. Jones, was going to give his very first big interviewon TV.

Perfectly timed with his highschool graduation, Jughead had drew an end to the chapter of their lives thatwere titled Riverdale and Jason’s Blossom murder, effectively putting the lastfull stop of his first novel right before taking off to college. Despite thefact that he and Betty had reached the end of the labyrinth by the end ofsophomore year – their dedication and sharp minds coordinated with theirpassion about finding the truth and wicked love about the detective film noiressence of the subject brought them first face to face with the real killer –there was still a veil of chained mysteries and ploys that surrounded theirsmall town and needed to be solved first before the day the vicious murderwould be held accustomed for his crimes, shocking the small community ofRiverdale and changing it forever.

Jughead had printed it out, asingle copy only and with no title, bound it and gave it to Betty to read thenight of graduation, after the loud and carefree party of their graduated classat Sweetwater river and after their personal after party in his room at thesmall house he and his, back on track, dad were renting at the time. Betty hadbeen ecstatic, glowing even more as she lay next to him wrapped in the greysheets of his twin-sized bed, finally able to get her hands on what she was surewas marvelous work. “It’s yours” he had said in a whisper against her temple,crashing her inside his embrace, bare back against bare chest and coaxed inpassion blamed sweat “I’m not gonna publish it; I just want you to have it.”

Betty had turned to send himan incredulous look over her shoulder, the thick stash of papers that held hisyears-long work slipping from her fingers to rest on the small spot on the bedtheir tangled up bodies didn’t occupy. She had been utterly confused, he believedin that novel and always considered it his breakthrough work, his one-wayticket out of the impurity that stained their hometown and his free pass to prosperity.Jughead, though, had a good reason to contradict.

This was their story. Yes, thecontent of the book was mainly a mystery, a Hitchcock-like narrative of abrutal murder, of a kid’s murder, that shook a small town with every secretthat was being unraveled like a domino effect after that dreadful night on July11th. But under the misery and the lies and the deceit and thehorror, the story at its core was a love story. At first glance, an expressionof appreciation and devotion towards beauty and purity at the form of a longforgotten Riverdale, underneath which the true subject of the author’sinfatuation laid; the aerie presence of the girl next door, the one and only, BettyCooper.

He didn’t want for the wholeworld to know, he didn’t care. He was more than content with him and herknowing, with them keeping his first work of words their sacred secret andtheir personal relationship chronicle. It didn’t feel right by him to put outin the world something so personal, to strip bare for just five-minutes of fameand a probably small paycheck. His desire had been to keep it away fromjudgement, scrutiny or misinterpretation, adamant to put on sale a part of hissoul and knowing that the true meaning behind his eloquent words would betwisted and ultimately lost. The whole book was his adolescence, hers, theirfriends’, and, on top of that, his own coming of age story as a writer and as aman, and the thing he dreaded the most was for his blonde muse to be desecratedor lessened into something filthy and sexualized for the sake of publication.

Betty had felt flattered andmore in love with him than ever. They had made love again that night over andover again, slow and tender this time, and with hushed words of devotiontrembling against their gasping lips. The next day they had taken off to NewYork, Betty riding shotgun on an old black Buick Riviera – FP’s graduation giftto his son – packed to the hilt with carton boxes and suitcases, and having hernose buried in the book of the love of her life, drinking the words hungrilyand reliving every little step along the way that had brought them there, roadtripping their way to college with rolled down windows and his hand layingaffectionately on her bare thigh, petal pink skirt brushing his knuckles withevery blow of the morning wind. She had reached the end of the magniloquentbook by the same night, with tears in her eyes and a swelling heart, declaringhow beautiful it was and how terribly in love she was with him over and overagain as they made love under the stars.

Years kept passing, collegewas keeping them busy and Jughead’s mind had been working overdrive,brainstorming new ideas and getting excited and engulfed in his desire to writethem on paper. Two more small novels had been written by his miraculous mind duringtheir college years and with Betty’s encouragement to finally let other peopleenjoy his outstanding work - her words not his - Jughead had taken the big stepand sent his work to publishers. However, it seemed that their opinion didn’tquite align with Betty’s. No phones had ever rung, no one had come knocking ontheir door searching for the mysterious and impeccably talented J. Jones. Jugheadhad felt sixteen and not enough once again.

One particular night, whenBetty had woken up and found him for the fifth night in a row awake and at thesmall worn-out desk that they called their office area, head buried inside hishands in despair and what seemed like his fourth cigarette for the nightbetween his fingers, its smoke escaping in a peaceful line from the open rustywindow and getting mingled with the Chinese food smell from the restaurant nextto their cheap but anachronistic apartment building, she patted back insidetheir tiny bedroom and unburied the solemn copy of his beloved first novel fromher nightstand drawer, where she kept it as something as important as her ownheart. Coming back to him, she rubbed his back affectionately, Jughead’s chestreleasing a big sigh as on reflex to her soothing touch and offering her a sad,tired smile upon tilting his head slightly to face her, Betty pecking lovinglyhis temple and then the prominent bag under his left eye. She had laid thenovel in front of him, Jughead looking intensely at his first page as she spoke,plain and white, with just his and her name in dedication. “This is your voice,Juggie.” She had whispered sweetly through the darkness “Don’t worry. Peoplewill love it for the right reasons; you and your words make sure of that.” Andwith a nudge of her cheek to the side of his forehead she was gone, leaving himagain alone with his thoughts.

