Chapter Text
It was an innocent comment. A joke among friends.
"Maybe you should slow down there Jug. Getting kinda soft around the edges, don't you think?"
Archie had told him during lunch, patting his belly teasingly. Because of course he would. Archie was never known for his subtlety or his social skills.
Nobody said anything. It wasn't worth talking about. Jughead's appetite was an anecdote known throughout the town. Jughead Jones and his bottomless stomach.
That's what it was. It was a joke. A tease. That's what it should've remained. It should have never turned into something more. It should have never turned into something bigger.
It definitely shouldn't have resulted in him strapped down on a hospital bed and a fucking feeding tube sticking out of his fucking nose.
Why? Why did it have to come to this? It was a question FP kept asking him and Jughead had still to find an answer.
The man in question was now sitting on a cheap looking love seat that covered in a God awful floral pattern. He pretended not to see the man's shoulders shake or hear the silent sniffles. Despite his attempts to conceal his tears by burying his face in his hands and having his back on his son, it didn't take a genius to realize he was crying.
Jughead traced patters on his arm. There wasn't much space to trace patterns on. It was mostly bone with a thin coverage of skin. Just that morning FP had grabbed these same arms, begging him to eat...something.
"They'll put a feeding tube if you don't, Jug. Please, just please!"
And Jughead tried. He did. He ate half of his morning bagel. Half. Neither FP nor the doctor thought that was enough.
"Please, he'll-he'll eat it. Won't you boy?" His father had raised the rest of his bagel right in front of his mouth as if he were a toddler refusing to eat.
Perhaps he was. If he wasn't so busy fighting both the doctor and his father off, he would realize how irrationally he was acting. Now, just a few hours later everything seemed so much worse than before.
FP had driven home while the tube was being implemented and had gone through Jughead's stuff, under the doctor's instructions. Jughead hadn't been conscious to convince him not to.
When he woke up the doctor showed him his notebook. Jughead recognized it immediately. His excuse of: I was too busy and accidentally skipped a few meals, wouldn't cut it anymore.
It was a slim black notebook, identical to the one he had for math. He thought he was so smart when he started it. No one would suspect a thing if they saw him note down numbers. He had even stuck a label on the front that read: Math.
If you took a second look though, you would notice that it wasn't filled with his algebra homework. The index was a list of a variety of foods and snacks with the number of calories written next to them. The next few pages contained a detailed program of dieting and working out.
That program would change each month. After that Jughead had kept track of each and every day of said month until the next one rolled by. Then he would make the necessary adjustments, according to what he had achieved up to that point.
"Very impressive" the doctor had praised. It sounded sincere. Jughead knew it wasn't. "Very organized. Clean too. You have a scientific mind Jughead"
Jughead didn't lift his eyes from his fingers. His slim, skeleton like fingers, resting in front of him.
"Jughead, you know that's not healthy, don't you?" He waved the notebook in front of him.
Jughead's hands twitched with the need to snatch it, to hide it away. What was the point of that anyways? They had already read it, he reminded himself.
"I'm fine" he replied. It wasn't what the doctor had asked. What was he supposed to say? Yes, I know starving myself is not ideal but I can't stop. I know it hurts, I know it's dangerous, but somehow it makes me feel better so I'll take my chances.
The doctor snapped his fingers in front of his face and Jughead blinked back to awareness. "Did you hear what I said Jughead?"
You know I didn't asshole. He bit down the remark and just shook his head. The doctor explained again the general diagnosis. Anorexia Nervosa and Bulimia. He heard FP take a sharp breath from...somewhere behind the doctor. He refused to look up.
FP must've known. After all he had read his notebook. He must've because he was the one that brought it to the doctor. Maybe it wasn't so much about the knowledge, but about the name. Jughead too felt oddly uncomfortable by it.
Did he diet a lot lately? Sure. Did he have the occasional self inflicted vomit after a too big a meal? Just a bit. But he wouldn't call himself anorexic. At least not until he woke up in the hospital after having passed out at school.
