Jughead hadn't always been weird. Being a lone wolf was a carefully calculated decision.

Why would he purposefully condemn himself to a life apart?

For Archie.

Jughead could not remember a day without Archie as his best friend. They had been inseparable since their little infinities began.

(Excluding the summer before Sophomore year. The summer of insurmountable changes.)

And, for as long as Jughead had been a part of Jughead-and-Archie, he had known that he had to be different than Archie. It was a necessary evil. Elementary age Jughead had loved the idea of playing catch outside with his dad. He was taken with the image of his mother making him homemade popsicles and cookies for after school snacks. He wanted nice clothes, eager greetings when he came home, and people to ask about how his day was. The trouble was, the Jones family was not like the Andrews family.

Archie had it all. He lived on a good street, his only close neighbors being another "perfect" family. His dad was good and reliable and kind, leading the family with as much confidence as he could muster. His mother was pretty and smart and attentive, doting on Archie like he was the center of her world. A pretty family living a pretty life.

Jughead, on the other hand, was lacking. His father was seldom employed after Mr. Andrews fired him, so all of the finances were pushed onto his mother's already heavy shoulders. FP was a drunk, and his position in the Serpents meant that he spent the night in jail as often as he spent it in his own bed. His mother was tired. She had never been able to just be a mother, because that was never all she had to be. She had to work, fix FP's messes, and raise her children in the gaps of her schedule. His family had always been splintering, so Jughead hovered on the edges to keep away from the kill zone.

Even when he was young, Jughead always knew that any envy he felt towards Archie would suffocate their intense friendship. If he lingered on his wants, he would destroy what he had. To preserve that friendship, his most precious possession, he separated his home life so completely from Archie's that there was nothing to compare.

While Archie's mom made special, high quality treats for the Andrews household, Jughead became a vacuum that ate anything within sight.

(Jellybean was the doted upon baby of the family, so she got everything she needed without fail. He was a different story.)

While Archie played catch in the yard with his dad, Jughead pushed his own drunken father away.

While Archie slept soundly through the night, Jughead curled up on the wrong side of town, learning not to flinch when he heard fighting or gunshots.

Archie's home became a sanctuary, and Jughead was readily welcomed there.

(At least until Mrs. Andrews left. He was expected to spend more time at home after that.)

Jughead got used to being compared to Archie, but he never envied Archie for anything. What they had was far to precious to taint with want.

Jughead had never been much for wanting things. Sure, he wanted little things. He wanted to eat until he was full, no matter where he was. He wanted shoes that didn't squish his toes until he ripped through the fronts of them. He wanted, but he didn't want. He was never filled with a raw, unending hunger for anything. It was the result of never getting and the refusal to allow himself to wish, and it worked.

Almost.

If Jughead was perfectly honest, which he seldom was, he would have to admit that there was one thing that he wished for. Archie had "perfect" neighbors, and Betty was the one thing he had been unable to quench the longing for. He had tried, but she was the one thing Archie had that Jughead wanted.

Jughead had realized he liked her in gym class.

Jughead-and-Archie had become Jughead-and-Archie-and-Betty in early elementary school, after she helped Archie pass a test. Archie had proposed to her, but she turned him down. They were too young, she had said. Jughead had liked her just fine. She was nice and cheerful, two things Jughead had never been. She was anxious to be perfect, but she had a streak of silliness that made even Jughead laugh. Since Jughead was not really the laughing type, he valued her for it. Betty was primarily Archie's friend, but Jughead was too much a part of Archie's life for that distinction to matter much.

That distinction felt like an open wound on the first day of the track unit in gym class. They were in 8th grade, and the current event was hurdles.

Betty was good at hurdles. Betty was good at everything, really, but boys liked watching her run hurdles. Betty, sometime over the winter, had filled out. Other girls had too, but Betty somehow skipped the universally awkward middle-school stage. She was beautiful, and now she had a body to match her lovely face. When Betty ran hurdles, the length and strength of her legs became painfully obvious. Jughead hadn't much noticed how her body changed, besides the initial surprise of it, but other boys had. Reggie more than others.

Betty was running hurdles even though the teacher hadn't told the class to do anything. That was just how she was. She always went above and beyond. The other students stood around and talked, a large group of boys standing especially close to the track. Archie and Jughead stood nearby, debating whether a caveman or an astronaut would win in a fight.

(Archie said caveman, Jughead said astronaut.)

Despite the intensity of their argument, the two boys couldn't help but notice a smirking Reggie dashing to the track. Betty was sprinting to where he was headed, and Jughead stiffened as Reggie reached her. Reggie threw his hand out in front of her, deliberately placing it so that his hand could grab her breast as she passed. Betty gave a surprised shriek, tumbling hard to the ground.