Jughead had stayed up allnight, contemplating and huffing. And near the crack of dawn he did it; he typedthe first title that came to mind, TheScarlet River, and spent the next hours changing each and every name,putting familiar sounding ones for authenticity but keeping their trueidentities hidden. He had mailed his finished work to only two publishinghouses, the ones he thought were more respectful to the author’s work in hisopinion, and went to bed, enveloping a sleeping Betty in his arms and prayingthat he had made the right choice. A week later, both companies had showedtheir interest in publishing his work.

It was a rollercoaster afterthat. Jughead wanted to choose the deal that would offer him the most creativefreedom, both companies practically bending backwards and promising him thestars and the moon to have such a brilliant and intelligent young artist intheir publishing family, but he wasn’t really interested in the paycheck. Hisonly condition before giving his consent had been no third party editing hiswork whatsoever and he got it. So he shook hands with a smiley middle aged man andthe printing began, the book with the minimalistic black cover illuminated by arunning red river at the center and his name at the very top of the glossy hardpaper hitting the bookstores just a few days after his and Betty’s collegegraduation. And to his amazement and Betty’s delight that she was right allalong, people actually had gone crazy for the first novel of the mysterious J.Jones.

Hordes of people from all ageswere queueing in bookstores and shopping malls to gain a copy, bloggers weretalking about it on the internet, magazines were featuring this newbreakthrough mystery novel in their must-read lists. Betty had startedcollecting every newspaper snippet that mentioned her boyfriend’s name orquality work, bookmarking every site and every online article that praised hiscaptivating writing skills and sharing the results of her daily research withJughead, loving seeing his boyish wide smile being reborn again on his lips andlighting his whole face after months of him being in a dead end author andcharacter wise. There were Instagram posts from people reading all over the country, the cover of the book being photographed on kitchen countertops nextto someone’s breakfast or amongst bedsheets before midnight, inside travelbags, next to business calendars, on floral teenage bedrooms or emo lookingones, even being featured in plenty variations of the most common millennialpicture, the one depicting the view of a beautiful beach and a book against theslender legs of a sunbathing girl, that book being J. Jones’ spectacular novel.That made even Archie admit that his best friend was starting to get famousafter all. People were starting to reach out on him, following him on his upuntil then low-key Twitter and Instagram accounts, asking questions about hiswork, demanding more, wanting to know if the story was real or a well-mapped fictionidea out of a very talented writer’s head. Betty and Jughead would go on withtheir everyday lives normally, go to work every morning on their part-timejobs, run errands, go out on dates but now they would come across people beingengrossed in Jughead’s book everywhere, on the subway or the grocery store, atcoffee shops, at restaurants, on a park bench, both of them feeling a swell ofpride each and every time.

Jughead had refused to do anybook tours or press conferences, even though the publishers and his manager –yeah he had one of those now – had all been a huge pain in the ass and wereconsistently insisting in him doing so for the sake of his income. He wasadamant again; he was perfectly content with how things had turned out to be.People was loving his work, he was being recognized for his talent and he hadnow more than enough money in his pockets and his bank account to offer thewoman of his dreams the best life she deserved; he wasn’t interested in anyempty popularity façade. To keep his deal with the publishing house though hehad to agree to some terms of marketing, even though he completely despised theidea. Betty and her overall brilliant mind had been once again his savior, her comingup with an innovational concept that had the publishers rubbing their hands indelight and Jughead loving her even more, and that was humanly impossible. Aninteractive site had been launched where the author in question started postingthoughts and information about his work, answering questions to readers fromall over the world, discussing theories with them – something that made himsmile like a five year old and type way in excitement – and even doing somelive shows once in a while to interact with his fans more. Sales had skyrocketedafter that, the book was being printed over and over again, people were talkingabout it amongst friendly gatherings, over drinks after work, even dedicatingthought and time on the internet to interpret each and every of his words,discuss either bizarre or well-thought theories and just go ballistic over andover again about the edgy and vague ending, intrigued to extremes to find outmore.

By the end of the year, The Scarlet River had ranked first onthe New York Times’ annual list of bestselling novels. It had been the firsttime that Betty saw Jughead cry from joy, fingers and voice trembling whilereading to her the small paragraph of criticism under the bold title of hisbook, words like “innovational” or “outstanding” or “deliciouslynerve-wracking” standing out amongst other praising compliments. She had jumpedon him with utter excitement and joy, legs wrapped around his waist and armscradling his neck in a tight embrace to show him even more how proud she wasfor him, his face buried in the crook of her neck, thanking her over and overagain for being patient with him and, most importantly, believing in him.

And now they were here; himready to take on the world with his gorgeous, tortured artist looks and hissharp mind and her biting anxiously on her lower lip as she waited in front ofher screen in nervous excitement, feeling her heart beating rapidly just likehis was beating too, many miles away from her. Betty hated herself and stillkept beating herself up for not being able to accompany him to one of the mostimportant moments of his career. She had been there getting hyped and excitedwhen the first copies of his book were delivered, she had been therecelebrating with him every time it got picked for another round of printing,she had been there smiling encouragingly at his first conference with bookcritics and she had been there when his phone rang and a polite assistant fromLarry King Now asked when his hectic schedule would allow him to give them thepleasure of an interview, both hers and Jughead’s jaw dropping to the floor. Butthis time she couldn’t be there. Her internship was demanding and with herbeing a newbie the chances of taking a day off were zero to none, even thoughshe begged and pleaded for an exception just for this particular case. Jugheadwas bummed too but totally understanding as always, although Betty knew hedreaded the fact that he would have to face the unknown alone. So that morningBetty woke him up with breakfast in bed and kisses, styled his hair perfectlyand drove him to the airport despite his objections, dragging him to a bathroomstall just minutes before he needed to be at the check-out line and giving himan intense and full on sultry blowjob, a well-thought plan of hers to ease hismind and offer him the male ego and confidence boost he needed. A pleased anddisbelieving at his luck, awestruck smile never left Jughead’s lips up until helanded in New York.