He never though it would get this far. It was never supposed to get this far. The doctor started talking with FP having grown tired of Jughead constantly dissociating. He could hear their low murmurs. If he concentrated enough he would be able to make out what they were saying.
He was preoccupied though. The doctor had unstrapped his hands after having a nurse feed him through the tube. Jughead contemplated yanking it out but even in his dizzy state he knew that was probably a bad idea. He resorted in just running his fingers at the length of it.
"Don't play with that" a nurse guided his hand away from the tube. Jughead stared at him curiously. How long had he been standing there?
"How about you rest your eyes while the doctor talks with your dad?"
He softly pushed him against the pillow. He had tried hard to make his voice sound kind but Jughead knew he just wanted to not have to deal with him anymore. Lucky for him the feeling was reciprocated by Jughead who also didn't want to deal with this entire situation anymore.
He allowed the nurse to fix his pillows and tuck him in. He closed his eyes but didn't really sleep. He just peacefully drifted in and out of consciousness. Whatever they had given him before inserting the tube was still flowing through his veins, making him delightfully hazy.
Unfortunately the haziness didn't last forever. Just a few hours later, he was stuck, fully conscious and having to ignore his dad pretty much sobbing his heart out, quietly in the corner. Maybe he thought Jughead was still asleep.
He hadn't been able to look at him in a while. The bandages on his arms were perhaps an indication as to why. He had already eaten half the bagel (168 Kal). But they would still had to put the tube (150 Kal). 318 Kal. The number was carved into his brain, his skin.
It had barely been an hour. Way too many calories for an hour. He had bolted off the bed and out of the room. FP had been the closest to the door, and he grabbed him before he could get any further than ten meters away.
Jughead had thrusted around in his hold like a wild animal, screaming and kicking. He had almost clawed the older man's arms off. There was a sharp pinch on his leg. He barely registered the doctor stepping away.
Numbness had spread fast and he fell limp in his father's arms. FP cruddled him close, like he was six instead of sixteen. "It's okay" he had whispered in his ear. "You're going to be all better soon"
Jughead couldn't reply. He could only notice the fresh, irritated scratches that decorated his fathers arms. Blood was tickling down and Jughead stared down at his bloody fingers. He had done that. It was the only thing he could think of as FP carried him back to the room.
Perhaps, it was the notebook that caused his father's distress. He was holding it tightly, his knuckles turning white around it. He seemed ready to throw it out the window at any moment.
After all it must be scary to see your son, scribbling down what he ate, at what hour, how many calories and how to reduce the final amount each day for the past six months. Obsessive and pathetic.
It ought to be both, Jughead thought. It put together a grim picture. He knew what FP thought of him. Jellybean might be the apple on FP's eye but he was the one on a pedestal. He was supposed to be better, do better than any Forsythe that had come before him. And he had failed.
Why? FP kept whispering that word, drowning in his misery. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why?
"I don't know" Jughead replied out loud. FP flinched. So he hadn't know he was awake. Jughead noticed him discreetly wiping his tears. He didn't turn to face him.
"I don't know why I'm doing it. Sorry" he added and turned around on the bed so he wouldn't have to look at him anymore. "I'm sorry" he mumbled again.
His father did not reply. Perhaps he didn't know what to say. Silence followed as each pretended not to know the other was still awake.
A few days later Jughead had cocooned himself under the covers, refusing to accept the reality. FP had let him take the bedroom after they returned from the hospital. It didn't matter much because Jughead's bags were already waiting in the living room.
He could hear the muffled sounds from the kitchen as FP prepared his last meal. He was supposed to drive him to a facility out of Riverdale. FP wouldn't tell him the name or where it was located. He knew Jughead too well and was certain the moment he knew he would start plotting how to escape.
Jughead, who even at the hospital had pretty much memorized the nearest bus stops, thought it was fair but that he also didn't like it. He had been through hell already after he was released. FP had called the school and informed them he'd be taking his lessons online from now on. He even gave them a note from the doctor.