Reggie strolled away, grinning, as other boys whooped with delight. Jughead stomped over to the larger boy, fury pumping through his veins.

"Hey, douche-mobile," Jughead snarled.

Reggie hardly had time to meet Jughead's eyes as Jughead thrust his fist into the boy's face. Reggie stumbled back, startled, and Jughead hit him again. And again. A set of massive arms pulled him back. The gym teacher, who had seen none of what Reggie had done, dragged Jughead towards the school building. Jughead looked back towards Betty, who sat crying on the ground. Her legs and hands were a mess of blood and torn skin, but Archie sat with her. Jughead watched as Archie took one of her hands. Betty looked up at the red-headed boy with her lovely blue eyes, giving him a tear-soaked smile. The heat in Jughead's veins didn't go away, and his heart stuttered when he looked at Betty. The heat had less to do with his anger and more to do with the girl, he realized.

Jughead wanted to be the one holding her hand, he realized, envy filling him as Archie smiled down at her.

Jughead realized he wanted to kiss her a year later, sitting in the back of Mr. Andrews' pickup truck.

Archie had started dating that year, much to Betty's disappointment. Jughead had been able to see her evident crush on the increasingly handsome boy, much to his own disappointment.

Riverdale had two regular dating spots: Pop's and the Twilight. Archie frequently took girls to both places, which he used to save for his two best friends. Since Archie didn't come to hang out with them, Betty and Jughead were frequently left on their own. At Pop's, Jughead would make sure Betty couldn't see Archie with his date, and sometimes his dry humor could coax a laugh out of her. Pop's became a haven for them, but the drive in had too many implications for Jughead to distract away.

"Juggie," she whispered to him on such a night, "how many dates is this?"

Archie had a "rule": no kissing until the third date. Jughead knew that he rarely followed it anymore, but Betty clung to the idea of it. Her thought process seemed to be that if Archie didn't like any girl enough to see her three times, she herself may stand more of a chance.

He considered. "I think this is the second one with Marnie. Maybe the third?" Her face fell, and he hurried to correct himself. "No, no, he saw Ginger last Friday. My mistake, this is number two for Marnie."

She relaxed, her shoulder bumping his. They were packed in the pick up pretty tight. She had set up a nest of blankets, but they didn't have enough pillows to line the entire back of the truck. For both of them to be comfortable, they had to nestle together. It was euphoria for Jughead, and Betty was cuddly by nature. Archie was in Marnie's car, one row back and two cars over, so Betty couldn't continually look back at them. All in all, it was a perfect setup for Jughead.

Betty scooched away from him, whispering that she wanted to get popcorn. Jughead tossed a quick look over his shoulder, and he saw that he could not see any space between Archie and Marnie. Notably, he could see no space between their heads.

"Betty, no!" He whispered harshly after her.

She looked at him, confused. "But you always want food," she said with a smile.

"No, no, I'm too cold without you here. I'd rather be warm than fed," he said lamely.

She snorted, deeming that as enough of a response. They both knew that it was a lie, but she didn't stop to consider why he would need to lie. He always wanted food, and she always wanted to check in on Archie, so her actions to fulfill both needs came as a surprise to neither.

She was surprised, however, when she looked over at Archie's vehicle to see him canoodling with his date. She stood, struck silent, and Jughead was struck with a pang of pity. Partially self-pity, sure, but mostly pity for his utterly selfless friend. His friend that would never tell Archie how much she wished for him, just because she saw how happy he already was.

Jughead crawled out of the truck, grabbing Betty's shoulders. "Come on," he whispered. He steered her to the concession stand, buying one of everything for them to share. After a minute, she turned back into cheerful, perfect Betty. Still, he could see how not perfect she was feeling. How inadequate she must have felt. He carried the food back to the truck, ignoring her offers to help.

They settled back into the nest of unrequited love, now replenished with more food than they needed. Jughead could have eaten it all himself, no question, but it became clear he wouldn't be able to as they arranged themselves. Betty may not have spoken her grief aloud, but she reached out to Jughead as soon as they sat.

She tucked herself into his arms, leaning her head against his neck. With his arms around her, he could not feasibly eat much. Much to his own surprise, he wasn't bothered by it. More surprising, perhaps, was the reason.

Jughead felt no urge to bring food to his lips because of something far more appealing, much closer to his lips. He and Betty had never been so entangled, and looking down at her face, he wanted to be much closer. She smelled like strawberries and frosting, he noted. The closer she got to him, apparently, the closer he wanted to be.