The business-like chime of herphone cut her reverie short and she rushed to answer with flushed cheeksand a wide grin, seeing the lovely picture of Jughead bare-chested on their bedand smiling sleepily popping on her rose gold iPhone screen.

“My hands are trembling.” Thesardonic voice of her boyfriend came right through when she swiped left toanswer, apathetic as always but with anxiety creeping behind his well-builtarmor, not bothering with a sweet greeting but jumping straight to the point.“My throat feels dry and I keep chugging bottle of water after bottle water andI really think that I’ll get the urge to pee exactly when the interview starts.And I’m sweating, all the way through my jacket. I didn’t even know I couldsweat this much. Plus, what’s with those lights, why are there so many? And I’mhooked with microphones and—” he rambled in a nervous rampage before hersoothing voice interfered.

“Juggie, breathe.” Bettyoffered with a faint giggle, pouting at how cute he was against her phone.

An audible deep exhale filledthe silence before he continued a tad calmer this time. “I’m gonna screw thisup. Please say you’ll still love me when I screw this up and go back to being yourdaily dose of sarcasm in the form of a boyfriend.” He pleaded in asemi-teasing, semi-serious voice drawing another giggle from her lips.

“Um, I don’t know, Jay Jonespushes some of my right buttons. He is such a turn on.” She teased him, fakinginnocence, getting a small amused scoffed in return. She smiled at her littleachievement.

“Great. Even my alter ego ismore suave than me.” He retorted like the definition of a drama queen.

Betty shook her head to no onebut herself. “You’re such a dork and I love you for that.” She let him knowcheerfully, envisioning his rolling eyes and the sideways smirk she was sure hewas definitely sporting right now at her loving teasing. “You are going to dogreat! We’ve done so much prepping!” Once the day of the interview wasapproaching and Jughead was starting to become a mess of nerves and sweatypalms, Betty had had enough. So she conducted a list of possible questions, gavethem to him to answer in the best way he could express himself, bywriting, and then urged him to memorize those answers. They would spend everynight after that going over the questions again and again, Betty sitting ontheir mahogany dinner table pretending to be the interviewer and him acrossher, pacing up and down while he tried to remember the words that best expressed his mind.

“Well, Betts, it’s a tad moreintimidating when you have Larry King in flesh asking the questions.” Heblurted his clever response hearing her sharp intake of breath from the otherend of the line.

“Thank you, Juggie, forranking my sex appeal oozing intimidation under the one of an eighty three year old man.” She grimaced in amusement and shock, Jughead flinching to himself toobecause, who was he kidding, Betty Cooper intimidated and intrigued him to noends and that’s why he always ended up chocking or pushing her on the nearestsurface with mad desire every night she sat across him, playing the part of theinterviewer and challenging him with those piercing green eyes.

“So you talked to him? How ishe in person?” Betty’s whole tone changed as curiosity kicked in, wanting to know more about the well-known TV and radio host.

“Old.” Jughead threw hissardonic one-liner, the blonde huffing a tad in exasperation but smirkingnonetheless. “We just met and talked for a bit. He seems cool, interested andinteresting enough for us to have a discussion of shorts. And apparently hethinks I’m a real deal? Betts, can you believe?” he gasped like a five year old in a candy store.

“That’s huge, babe!” Betty urged his excitement on. “See?There’s no need for you to worry, just go in there and kill us all with youreloquence and your charm.” She encouraged him in her usual sweet and soothingtone of voice.

Jughead exhaled again with agroan, fidgeting with the lapels of his jacket in an attempt to fix it over hisshoulders. “I just hope that question number twenty six will not be asked.” Hemused, arm dropping to his side in frustration that even his attire was givinghim a hard time today.

“What’s your inspirationbehind the conception of the girl next door and why do you think people rootfor her this much?” Betty recited the question under that number in aheartbeat, even herself having memorized the list and his possible answers. “OhI hope question number twenty six willbe asked.” She colored her sentence with enough girly delight, biting her lowerlip at the image of him getting all flushed and terribly cute while worshipingher in front of the world.

“So you and the whole countrycan watch me drown in my own spit and die of embarrassment on live television?”Jughead’s voice went an octave higher at the more than possible scenario ofappearing like a complete freak show. “You know what? I’ll just go, I’ll flee,yes, that’s what I’m going to do.” He shrugged and his nervous outrage startedagain, anxiety coiling low in his stomach and making him actually want tovomit, even though he had spent the whole day famished and consuming only adozen cups of black coffee, something that spoke volumes for someone thatcouldn’t spend a day without gobbling at least five full meals.

“Jughead—” Betty tried tointerfere but it was a lost battle.

“Oh crap, they saw me lurking.”He murmured in alarm. “They are calling me over. Shit, shit, shit what do I do? Lie about having a fatal illness thatneeds immediate assistance? Pretend I’m having a stroke?” he was in full onpanic mode now, trying to give his overly sweaty self some much needed air byswaying vigorously the front of his button-up, desperately trying to fanhimself. “I think that I am actually having a stroke to be honest.”