As a result he had been stuck at home, with FP force feeding him three fucking meals a day. He locked the bathroom too and waited outside, with the door open whenever Jughead needed to go. It was infuriating
Apparently the doctors had drilled this idea in FP's head that he was dying. And now FP wouldn't believe him no matter how many times he explained he wasn't.
The door creeked open and the smell of spaghetti had Jughead almost gagging. He blinked the tears away as FP sat down next to him.
"It's time to eat" he reminded him softly. A tough, callused hand brushed his hair away from his face. "Come on"
Jughead's jaw tightened but he sat up, bringing the blanket over his shoulders, wrapping himself tight. He usually resisted a lot more but this was the the last time he'd eat at the trailer for who knows how long. He doesn't want to leave with a fight.
"You put ketchup" Jughead noted his voice trembling. The spaghetti was 157,7 alone, 269, 3 with the ketchup. "Did you put butter too?"
FP sighed. "Why don't you just try it?"
Son he had. 100g of butter was 716,8 Kal. Now he doubted FP just shoved a 100g of butter in there but with no indication of how much he had put... The serving was big, even for a healthy person.
"I can't"
"Jughead, please, just..." Try. It was a word FP kept repeating these last few days. Try this, try that. He was trying! He had eaten two thirds of his scrambled eggs that morning. And most of the apple FP had shoved into his hands a couple hours ago.
What more did he expect from him? Was it his fault that FP was setting the bar too high?
"You aren't supposed to put ketchap in spaghetti. It's an insult to Italian cuisine"
FP chuckled and practically fell against Jughead. Jughead nuzzeld his face against his neck, feeling the warmth of his body. He was always so fucking cold lately.
"What am I going to do without you, huh?" The older man murmured, placing his chin over Jughead's head.
"Put ketchap in your spaghetti apparently" he replied.
FP had to feed him the spaghetti because Jughead couldn't find the strength to take the fork. It was easier this way, not having to make the choice to eat with each bite. Someone else making it for him. He managed to get through a bit more than half.
His father set the plate on the nightstand when he realized that he wouldn't be able to persuade him to eat any more than that.
"I don't wanna go. Please don't make me" he pleaded gripping his father's shirt tightly.
FP squeezed him, his hands lingering on his ribs and his spine sticking out. He was never much of a hugger. It made it easier for Jughead to hide the results of his diet under buggy clothes. That changed after the hospital.
FP would continually keep him close, holding him tight, as if to check if he finally gained even a little bit of weight. "Jug... I'm sorry but you have to go. This-this isn't good for you. They can make you better"
"I don't need to get better" he whined.
FP feel his slim body shake with small hiccups and sobs that he somehow was able to masterfully keep from escaping. There was a tickling sensation on his neck, tears from his son's eyes spilling. Fuck.
He knew he had to do this. The doctor was adamant on that. "Sir, without excessive treatment, your son will die. If he doesn't, there will be lasting consequences for his health. You don't want him to suffe, do you?"
He hated the way the doctors would talk to him. As if he were intentionally letting his son kill himself. As if he was the one starving him. They had accused him at first. If he hadn't found that damned notebook... CPS would have been involved. He could have lost him.
Of course he hadn't let Jughead catch wiff of any of this. He didn't need to worry about it. They had asked him once if he had noticed anything.
FP didn't answer. Because he hadn't. He hadn't and he couldn't explain why. Jughead had always been an independent kid. He did everything on his own. His homework, his laundry, he sometimes would cook for the both of them.
He had spent years maintaining himself while FP was too busy getting hammered to take care of him (although FP would rather not hink of that)
The thought that Jughead -Jughead of all people- would starve himself would have sounded ridiculous. When he got that phone call from Riverdale High, that Jughead had passed out during class, it never crossed his mind that it could be that.
The sight of his son's skeleton like physique when he had walked inside that hospital room was akin to a punch on the face. Not a slap. A fucking punch. His gut wrenching cries as the doctors strapped him down and stabbed a needle in his elbow had triggered an anger he hadn't known he possessed.
