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His heart is racing. Nancy is gone.
(Gone, gone, gone, echoing in his chest like the beat of his heart. Chiming together with it, dragging him down, drowning him.)
It’s dark around him, too. Jonathan’s goddamn flashlight barely does a thing, and his hand is shaking where he’s holding it, anyway. He doesn’t think he’s ever held anything this tight.
His chest feels tight, too.
“Nancy!” he yells, and his breath puffs up as clouds in the cold air. His head is throbbing, and he can hear his heartbeat everywhere, can feel it in his fingertips, against the cold metal of the flashlight. “Nancy!”
If something happened—
If she’s gone, like Will, then he—What if she’s—He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe—
The gun feels useless in his other hand. Useless, like he does, limp and fucking useless, and—His breath hitches in his throat. There was a noise. There was a noise, he heard it, there’s something—
A twig is cracking somewhere, and it startles him to his core. His heart is racing.
“Jonathan—!”
He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. But then he does, oxygen flooding his lungs so violently he’s choking, and—
(Oh God, oh God, oh God, her voice. He can hear her. Her voice. She’s alive.)
“I’m right here!” he calls back, desperate, frantically whipping around to see where the hell she is. He can hear her—once again, echoing, just his name, Jonathan, and her voice sounds terrified. It tugs at every fiber of his being. Flips his stomach around and around and around, like he could just throw up. “I’m right here!”
Jonathan isn’t new to panic. He’s felt it a million times before—it’s an old friend, probably. From his father’s fast flipping mood to the feeling of something heavy and hard hitting him. From the sound of fast footsteps to simply the sound of raised voices. All of it used to make him tremble—used to make him want to throw up in panic, still makes him flinch.
But—
But this is something else entirely. He’s never, ever felt like this. It flips in his chest, around and around and around as he looks for some kind of solution. Some way to fix this, to push aside the dull panic in his skull.
“Nancy!” he yells again, and he’s been saying her name so much. He’s never said it before—thought it a hundred times, however. Traced its letters with his mind. “Just—just follow my voice!”
Which starts to feel hoarse. God, has he been yelling that much? Jonathan never yells. This is—
“Follow my voice, Nancy, I’m right here—”
He’s desperate. He’s never felt so fucking desperate, and it’s cold, it’s so fucking cold and dark in this forest. If it happens again—If it’s his fault, again, he—
And it’s quiet. It’s—it’s quiet. He can’t hear her anymore. Jonathan swallows down the nausea, head whipping around and around and around. It’s quiet. How did he not notice that? How long has it been since he last heard her voice? Seconds? Minutes?
“Nancy?” he yells. “Nancy!”
That’s when he sees it. Quickly, without thinking, he’s almost stumbling over himself as he runs towards it—a tree. It’s… a tree, but it looks split open, like there’s something… inside.
Something red. Something fleshy. It blurs in front of him, and he thinks he’s going to pass out. Thinks he wants to wake up from this nightmare. Wants to go back, back, back in time so he doesn’t drag her into this, doesn’t bring her in danger. Not her. Not her, when Will’s already gone, not her—
His backpack drops to the floor. He keeps the gun, swallows again—his stomach is turning, he’s so fucking ill—walks closer. It’s an opening. It looks like an opening, doesn’t it? Maybe—
(Maybe Nancy is in there. Maybe he’s not a hero, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe he can still—)
“Nancy…?” Jonathan asks, quieter, this time. Maybe his voice can’t carry anymore. Maybe he’s yelled too much. Slowly, he crouches down. There’s small noises—something wet. Something slithering. “Nancy.”
His flashlight barely helps. He can’t see a thing. “Nancy!” he tries, louder, and his head is throbbing. He’s going to throw up. He’s going to—
A hand appears, and he really and truly thinks he’s dying for a split second. Reels back with a yelp, falls on his ass, and his heart stops. He thinks he might want to run away. Might want to give up, to bury himself, to die, die, die. He can’t do this. He can’t. His head is going to explode.
“Jonathan!” she yells, and that’s—that’s it. That’s what brings him back, because yeah, that’s her, that’s her white, fingerless gloves, that’s Nancy, she’s here, she’s here. Relief hits him so hard he’s choking.
“Nancy,” slips out of him again, just her name, again and again and again, spinning around and around and around, and his body is aching but he still moves, jerks forward to grab her hand.
He doesn’t remember if he’s ever really touched her before. He thinks he would, if it was like this. But now—now her hand’s in his, and it’s cold, Nancy’s hand is so cold, and it manages to burn its way through his whole body with relief wrestling with his panic.
There’s so much resistance. It’s hard to pull her out of that hole—like she’s stuck, stuck in that soft, gooey thing he thinks he saw, and a grunt leaves him as he presses his shoes into the bark of the tree to pull at her arm with both hands.