Betty scoffed at his anticsfor exaggeration. “Stop! Just go!” she urged in a high pitched whine. “Everything’sgonna be fine, if you walk in there like the determined and over-achieving manyou are. I’ve seen you thrive in way worse; you’ve got this, Jug, you trulydo.” She offered her small pep-talk wholeheartedly, absolutely believing thathe could pull off anything he set his mind to.

“Alright.” He sighed deep butthis time it was with pure determination. “Here I go, wish me luck. And pleasechannel some of your inner sunshine and badassery vibes my way; it would bevery much appreciated.” He pleaded for her aid in a joking manner but stillserious enough, knowing that with her backing him up, even in spirit, he couldbe the strongest man alive.

Betty’s melodic laugh was atrue oasis at his time of need. “I will.” She promised before continuing in afoxier, more Betty Cooper in the sheets voice. “And if, at any point, you feellike your confidence is crumbling down think about me.” The girl suggested,before causing her voice to drop a sensual octave down. “Naked.” The adjective was colored with all the necessary unspokeninnuendos and Betty bit her lip, failing to hold back her beaming smile at theadrenaline filled state she surely got him in at this exact moment.

Jughead couldn’t hold back hisown sly smirk. “You’re not helping at all with the situation, Betts.” He warnedher in a whisper, voice husky and suggestive just how she liked, as he took a seat atthe chair an assistant pointed him to, before the man proceeded in doing a last minute check on hismicrophone.

“Oh, I think I was definitelyhelping with the situation this morning at the men’s bathroom of the airport.”Jughead’s mind got bombarded with the dirty images of Betty in a compromisingposition looking up at him while sending him flying to the sky, and he felt hisbody heat increasing in an instant, smiling awkwardly at a young woman thatfilled a mug with mineral water on the table in front of him and adjustinghimself on the comfy chair, praying to find just a small ounce of strength todefeat his raging male urges.

Thankfully, the girl thattormented his body and soul went back to her sweet, ultimately kind-heartedpersona, giving him a chance to breathe. “It’s your time to shine Juggie. Theworld doesn’t stand a chance, just like I didn’t.” her words, depicting herlove-sick smile on her lips, brought a big grin on Jughead’s face who ducked hishead in vulnerability and utter love at the thought of her believing in him. “Ilove you.” She told him the only thing he actually needed to hear in order topuff his chest with courage.

“I love you too. I’ll callyou when this sorcery is over.” He promised and sent her that boyish smile she hadlabeled as her favorite, even though she couldn’t actually see him, before reluctantlyending their short call.

Minutes after Betty hadabandoned her phone on the coffee table in front of her and curled her legsunder her on the sofa, getting more comfortable, the characteristic intro ofLarry King’s talk show filled the silence of the living room, making herstraighten her back and glue her round excited eyes on the TV.

“Welcome to Larry King Now.”The elder interviewer addressed straight to the camera as he opened the show. “Ourspecial guest is Jay Jones,” the camera panned to Jughead across him, whooffered a timid boyish smile to the audience before turning serious, the focuscontinuing to be on him as Larry King’s voice went on “writer of thebestselling novel, The Scarlet River,a post-modern murder mystery that raised quite the frenzy from the very firstmonths of its publication. After nearly a year now, the book that came to upsetthe tedious waters of 21st century’s detective fiction has sold overfour million copies through Amazon and Barnes & Noble, is featured on thebest books list of American Library Association and The New York Times and isnominated for an Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best First Novel.” He finishedlisting Jughead’s accomplishments and turned to the man in question with a warmsmile.

“Now, I’ve met a lot of youngwriters in my life but never came face to face with somebody that achieved allthat in such small amount of time. Is it overwhelming?” The first question wasfired.

“If I claimed that it wasn’t Iwould be lying and the dormant principal in my life is honesty and transparency.”Jughead started and Betty was immediately sold at the way his voice sounded sogravely, at his surprising in-charge posture, at how illegally handsome helooked in the blue button-up and beige jacket she had picked for him to wear onhis big day. Not to mention his raven locks that were still styled the way she had attempted this morning but a tad disheveled, certaintly because of his fingers running over them nervously, creating a messy, sophisticated look that made him look unbelievably irresistible. “It truly is astounding how people responded to my very firstwork, the blowup and the paroxysm of it all, in the good sense of the word,still blows my mind up to this date. The pace is definitely a Lamborghiniappropriate one and I’m an old rusty Buick in regards to adjusting to out of mycomfort zone situations but I’m eternally grateful to everyone that came along tothis new adventurous ride with me.” He huffed awkwardly and his lips formed anadorable nerdy smile of true happiness and Betty couldn’t help but aw at theway he was acting so charmingly sweet, her heart thudding violently in herchest at the sight. He was still nervous, she could tell, but he was masking itperfectly and gradually getting more unwound.

“For anyone that’s been livingunder a rock, care to sum up the story for us?” Alright, basic question, Jug isgood, Betty thought with a nod.

“Yeah, yeah, of course…” hepaused for a minute, shifting on his seat. “Um, the narrative begins with themurder of a seventeen year old boy, James Blake, on July 11th, spreadinga dark veil of sorrow and turmoil over the small town of Riverdale. A maypoleof lies and deceit is being weaved around the up until then lawful residents ofthe frozen in a bygone era close-knit town, its innocence and purity longbefore lost. At a mist of it all, four high school students take it uponthemselves to unwind Ariadne’s red ball of threat down the end of thelabyrinth, on the way getting face to face with their own inner demons andbringing to light their well-hidden skeletons in the closet. They seek justiceand at the end of the day they are capable of doing anything to put an end to thisvery vicious cat and mouse game.” Jughead offered the synopsis of the bookperfectly, resting back on his chair in waiting.