He was had to be held back, dragged out of the room. And they had accused him. They had sat him on a table and with the calmest and most casual voice they had asked him:
"Sir, have you been feeding your son?"
A second punch in the face. This time he had been so taken a back by the nerve, the audacity that he had been at a loss of words. He had to blink the sock away, force the static off his mind.
"O-of course. Why would you..."
"You've been a patient here a couple of times Mr. Jones. All injuries acquired under the influence of alcohol-"
"I'm clean" he had hurried because it was the only question anyone seemed to ask lately. Teachers at Jug's school, other parents who couldn't keep their noses out of other people's goddamned business. "I'm in A.A. You-you can call and check. They'll tell you"
"What does your son usually eat?" The doctor went on. What have you feeding him? Have you been feeding him at all? That's what he was really asking.
FP gulped. "I bring stuff, when I come home from work"
"So mainly take out" the doctor concluded.
"Not just take out" that was a lie but it just dawned on FP that healthy kids didn't just eat fast food and Thai. "I cook too. Eggs, salads and I boil stuff too"
It wasn't completely a lie. He would occasionally make something but it was more of the exception than the rule. He came home late from long shifts and he just didn't have the energy. But he wasn't starving his son. The fridge was full. He made sure of that.
They made it sound like he was abusing his boy. He wasn't. He couldn't be. He shivered slightly and almost missed the next question.
"So-sorry. What?"
"Have you noticed any drastic changes in his diet?"
The questions kept going. Each more intrusive than the other. He heard the nurses whisper that there wasn't enough evidence to call the police on him. Not enough evidence. That's the only thing that had protect them. Not enough fucking evidence.
When Jughead woke up the next morning all hell broke lose. FP watched in disbelief as Jughead refused to eat a bagel. He had to hold him down while the doctor sedated him to implement the tube.
He had suggested it might be an eating disorder. FP had refused to believe it, in spite everything he had just seen.
He had told him to drive home. "If you find anything mentioning calories or weight or working out and the like, bring it here"
FP had turned the trailer upside down. When he found the notebook he was as heartbroken as relieved. Relieved the doctor wouldn't call the police, that his son would not be taken away from him. But reading the damn thing fucking destroyed him.
While on the hospital he had researched everything there was to know about anorexia and bulimia. He had put more effort in it that anything else in his life.
"I can take care of him. I know I can. If you just let me-"
They hadn't. He wasn't a trained medical professional. This had all happened under his nose anyway. He hadn't noticed and if Jughead had managed to get it past him the first time-
They pretty much dumped pamphlets of facilities that specialised in this kind of treatment. FP went through all of them. He found one with a good description that was close enough that he could drive regularly. And if he were being honest, it was the only one he could afford.
The bone-crushing shame and guilt of admitting that to himself was almost unbearable. Still, it would have to do.
FP didn't want to send Jughead away. Not really. If only the had let him take care of him...It was what he had to do. He knew. Even with Jughead plastered over him, tears soaking his neck and his shirt.
"I'm so sorry. But I can't lose you Jug. I-I can't"
"I'll make it hell for them" Jughead threatened. "I won't do anything they tell me, I'll make them kick me out"
"Jughead look at me"
But the boy refused. He shut his eyes, breathing heavily, determined not to listen. He wouldn't listen. There was nothing wrong with him. The doctors were wrong. He wasn't dying. He was fine. He was-
"Forsythe" The name was like a knife on Jughead's side. He chocked at the sound of it. He gulped. "Forsythe, please look at me"
His body moved against his will, as if the name was a spell. He raised his head, making eye contact with his dad. He too had tears in his eyes. They looked so wrong in his face.
There was shame deep inside him because just like the scratch marks, he had done this. Selfish, selfish, selfish Forsythe.
"Promise me you'll try" FP cupped his cheek, bringing their foreheads together.
