ｃｈｕｇｈｅａｄ ♡

storm over europe

credits to @wolfofansbach via archiveofourown.
———

He is young and far from home. There is a pen in his hand and the seeds of an epic germinating in his mind. He came across the sea, six coins jingling in his ratty pocket, to write and see the world. It is well enough for him that it is being reborn.

“What the hell kind of name is ‘Jughead’?” There is a cabaret show a few hours past dusk. Weedy comedians and half-nude young women. Hashish and coffee dominate the night air. Everyone laughs at political satire that’s less funny than it is painful.

“It’s nice to meet another Yank.” He responds, nipping her antagonism in the bud. He sips his coffee and jots a few notes down into his journal. She’s so red.

“Are you going to talk to me?”

“Probably not.” Jughead retreats into his tattered jacket and pulls the decaying newsboy’s cap further down over his face. She bristles in her satin gown and her layers of furs. But the autumn winds strike them about the same in the end. The pen shakes in his hand.

Around them, the words ‘Europe’, ‘Versailles’, ‘revolution’, ‘hope’, and ‘liberty’ flit through the air and thread themselves together into a crude tapestry promising a brilliant future that will never come. Everyone deludes himself.

He puffs on his cigarette. The smoke curls out and for a moment caresses her face. Jughead tears his eyes from his scribblings for a moment. She still hasn’t left. She huffs, her breath frosting in cold Bohemian air, nigh indistinguishable from his cigarette’s emissions. Her lips, already full and red, darken with the chilly evening. Grey clouds mass in the sky.

“What are you doing in this shithole country?” She demands.

He shrugs and imagines the desiccated corpse of a rotten empire. They’re sitting in it. A muddy Hapsburg crown lies in the gutter at their feet. He knocks it aside before she can pick it up.

“Being inspired, I suppose. You?”

She snorts.

“Exploiting. Shattered continent means new opportunities.” She leans in towards him, across the table. “Do you like hotcakes, Jughead?”

Jughead smiles, crooked, and puts down his pen. A few locks of dark hair fall over his sad blue eyes.

“I could never afford them.”

“But you could afford a ticket across the pond?”

“My father was a sailor. I worked my way across. No luxury cruising for me, love.”

She crosses her arms. Her brown eyes flash indignity. The fur lining of her coat swallows up her pale, slender neck.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you probably paid a lot more and a lot less to get here than I did.”

She leans forward and plucks the cigarette from his mouth. Jughead is so taken aback he can hardly muster the energy to move. His lips hang open, tongue resting gently at the tips of his teeth. She sucks in, cheeks hollowing, and exhausts nearly the entire damn thing in one drag. He prepares to issue forth outrage. He closes his eyes and calms himself.

She eyes him. A little smile animates her full lips. The cigarette-his cigarette-balances nimbly between her middle and index fingers. That’s how they hold their smokes. The other half. His betters. He shakes his head. She waits, unsatisfied, for him to explode in anger.

“I’m used to it.” He mutters. He slides another cigarette from the pocket of his threadbare coat and lights it up. She frowns. He smiles.

“Used to what?”