Everything spins together when she jerks free, when Nancy Wheeler lands on top of him, knocking him back down into the ground. It pushes the air out of his lungs, aches all over, but that’s okay. It’s okay.
“I have you,” Jonathan breathes out, because she’s gasping in his arms, panicked little sounds, because she’s trembling, but he’s so breathless he has no idea if she can even understand it. His arms wrap themselves around her on their own accord, and his head is still spinning. He feels like he’s very far away.
Everything inside of him is trying to settle. It’s almost funny—how easy it is to touch her. How much he’d spin it around in his head usually, how he’d never, ever do this, avoid it until he dies, but now, he can’t even think about it like that.
Limply, swallowing—her jacket is sticky where he’s holding on to her, but that’s okay, he can’t make himself let go, never, ever—he sits up. Watches, breathless, heart racing, head empty but somehow still throbbing, how the bark of the tree closes.
When he blinks, the hole is gone. When he blinks, it feels like he’s imagined it, but Nancy is still trembling in his arms. Still leaned against him with her full weight, hot and cold both in the dark, and she reels back, looks at him with wide blue eyes.
Everything comes crashing down. Jonathan stares back, and somehow, it’s not hard at all to make her face out in the dark. To know exactly what she looks like, to know her, to feel her. Her breath ghosting over his face. Her hands clawed into his jacket. They’re still holding each other—desperately clawing into each other’s clothes, he’s noticing, like they’re twisted together, like nothing is ever going to pry them apart again.
(Maybe he doesn’t even want that.)
He almost lost her. He almost lost her, and he thinks Nancy might be thinking the same, because she’s furrowing her brows up in desperation, her hands tight in his jacket, her lips parted with her small, gasping breaths. It’s a strange moment to think she’s beautiful. It’s a strange moment to think he might love her.
It feels surreal when her mouth crashes into his. Feels surreal when his hand finds her ponytail, when he wraps it around it, when he groans into her mouth as their teeth clash together, but at least the blood is hot, at least it heats up his numb body again.
God, he hadn’t even noticed how numb he’s gotten. How cold, but now Nancy’s lips are on his, now she’s grabbing and clawing at his collar and then at his skin, at his collarbone, at his neck, pressing closer, closer, closer, kneeling between his legs as she is. His whole body lights up with it, his head spinning, and he’s gasping, groaning again when he loses his balance, when he falls back into the ground.
Her mouth is relentless. Presses against his again, like she needs to suck the breath out of his lungs to breathe herself, and God knows he’d let her. God knows he’d let her do absolutely anything. Her tongue presses against his, and he realizes she’s scrambling for his pulse as he does the same. As he presses the thumb of his free hand—for a moment he thinks about the gun and the flashlight, somewhere on the forest ground, wonders when he dropped them—against her neck, feels her pulse racing against his cool skin.
When she leans back, she’s still trembling. Still clawing at his collar, and he swallows heavily at how her lips are swollen, at how he’s throbbing between his legs. At how much he wants her, wants this, has always wanted her, for years and years and years. There’s so much in his chest he feels he might shatter.
She’s right here. She’s right here. She’s alive. She’s alive.
Nancy looks at Jonathan like she wants to kiss him again. He doesn’t know what to do with that.
Doesn’t need to, apparently, because she leans closer, rubs her hands down his chest, something electric rushing through him, his hips twitching, pressing herself against him, before something on her face clears. He’s still groaning a little. Squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment.
(Her pupils are dilated, he thinks. Her eyes look more black than blue in the dark.)
“Oh,” she says, eyes wide again, and Jonathan can only look back with the same wide eyes, can only swallow. “Oh my God.”
He almost wants to laugh. Oh my God, indeed. But he can’t have her panic again—so he cups her face, leans (knocks, rather) his forehead against hers. He’s not brave enough to kiss her, even when he wants to. Would never cross that line by himself, for there is so much standing between them.
“It’s okay,” he gasps out, and he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. What he means. This whole thing—the hole, her disappearance, this desperate panic, or her boyfriend. It all spins in his chest, but he still feels hot all over. Feels bad for how he’s not feeling bad at all. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Nancy nods. Nods again. Breathes. Gasps. Nods a third time. “We need to—we need to get out of here.”
She’s probably worried about the hole appearing again. Or the monster. It flickers in his chest, too, but then she’s dropping her gaze down to his lips again.
Jonathan can’t breathe. God, will this feeling ever go away?
“Yeah,” he manages to choke out. They do need to get out of here. And then—then they need to figure this out.
Before she gets up, Nancy presses another kiss to his mouth, chaste, almost, but it rushes to his crotch hotly, still. Means more than it did before, somehow, because he’s not sure if this counts as spur of the moment anymore.
He’s not sure about anything right now.