Jughead didn't say anything. Try. Try, try. He was already trying. Was he supposed to try harder? He didn't think he could. But as he laid there, impossibly close to his dad, tears running down both their faces, he realized it didn't matter.
"I...I promise" he reassured and FP smiled so wide and kissed his forehead.
"That's my boy" he whispered proudly and Jughead thought it might be worth it in the end.
The drive was silent. The drive back from the hospital had been continually interrupted by FP asking him whether or not he was nauseous from the drugs, if he needed anything, if he was okay.
Now, both of them dreaded the moment of their arrival. Jughead had his cheek mushed against the window. His hand was in the handle of the door, the need to jump off a moving vehicle had never been stronger in his life. Frankly it was so powerful it terrified him.
Even if he wanted to though, the door was locked. FP wouldn't take any chances when it came to Jughead's safety. It was as endearing as annoying. Jughead bit down on the cord of his oil green hoodie. It was a bit faded and there was the name of a band he had never heard of before emboirdered on it.
It used to be FP's but he had brought it for Jughead to wear at the hospital and the boy took a liking to it. It was warm and fuzzy, filled with cotton on the inside.
When he had worn it, cold and hurt and humiliated in that hospital bed, it had helped. It hid his body, warmed him up and it was nice curling up under the blankets with it. He would pull the hoodie up and and push himself under the blanket and pretend he was anywhere else. Pretend there wasn't a tube sticking out his nose.
Besides, his dad had smiled, helping him put it on. There was something strange, a hue of longing in his eyes. "It suits you" he had commented, voice strained.
Even now it made him feel slightly better. He brought his knees up and pulled the hem of the shirt down to his feet. He had kicked his shoes off when FP started the car. He pulled his sleeves over his hands and the hoodie over his ears.
"I'm sure it won't be that bad. Think of it like...a summer camp" FP suggested.
He had never been to summer camp so he couldn't compare the two accurately. He seriously doupted though a medical facility specializing in eating disorders had that much in common with a summer camp.
"More like Juvie" he traced lines in the fog forming at the window. He heard FP sigh. He peeked at him for a moment. The way he gripped the steering wheel, like it was the one thing keeping him together. The way he kept his lips pressed together.
Jughead remembered just six years ago, sitting on the back of a police cruiser, watching his dad yell at the police officers who had arrested him for arson.
"He's just a kid, dammit! He was playing. It was me he got the matches from. Wanna arrest somebody? Go ahead and arrest me"
Despite his father's best efforts the police had still taken him away. They had to hold him from chasing after the police car. He had been bearing the same desperate expression as now. Thought at the moment it was accompanied with a certain amount of guilt.
Jughead bit down on the metal edge again.
"It could also be...nice. Maybe-maybe I'll make friends or something"
Even in his ears it sounded like a big pile of bullshit. But he didn't want FP to feel like he was driving him to hell. He had already put him through enough. Making him feel like the asshole here seemed cruel.
FP snorted at Jughead's attempt to be positive. Jughead found the edge of his own lips twitching upwards. Mr. Ray Of Sunshine was not his forte. Especially not now. The tension on the car became a bit thinner and easier to ignore.
"At the very least-" FP paused to see of he was paying attention. "You can write a story about it"
Jughead smiled this time. There was the tickling feeling in his fingers, as if he was already touching the keys. FP had told him they didn't allow any electronics in. So he had left his laptop behind. The typewriter was too heavy to carry. Beside he didn't want to risk it getting damaged.
He doubted there would be a lot to write about though. And even if there was, who would want to read it? It sounded like a pretty pathetic story:
The sad, poor boy with no confidence took a harmless comment to heart and decided to ruin his body, sabotage his life and selfishly break his father's heart in the process.
It was a lousy story and what was worse was that it was his reality.
The facility itself couldn't be that bad. After all, it wasn't The Sisters Of Quiet Mercy and hopefully it wouldn't be Provo Canyon-esque. The building definitely didn't do it any favors. When he made that comment about this place being like Juvie he had been half-joking.
