For as long as you had known him, Jughead always wrote on his laptop. Hanging out at Pop's met watching his long fingers type away a story that had been in his mind for weeks. Sometimes, he'd even help you type up your school papers. He would flourish them with diction and terminology you had never seen before. Weekday afternoons were spent in a booth at Pop's, catching up on homework and listening to the clicking of Jughead's keyboard. Except on one day, a seemingly uneventful day, he broke the pattern.
When you walked into the diner, you walked towards the booth Jughead ritually claimed as your own. There he was, writing hurriedly as usual; but this time he was using a pen and a leather bound notebook. You walked over, sliding into the seat across of his. He met your gaze and quickly closed the journal, placing it on his unopened laptop.
"What was that?" He shifted uneasily at your question. His eyes darted from you, to his hands, the journal, and back again.
"I was trying something new," he said and you raised your eyebrows. Jughead stuck to his routine of wake up, school, Pop's to type his novel, food, and then sleep. There was no room for "something new" in his pattern, unless an external force demanded it.
"Uh huh," you said thoughtfully, "care to share why you're using ink and paper?" His shoulders relaxed at your playful attitude and you were thankful for that.
"It's a lost art," he said smoothly, "I only wish to breathe new life into it. Giving it a heart beat by going back to the roots of the great writers." You rolled your eyes at his flowery words, despite the tickled they left in your heart. It was hard enough admitting to yourself that you had fallen for your childhood friend; but when he spoke like that it made things worse in the best possible way.
"So are you starting a new story in that notebook or just little writing things?" You fiddled mindlessly with the sleeve of your coat. Jughead let out a sigh, causing you to meet his eyes once more. They were bright, as if just talking about his writings filled him with energy.
"Just things, not a big story. Poems," he clarified. You gave him a cheesy grin.
"Jughead Jones the poet? Who would've known." He simply grinned back at you and you felt a wave of contentment wash over you. So you would suffer in silence as you drowned in your feelings? At least Jughead would be by your side, typing his adventures and writing his poems.
A new pattern emerged after that day. You'd walk in and catch Jughead scribbling words into a fresh journal page. He'd stop writing the instant you'd sit down and the day would go on as it always had : funny conversations that morphed into memories and seriousness. Some time during those days, a new something new had occurred. You'd sit next to him now, in his side of the booth. You had no idea what brought it on, but neither of you questioned it. Only blushes would bloom between the two of you when your hands brushed against the others. His cheeks would flush a pink color that was only a shade lighter than his lips. You sat close enough to him now to see that color up close; and the way he scrunched his nose while going over Geometry homework. You saw every little detail, so many that you could write an epic poem of the way his birthmarks faded into constellations if you watched him speak.
Your walls were tumbling down with each day you spoke to him, sat closer to him. You knew High School would be hard, but you were just thinking about grades. Not the probability that you were falling in love with your best friend. Somehow, you managed to keep quiet about your feelings; but you weren't sure how much longer you could keep 'bumping' his hand with yours on 'accident'. Soon he'd catch on and everything would be ruined. Thankfully, that day was not today. Or maybe it was.
"Jughead Jones, writing again," you teased, and he smiled. "What is it this time, it a love poem?" You walked over and slid in the booth beside him, bumping your shoulder against his. His long fingers still clutched the leather bound journal. He glanced down at the brown cover and swallowed hard.
"Well, it's a poem about you," he said quietly stunning you into your own silence. You shifted awkwardly in your seat.
"So um..." You couldn't find the right words and you wondered if Jughead couldn't either.
"I'll give it to you when I'm done," he said, a smirk over taking his features. You relaxed slightly, but you were still worried.
"This will be the first poem you've shared with me," you pointed out as he opened up his laptop. He turned to face you, that smirk still resting on his lips. Those lips.
"I guess so," he turned back to his computer and changed the subject to his novel. As you listened to his theories of the killer, you couldn't help but stare at the leather-bound notebook. What was Jughead working on? A new poem each day? You could only imagine how the words weaved together, like a beautiful work of art. You smiled softly as he continued to talk, as you had realized that he was writing about you. You, out of the people in Riverdale.
That next Monday, you had spent the whole day dying. It was a Friday when Jughead told you about your poem, but there was still no sign of it being shared. Jughead had avoided you all day, to the point he didn't show up for fourth hour English class. At the end of the day, you still hadn't seen him, you walked over to your locker. Just a day without Jughead took a toll on you.
You opened the locker with a clang, still lost in thought. Not so lost not to notice a folded piece of paper falling to the floor. You bent down and picked it up off the ground. Gently, you unfolded it and your breath caught in your throat.
Roses,
Your hair,
Your skin,
It reeks of the
Red flower.
So enticing
So sweet
And oh so strong.
You smell like roses
And I guess this
Is a love poem after all.
Your traced your fingers over the inked words and you could feel the heart Jughead left on the page. You glanced around the hallway, searching for any sign of the writer. You realized you were alone, holding a love poem written by the boy of your dreams. You closed your locker without a second thought and ran out of the school.
You basically jogged to Pop's, so when you arrived, you were red in the face. You pushed open the door after you had caught your breath. The diner was cool inside and you turned towards your usual booth. Jughead was already sitting there, this time fidgeting with the notebook instead of writing inside of it. You walked over and slid in the side across from him, giving you a clear view of his face. He slowly looked up and you held his gaze.
"So I got your poem," you started, but you had no idea how to finish the sentence. Jughead nodded bashfully.
"I hope it didn't make anything weird between us. I just couldn't stop writing it once I," he paused for a long moment. "Once I realized I loved you." Your heart fluttered in your chest at his words. You reached your hand over, covering his own.
"I love you too," you whispered. A smile shone brightly on his features and you felt your own lips spread into a grin. You let go of his hand, walking over to his side of the booth to sit. His arm wrapped around your shoulders when you sat down beside him. You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his cheek sweetly. Your left hand was still gripping your poem as Jughead leaned down to press a soft kiss to the corner of your lips. In that moment, the pattern of your friendship went beyond repair.