“You say high school kids.”Jughead nodded in affirmation. “But this book is anything but solemnly focusedon teen audiences. What do you think makes it so popular and especially in awide range of people demographically?”

A snarky smile found its wayto the author’s lips, as he watched his fingers drum on the table. “I’massuming you’re asking me how an adult-aimed book, bare of any sexual tones,survived and, not to sound boastful, succeeded in a lewd defined world. Well,yes, sex sells but gore sells better.” He replied cleverly, the elder manchuckling faintly at the response which brought a smile to Betty’s lips too.Jughead was starting to win the room and that was very pleasing to watch.

“To be truly honest with you,I believe that the key was authenticity.” The raven haired boy turned seriousto elaborate his answer more. “The innocence of a classic film noir portrayedin a modern world and being put into words, the nostalgic essence, the maturityand rawness of the characters’ feelings and actions that anyone can reflect on,despite age or sex or color or sexual orientation. It’s the Scooby Gang, as Ilike to call it,” he smirked at the inner joke “but in a total alternative,wicked universe; it’s gruesome, it’s horror, it’s mystery, it’s a trip frominnocence to reality, from childish mentality to adulthood. It’s realistic interms of people’s growth, truthful, and people nowadays need true feelings intheir lives more than ever.”

“You talked about authenticityand that opens a window for me to drop the million dollar question; how much ofthis is fiction?” the interviewer went on. “Are there any true events at all ortruthfulness just applies in regards to staying true to human nature and itsantics in a hypothetical incident of a public-shocking crime?” Betty flinchedin coordination with Jughead’s sigh on the screen. That was the most frequentlyasked question about his book and the question he always hated to face, in fearof revealing parts of their lives that weren’t mend for the public’s eye.

“Oh, the million dollarquestion indeed.” Luckily, he had managed to compose himself quickly and brushit off with an aloof and polite grin. “I have a fear that I’ll spoil the magicif I do give an answer to that or probably get fired” he chuckled lightly andBetty scoffed a laugh “but I think people’s speculations are reaching extremes bynow so here goes nothing. The story is indeed fictional to its biggest part.”He didn’t want to lie to the people; that was never his intention. He justwanted to protect the most vulnerable parts of their adolescence.

“But Riverdale exists, it’syour hometown, and there was indeed a murder of a young boy there.” Larrypushed him further.

“Yes, that is true, along withother bits and pieces of the plot.” Jughead nodded and licked his lipstentatively before continuing. “But is it really realistic that four sixteenyear olds were involved in the most bizarre and otherworldly situations?” Hescoffed in a perfect act of disbelief, the girl watching him rolling her smileyeyes at his theatrics. “Or that Rebecca and Bughead, or Becca and Bug as theirfriends call them throughout the novel, our very own Sherlock-Watsonsleuthering duo, solved a bewildering homicide case with the aid of just theirsharp minds and a couple of cheeky adolescent kisses here and there?” Bettygasped in shocked amusement, not really believing that Jughead shared some oftheir chronic banter regarding the beginning of their relationship with the world. “I’m not even gonna mention our very ownLolita reincarnation, Alfie Akers,” that caused Betty and Larry to laugh loudly “orthe bad girl gone good, the classic riches to rugs heroine, Victoria Lewis.Every character carries a big, fat cliché on their shoulders and I think thisspeaks volumes about whether or not the story is reality or fiction after all.”He put a delicate but firm full stop on the subject, wrapping it up the bestway he could and hoping that he was persuasive enough.

The man’s agreeing nod fromacross him was all he needed to relax. “Fair enough point.” He admitted,checking something on the papers in front of him. “Now Bughead; that is a nameI’ve never stumbled upon in my life. How come you chose such an unconventionaland borderline comical name for the narrator of your story and the character thatseems to go through the most emotional turmoil?” Betty smiled pleased toherself; that was one of the very first questions she had typed down on herpersonal list, because she knew the name sounded obscure and out of place andeveryone wanted to know what the heck had inspired the writer to give hisprotagonist a name like that.

“Because he is unconventional.”He replied without missing heartbeat. “And he is a bug, he bugs people; atfirst with his dark parade appearance and dry humor and later on with hissnooping around and asking all the uncomfortable questions in thirst for thetruth. The guy is a nuisance; that was the most fitting name I ever came upwith.” The idea was actually Kevin’s, since the boy was obsessed with callinghim and Betty like that, and even though the ship name sounded weird in Jughead’s ears it was indeed fitting forthe character in his book that annoyed people and was consumed whole by Betty Cooper.

“Readers don’t see it likethat though. Bughead appears to be the most beloved character of them all.” the host contradicted.

“And I’m very happy about this.He does have a special place in my heart.” Jughead’s smile was genuine, wishingfor his younger self to have been able to see him and how his life had turned out now.

“So what happens to him at theend, then? This is me asking as a big fan here! The book ends with him sayingthat there were three people in that booth. Was he there all along? Wasn’t he? Washe just a product of somebody’s imagination, an empty phantom?” Larry voicedthe confusion of the whole fandom.

“Well, first of all I’mhonored, truly.” There was the boyish smile again and there was Betty’sfluttering heart once again, as Jughead leaned forward resting his elbows onthe table and smirking intrigued. “But now you have to go for it; humor me,what’s your theory?” he challenged, always enjoying hearing each interpretationof his ambiguous book finale.