To say that it was badly maintained would be an understatement. His dad was checking his phone, making sure they were in the right place.
"Maybe it's better on the inside?" He gave him a goofy smile. Jughead just took his two bags from the back of the car.
"Here, give me the heavy one" FP didn't wait for Jughead to argue, pretty much snatching the bag from him.
"I'm not made of glass, you know"
"I know. I just...I need...to help" he stumbled through his explanation. Jughead thought back to that first day in the hospital, when they had inserted the tube, his father begging him to eat.
Him refusing and FP being so helpless to do anything about it. Jughead had half the mind to apologize, to fall on his knees in regret for making his father go through that, for forcing him to see him in such a state.
Before he could even try to think of something to say they had reached the entrance. He frowned. FP clasped his shoulder. "Here we go"
They walked through the entrance. The sharp medical smell that he only ever associated with doctor offices and hospitals had him shivering. He could feel the burn of the tube, the drug induced numbness.
They walked up to the front desk.
FP went forward, introducing himself in a serious tone. More like conducting a transaction at the bank than giving his son away. They gave him some papers to sign.
Jughead scanned his surroundings. There wasn't much to go off on. Some people would hurriedly come in and out of doors. They all wore blue from head to toe. Must work here, he thought.
"Jug?" His father called from the desk. "You have to sign this" he showed him a blank spot under his own signature when he approached him.
He took the pen from the desk and touched the end to the paper but didn't move further. "What am I signing?"
"That you agree to enter the program" FP explained. He had forgotten perhaps that Jughead had always been able to see right through him.
"Signing my rights away" he mumbled although he still signed.
"It's not like that Jug. It's like, giving custody to the facility"
"You don't have full custody" he reminded him because his mom might have left but they never officially got divorced.
"She signed the papers too. She send them in yesterday"
Jughead didn't want to ask whether or not she asked about him. He could take a wild guess considering she hadn't called him. Not at the hospital, not when he got home. Not even today.
"She wished for you to get better soon"
Unlike before it didn't sound like he was lying or withholding anything. He nodded. It wasn't much and he would rather she had told him himself rather than having his dad as a messenger.
The woman took the papers, checking them. "Everything seems to be in order. Very well. " she ordered her co-worker.
He picked up the phone, dialing a number. "We will have someone to give you a tour and answer any questions about the program"
Right on cue, another guy approached them. "Welcome to our facility. This way please" he motioned for them to follow him down a hallway.
He unlocked a door to something that looked like a locker room. "Please place your bags on the table"
FP and Jughead exchanged a look before complying. Two women came forward, opening the bags. They emptied them, messing up all his clothes, looking through pockets and sleeves for anything concealed.
"Could you take the cord off your hoodie? " one of them pointed at him.
"Isn't that a bit excessive?" FP questioned, sensing Jughead's uneasiness.
"Your son isn't the only kid here, sir" she answered sharply, annoyed. It cut both of them off and Jughead hurried to follow her orders. He handed her the cord which she placed on the side with one of his jackets that also had a chord that she couldn't remove.
"Put your phone here" the other one raised a plastic box towards him. She was a bit more polite than her partner.
Jughead turned to FP who nodded. He took his phone out of his pocket and put that on the box as well. They also searched him, quickly and harshly, like he was the most tedious of chores.
After they were done, they threw the clothes back in, unfolded, pushing them to fit. Jughead felt mostly bad for FP who had packed his bag for him. "We'll have these delivered straight to your room"
"Very well" their 'guide' chirped, unfazed. "Let's us go on" he guided them out of the small room and onto the main building, a well practiced smile practically shining on his face.
"Good thing they took the chord. I could strangle him" Jughead murmured to his father. FP ruffled his hair playfully.