There was a tug in his abdomen. It was kind of an ache, and he knew it had something to do with Betty. Jughead had liked her for about a year now, but he had never reacted physically to her presence, at least not like this. He felt happy and shattered and so needy, all at once.

"Juggie?" She raised her head to look at him, blinking up at him trustingly.

"Yeah," he croaked back. His voice was hoarse, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Thanks." She settled back against his chest, not noticing his response. The simple word broke him and fixed him all at once. In that moment, he was wrecked by his adoration of her, but became content with the fact that nothing would ever come of it.

He desperately wanted to kiss her, but she would only ever want to kiss Archie.

By the summer Jason Blossom died, Jughead knew he was in love with her. That's why he pushed her away. It wasn't hard, which broke his heart a little bit.

She had left for an internship, so all he had to do was respond to fewer texts than he ignored. He and Archie had a platonic breakup, so her return to Archie's side did not put her back with Jughead. He watched and wished and loved, but he kept his distance.

Even after Archie rejected her, and Jughead was welcomed back into the Sad Breakfast Club, he was cautious. Archie Andrews, for all of his faults, was a hard habit to break. Jughead knew that more than anybody. Even with Betty looking at boys, love, and her own worth in a new light, Jughead was hesitant to put himself out there.

It was surprisingly easy to control himself. Betty was an incredible friend to have, and they grew increasingly close. The Twilight had closed, but the two frequently met up at Pop's. Her parents, though not overly fond of Jughead, liked him more than Archie, so they tolerated his presence in the house. His time with her was surely filled with longing glances and heart palpitations, but he knew his place as her friend before all other things.

There was only one place he couldn't really control himself: the Blue and Gold room. Once he allowed himself to break out his extensive vocabulary in his writing, he couldn't stop himself from unleashing compliments on Betty. It was as though his filter broke every time he started writing. In the few months they had worked together there, he had called her beautiful, the 8th Wonder of the World, a masterpiece, his soulmate, and about a dozen other odd compliments. Every time the words would slip out, his heart would speed up in fear and hope. Even if he was making a fool of himself, at least Betty would know how he felt.

Strangely, and agonizingly, Betty always brushed his comments off. At first, Jughead thought she was trying to let him down gently. After a few weeks, he wasn't so sure it was that so much as it was that she was ignoring them. After Archie, she would have said something if she truly wasn't interested in him, so he was left to wonder why she ignored his comments. On a fateful Thursday, he found out why.

He was standing back from the Murder Board, wishing without hope that looking at the big picture would offer clarity. Betty was cleaning up their pigsty of an office. The mess was on Jughead, really. He was constantly ordering takeout without cleaning it up, and the nights he slept in the office made the room feel more like a bedroom than a workspace. He glanced back at her for a second, smirking at the mountain of trash she balanced precariously in her arms before turning back to the board.

"Did you ever play that Lilo and Stitch game on ? The one where you are trying to stack Reuben's sandwich? That's how this feels. I'm better at this than I ever was at that game, thou- SHOOT!" She cut off with a yelp, and he whirled around to see her covered in any leftover food in the containers. She was soaked from the drinks, ketchup and mustard were smeared across her arms and hair, and she grimaced at him. The trash surrounded her in heaps.

"I am so sorry," he said with mortification. He rushed to pick up everything she had dropped, mumbling apologies as he went.

"Juggie, it's fine. I shouldn't have carried so much at once." She looked down at herself and gave a huff of laughter. "Goodness, I am just a mess."

"Well," he said without thinking, "you are a beautiful mess."

Much to his surprise, she met his eyes. "Be careful saying stuff like that, Juggie. One of these days, a girl is going to believe you when you say it." Her voice was light, but the words were heavy.

He looked at her, speechless. She had been brushing his words off because she didn't believe him. She truly didn't believe that he meant any of it. He dropped the trash he was holding, stepping closer to her.

When he spoke, his voice was low, smooth, and deliberate. "Betty, you are the most perfect disaster I have ever seen."

She gaped up at him. Jughead would never be sure who moved first, but someone moved and then they were kissing.

He gave a desperate moan, wrapping his arms around her sticky form. She pressed herself flush against him. Jughead had minimal experience in kissing, but he knew that this was more than worth waiting these past years for.

After that day, Jughead never wanted anything Archie had. Archie had a pretty spectacular life, sure. But Jughead only wanted one thing, and that thing wanted him right back. Betty wanted Jughead more than she had ever wanted Archie, so Jughead didn't envy Archie for anything.