“I finished the book with theimpression that he was there, that he indeed lived the story from up close. Theend of his narration is just him being objective, a true observer like healways was, and overly protective of his experiences and the ones of hisfriends, sharing a story but not oversharing because of his morality and hisown personal ethics as an author.” The older man had managed to read behind thelines and his spot on theory had Betty biting on her lip nervously andfrowning, expecting Jughead to not be able to hold his calm this time.

However, his control neverfazed. Instead, he even looked amused. “Wow, never heard of that one before.Most people think that the whole story is just a man’s reverie on his deathbedor the wishful thinking of some lonely and borderline mentally unstable vagrantthat wants to be accepted and a part of a community, of a family.” He went onincredulously, holding back the urge to roll his pretty blue eyes. “I’m sorrybut I’m gonna stay true to my character and not proceed to any revelations thathe wouldn’t want me to share.” Laconic and intimidating, Jughead drew a line in the cleverestway possible, causing Betty to grimace in appreciation.

Larry King smiled. “What aboutBecca, the girl next door? She’s the most loved character amongst the hordes ofyour fans. What’s the magic recipe behind creating such a fan-favoritecharacter?”

Question number twenty six.Here we go, Betty thought in delight that she was correct yet again, butactually fighting with the urge to bite on her nails anxiously at the state ofuneasiness Jughead was at the moment. He cleared his throat, trying toprioritize his thoughts despite the fact that with just a small mention ofBetty Cooper every logical order got thrown out of the window. Betty opened hermouth to recite along with him the scripted answer he had for this question buthe yet again surprised her.

“You said it yourself, it’s magic.” Jughead colored the worldwith a disbelieving huff and a head over heels smile. “Honestly, when I thinkabout Becca Cupper this is what comes to mind; imperfection at its finest.”Gasping, Betty fisted the front of her blouse at the sound of the words and theanticipation for more. “She is this strong, wonderful young woman and she isimperfectly perfect. But that’s the beauty of her whole magnetic character. Sheis a field of sunflowers and a sky of thunderstorms at the same time, a forceof nature that can mesmerize you and intimidate you in equal amounts. Nobodywould survive without her, nobody wants to survive without her. She is theepitome of kindness, forgiveness, strength, compassion, feminism, acceptance,but most of all she is the epitome of love. A purified love, a love that isunconditional and irrevocable. And no one can do anything but love her,unconditionally and irrevocably.” Jughead finished his perfect speech,momentarily darting his shy eyes to the camera to address her fully, Bettybeing at the verge of tears at his incredible words but most of all at his over-allincredible character. Betty was lucky; she knew that much from the first timeshe caught him looking at her from the doorway of Pop’s.

“By how you’re worshippingyour heroine, I assume this is Jay Jones’ dream woman too?” the interviewersmiled lovingly. “Or maybe she is not a dream after all and maybe you do haveyour very own girl next door in your life…?”

“Well, maybe I do.” He droppedhis head in modesty, still not believing how the heck he had got so lucky withher. “One that makes even my wildest dreams, a reality.” His smile washonest, genuine and warm and his eyes held that head over heels gaze that madeBetty weak in the knees in an instant.

“Isn’t that thetrue importance of it all?” the older man wondered out loud, sharing a smilewith Jughead before he turned to address the audience once again. “We’ll discussmore with Jay regarding writing inspiration and the industry of publishingright after this.” The show’s theme tune burst out of the speakers signalizingthe start of another round of commercials and Betty dropped back on the couch,looking at the ceiling and smiling like an idiot. His original answer, the onethey kept rehearsing over and over again, was cute and still flattering butthis was something else, a spontaneous act of love and a shot right through theheart that left her giggly, utterly in love and sixteen once again.

Apparently peoplethought Jay Jones’ love declaration was something right out of the pages of themost romantic book ever written too because the #GirlNextDoor was trending for thewhole night.

Jughead came home to a darkand silent apartment as he let the door close behind him with a soft click andhis keys rattle inside the silver décor bawl they kept keys and otherlast-minute things in on top of the set of drawers by the door. Abandoning hismessenger bag next to it and kicking his oxford shoes off recklessly, he shreddedhis beige jacket off his shoulders while sock covered feet brought him lazilyto the living room, blue eyes adorably heaving with fatigue but still alertenough to go on a hunting mission for his blonde angel. The frown lines on hisforehead, him being slightly confused by the radio silence that greeted him andnot her warm embrace and loving words, immediately softened once he spotted heron the couch, deliciously sprawled on the puffy pillows in an old, brownJurassic Park t-shirt of his and just a pair of cheeky, lacey Eton bluepanties, a long leg in delightful display as it lay lightly hitched and overher other wool blanket covered one. Eyelashes resting on rosy cheeks and pinkvoluminous lips parted in a cute little pout, she was dreaming away peacefully,hand still armed with the TV remote control as faint sounds of his voice couldbe heard from the flat screen across her, his previous interview being playedover and over again for her to enjoy. Jughead couldn’t help by smile, thatcontent, lovesick smile he reserved exclusively for Betty Cooper, at heradorably disheveled state but mostly at the swelling feeling of happiness thatemerged in his chest at the thought that she was proud of him, she loved himand she would be always there to wait for him to come home.

Dropping his jacket to one oftheir vintage armchairs, he quietly sat next to her on the couch and let thepads of his fingers feather-lightly brush against her cheekbone in affection,brushing away some threads of hair that fell rebelliously from her messy bunatop her head. His smile became wider once she scrunched her nose prettily andstirred awake, disorientated green eyes turning alert and alit upon spottinghim all sweet and terribly handsome in the dark.