"Better not say things like that here" FP advised "Not everyone can appreciate your sense of humor"
"So, this is the main room. This is where our patients spend their free time or watch TV. We also a music room, an art room, a gym and a library"
"That doesn't sound too bad" FP whispered. "At least there's a library"
Jughead nodded. All the accommodations in the world didn't make this any better. He would still be locked up, forced to erase all the hard work of the past six months. Still, he tried to at least pretend he was...okay. At the very least for FP's shake.
The man led them up a staircase. By the time they reached the top Jughead had to sit down for a second. Black spots danced in his vision.
"Jughead" FP's breathing hitched with worry. He knelt, touching a hand on his back. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"
"I'm okay. I'm fine" Jughead brushed him off. He raised himself up with great effort, knees shaking to keep him up.
FP took his hand, still radiating worry. "I'm okay" Jughead repeated.
The man cleared his throat and motioned for them to follow him. They reached a wing full of doors. Each door had their own number.
They stopped at the door with the number 373. The man unlocked it with a keychain hanging from his belt hoop.
When they walked in they were greeted by a small room with a bed, a desk, a closet and nothing else.
There was a small window on the wall but it didn't seem to be able to open. The bars on the other side of the glass did not help lessen Jughead's sudden surge of claustrophobia.
His bags were already on top of the bed. "This is going to be your room. Please, make yourself to feel at home. I'll wait outside for you to say your goodbyes"
The man walked out of the room, closing the door behind him to give them some privacy.
Jughead sat on the bed, testing the matress. It was better than the hospital and definitely better than their pull-out couch.
FP sat down next to him. They kept silent for a moment. FP inspected the room before his eyes fell on Jughead who had opened his back, trying to salvage his mess of clothes.
"They allow visitors every Friday"
Jughead tensed. "Only every Friday?" He asked hesitantly.
Logicalky he knew that FP couldn't drive the distance each and every day to come see him. Still, he thought he'd be able to visit at least twice a week.
"We can talk to the phone too. Everyday if you want"
Jughead nodded. He wasn't sure if he could do this. He wasn't even quite sure he wanted to do this. All he knew was that he couldn't do it alone.
"A-at least it's not like Juvie" he tried to make light of the situation. Pretend that his world was not falling apart.
"More like a fancy rehab" FP mentioned absentmindedly.
"How do you know what a rehab looks like?" Jughead's interest perked.
"I went a couple of times. To rehab"
Jughead raised an eyebrow. He searched his mind for the memory.
"It was before you were born" FP replied, noticing his son's confusion.
But it hadn't worked, Jughead realized. Not entirely. FP still fell off the wagon. Went back to his addiction for comfort once shit hit the fan. Jughead wasn't as strong as FP, or as tough.
His dad was a leader, a fighter. He, on the other hand, was the scrawny writer wannabe, sitting on a dark corner, in his little miserable mind. If FP had relapsed, what hope did he have?
"Dad, what if I can't get better?"
"You will" His father reassured with a certainty that Jughead lacked. And as much as he wanted to believe that, FP couldn't promise something like that. Jughead himself couldn't promise something like that.
"If I don't? If I-if I can't?"
"You will, hey" FP clutched his face, tilting his head so he'd look at him in the eye. "You will, okay? I know you can. I know you, Jughead. I know you won't go down without a fight"
He let go of his face to envelop him on a tight hug. He held him so tight, as if he was the most precious thing in the whole entire word. Jughead held on just as tight.
"That's all I ask of you son. To fight. If you can't do it for you, do it for me, do it for Jellybean, or your friends"
He let go, cupping his cheek. "You have many people that love you, Forsythe. And we all want you back home"
Jughead hated the influence his name had on him. He hated the way it made him feel whenever his parents used it. They rarely did so. When they did, it always felt more intimate, more important.
It always had Jughead lose any form of composure or resistance. He hated that name but whenever someone used it, they did so with meaning and it meant more to Jughead than he would ever be willing to admit.
He nodded, tears escaping his eyes.
"Come' ere" FP embraced him one more time. Jughead swallowed the need to cry, beg him not to leave. He didn't. He had broken his father's heart once. He wouldn't again.
At the very least, he'd try.