“You’re back.” She cooedsweetly and with the most delighted smile, fisting the material of his bluebutton-up a little over his elbows, coaxing him to lean forward and rest hischest against hers.

“I told you I wasn’t stayingin New York without you.” He was adamant to stay the night at a hotel and takea plane back to Boston early in the morning; his place was at home and home waswhere Betty lay. She smiled pleased and in love, caressing up his biceps forher arms to curl behind his neck, holding him captured in her embrace.

“Ronnie is mad at you. Shewanted to relive crazy college nights with you tonight.” The girl in his armsteased with a humorous grin. The three of them together had spent their collegeyears in New York and the Lodge heiress was starting to miss them terribly nowthat the couple was mapping up their life in Boston. So during an hours-long skypecall that the two young women had after the interview was over, the brunettecity girl was very vocal about her comic irritation at the disrespect ofJughead Jones turning her and her excellent night out planning skills down again,after congratulating Betty for her amazing hubby,as Veronica kept calling him all those years.

“Yeah, I know, I gathered thatmuch from the phone call she paid me the minute I landed in New York.” Jugheadretorted in his usual deadpanned manor, making her giggle faintly. “Firstly,you were the one satisfying her city girl antics for a good clubbing night backthen, never me, and secondly, sorry, I’m still sane enough to know better thanfollow Veronica Lodge into a night trip in the city of sin.” He scoffed like hewas offended. Yes, the two of them had grown closer through the years and heconsidered her one of his closest friends now but still her type ofentertainment wasn’t his cup of tea.

Betty shook her head inamusement. “She loved you in that interview though; said, and I quote, that youkicked some serious butt. Archie and Kevin think so too.” She kept running herfingers through his hair as she spoke, loving how he relaxed and destressedunder her touch, and loving more the messy hair look he had created over thecourse of the day. His waves weren’t anymore styled as she had done thismorning and that made him even more irresistible in her eyes.

“Saw their texts when I got ina taxi here.” The two boys had texted him a hurricane of kind and supportivewords at how incredible he had been in his maiden appearance on screen thatactually left Jughead smiling besides himself, especially at Archie’saffection-oozing message and the words ‘brother’ and ‘proud’ he read amongst his flattering others. “Ican’t believe everyone actually tuned in to watch.” He raised his eyebrowsincredulously, clearly surprised, because as he kept joking on and on the weeksprior to the show he truly did believe that the ratings of tonight’s broadcastwould be the lowest of the season, if not of the entire history of television.

“You have devoted stans now,mister, you better get used to it.” She tilted her chin up proudly, tapping hischin in fake warning. “There was also a gathering of equally hyped stans inRiverdale, did you know about that?” Seeing him shaking his head no andscoffing a laugh in disbelief, Betty went on. “Yeah, apparently there was thisbig audience watching at my mom’s; your dad was there, Fred and Hermione,Polly. Even Jason and Lizzie stayed up passed their bedtime to watch cool uncleJug’s television debut.” Jughead chuckled at that and Betty joined him, theyoung author not quite believing that everyone came together to witness him ofall people do something great but the realization seemed to intensify theperpetual lovely smile he was sporting all the way back to Boston.

“Mom even called to gush aboutyou and your articulacy and your brightly opinioned mind, but what’s new inthat?” she rolled her eyes in fake irritation, an on-going inside joke betweenthem through the years that Alice Cooper loved Jughead more than her owndaughters. He ducked his head in modesty at the complimentary impression thewoman responsible of bringing his other half to the world had for him from thevery start. “Said she’ll call tomorrow to talk to you in person too.” Bettypointed out with an exasperated sigh, not at all mad but, on the contrary,delighted and just teasing him as always about how in too deep in Alice’s goodbooks he was.

He just dropped his foreheadon hers, sighing in relief that he actually didn’t make a fool of himself, thatpeople were proud of him for the very first time. There was this deliciouslysuffocating feeling in his chest, that kind of feeling that life was actuallywinking at him, promising that everything was going to be just fine. Afteryears of him walking around lonely and uncared for, he now had a family, a big familyconsisting of people that loved him and would be there for him for every stepof the way and that was the ultimate happy ending he ever wished for. A happyending that he could witness taking form every day, with every look of love outof those green eyes that held the meaning of his existence. Yes, people wereproud of him; but what mattered most was always the opinion of the first familyhe ever came to know, Betty Cooper and the sanctuary of her love and embrace.

“And what did you think?” hewhispered unsure and vulnerable, because this novel was a part of his soul andtalking about it out in the open was as nerve-wracking as the very first nighthe gave it to her, stripping naked of each and every emotion he held for her inhis broken heart and offering everything for her to take.

“Are you seriously asking thisquestion?” she cupped his cheek, raising his head to look at her, sea of bluegetting lost in forest green in the most beautiful exchange of love anddevotion. “You were amazing, Jughead. Unique, respectful, intelligent and so terribly handsome.” She colored everyword with tenderness and determination, wanting him to know that she meant all ofit and so much more, feeling him visibly relax against her and sneaking hisarms between her back and the couch to cuddle her tighter. “You don’t even knowhow irritated and sad I am that I missed it.” She sighed in regret, stillbeating herself up for having an icy-hearted boss.

“Betts, you would have gottenfired if you pushed the subject of a leave more.” Jughead cut her off with afierce shake of his head. “There’s not only one of us building a career here,you are too, and you must pursue the hell out of it.” He reminded like theperfect boyfriend and guy he was, Betty smiling up at him in gratitude. “Seriouslybabe, stop worrying about it, I know that you wanted to be there. But you werethere for every step of the way before that and you will be there for thenext ones to come, so ease your pretty little head off, okay?” his soothingvoice urged her to relax, brushing the tip of his nose a couple of times overhers, before smiling against her already smiley lips. “Plus, I wouldn’t be ableto utter even a single word if you were standing there watching in person soit’s a win-win.” He shrugged matter-of-factly and Betty giggled lightly, bothof them clearly remembering how distracted and flushed he became every time hecaught her eyes watching him with admiration through the crowd at his first andonly book launch event in Boston. Jughead Jones still got tongue-tied like hissixteen year old self under the power of those crystal clean green orbs.

“So, you do love your girlnext door, don’t you?” she cheekily asked in a candy cane voice, squirmingadorably under him to hug him more.

“I thought we’ve establishedthat by now.” He replied with equal amount of sarcasm seeing her smile growfonder and more dashing. “The question is, did I win her affections back?”

Betty tilted her head againstthe cushion of the sofa, a sigh trembling on her lips at the way he stillsought her confirmation of love after all those years and the way her chestheaved with maddening, head over heels adoration every single time he did. “Becca pulled back and sighed heavily againsthis still parted lips, the force of her kiss causing the course of the planetsinside his mind to change in lightning speed, disturbing the perfect dullnessof his universe. “You taught me what it truly means to fall in love, Bughead. Idon’t wanna settle for less, I can’t settle for less, not after you. I love you.”Betty recited perfectly the lines of his book, quoting every word she haddeclared that night at end of sophomore year when he tried to flee town like amad man, after he had broken down inside her arms as everything around them wascrumbing down. She still meant those words and he knew it, knew that they wouldalways be together, Betty and Jughead being the definition of forever in theirpersonal dictionary of life.

Jughead’s lips formed ananosecond smile at the memory and the way her words and his were mingledperfectly on her lips before Betty continued, eyes focused solemnly on his. His previous words, his public declaration of love and confession of how truly one of a kind she was in his eyes, had stirred something in her, something that commanded her to shower him with her own words of affection. “There’sno one in the world like you, Juggie. You see the world in a way that no oneelse does. And your version of the world is the only one that I want to picturemyself in for all the years to come.” Her hands came to caress his cheekslovingly, Jughead relishing in her touch with fluttering eyes and a flutteringheart. “I can’t even find the words to describe how much I love you, how myheart skips a beat every time I wake up and you’re lying next to me, how Ican’t help but smile every time I hear you whistling in the kitchenabsentmindedly, how I just have to stop and stare whenever you’re typing deepin thought or how butterflies still flutter in my chest every time you look atme with that intense gaze you only reserve for me.” Both of them were seriousand emotional by now, Betty’s voice barely over a whisper in fear of disrespectingthe sanctity of the moment. “You are the person that I admire the most, my bestfriend, my soulmate, my everything in a world of nothing. I never liked beingthe girl next door. But you came along and made that a badge of beauty andhonor and all I ever want now is to be that girl, but only if this door leadsme always to you.” She ended her confession with a trembling but at the sametime certain voice, seeing him look at her like the moon or the stars werenothing in comparison to her.

“Marry me.” Jughead blurted inbarely a heartbeat, mind numb and heart thudding in his chest, not reallyregistering the importance of his question because for him that wasn’t aquestion, he already considered her his everything too; his best friend, hissoulmate, his wife, his person, his own anchor.

Betty’s gasp and blinking wateryeyes were the prettiest reaction he had ever witnessed in his life. “Yes.” Shereplied in simplicity too, like agreeing to them having burgers instead ofsomething healthier for dinner or reassuring him that there was plenty of hotwater for him to take a shower. There was no question, no need for any biggestures or extreme shocked reactions, no thinking about it, like there was noneed for the earth second guessing its centuries old rotation or for the sun torise in the sky at every crack of dawn.

The boyish smile that curledJughead’s lips was the most content and the most make-you-weak-in-the-knees onethat Betty had ever seen him sporting. “God, I love you so much.” He breathedin a disbelieving chuckle before crashing his smiley lips against her damp fromsome rebellious happy tears ones, kissing her senseless and more than terriblyin love, like their life depended on it and they were coexisting because ofeach other’s breathing. And that was maybe indeed the case with them.

“Take me to bed, JugheadJones, and make love to me until I’m gasping for breath and the only thought inmy mind is your beating heart against mine.” Betty pleaded lovingly against hisalready bruised lips, wanting to get completely lost inside of him, the mostwonderful man she got to call hers.

“Is this a wife’s order?” hesmirked against her own red and irritated lips, feeling like the luckiest manon earth at that very moment and vowing to give her everything she ever wantedand so much more.

“Say that again.” Betty’swhisper caressed and warmed his whole face with its tenderness, the girl of hisdreams melting at the sound of the word spilling lovingly out of his lips.

“My wife.” Jughead repeated, husky and with his usual devotionregarding anything Betty Cooper, his eyes caressing every inch of herstunningly beautiful face, falling a little more in love with her at how evenmore breathtaking she looked radiating utter happiness and sunshine in the dark.

She kissed him again,intimately and affectional, heart drumming way too much for her to form actualwords, squealing into the kiss happily as he raised on his feet abruptly,bringing her up with him and causing her to curl arms and legs around him in atight koala hug. And as he continued ravishing her lips while making his way totheir bedroom only one thing was more certain than the power of their love;that Betty and Jughead wasn’t just a happy ending of a book but of an entirelifetime.

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