Chapter Text
“You burn inside my memory so well
You Caramel
You’re Caramel
And the longer burn,
The sweeter that you smell
You Caramel
You’re Caramel”
Caramel - Conan Gray
New York City, 1991
Will Byers woke up on the 14th of June and felt… off.
There was this tugging in his chest, much less terrifying than the edge he was on all of his childhood but still unsettling enough that he called out of work. Rubbing repeatedly over his heart did no good, but he continued to do so well into the night.
He thought about calling his mom, or Jonathan, or Jane, just to listen to them breathe or something equally as weird, but he decided against it.
Because he’s 20 years old, with his own apartment, and his own job, and his own bills to pay, and he shouldn’t have to call his mother to be able to sleep tonight.
He rubs over his chest with the heel of his palm, stepping back to look over the canvas in front of him with a critical eye.
He’s finished, finally, but he’s not quite satisfied because it’s hard to remember the exact likeness of a swingset you haven’t seen since you were five. It felt a lot like painting a vague dream, feeling the picture instead of knowing it.
He should’ve worked on some of his commissions, he knows. He huffs a breath, looking at the many unfinished paintings on the rack next to the TV and on his desk in the corner of the small living room.
He forces himself to look away; he can leave reality for tomorrow.
Today he clings onto the dream in front of him.
A swingset at sunrise.
He rubs at his chest a little harder, and he’s so lost in his head that the shrill ringing from his phone in the kitchen has him jumping, and promptly dropping his wet paintbrush onto the carpet that kindly leaves a streak of red next to his feet.
“Fuck,” Will mutters under his breath, dragging his hands down his face. The ringing continues and he sighs, picking the brush up and setting it on the stool next to his easel.
He makes it to the kitchen, dreading whatever conversation he’s about to have. He feels half asleep and jaded, and he doesn’t think he’s been up this late in months. He glances at the clock on the wall that reads 2:06 AM and furrows his brow.
Who the fuck is calling him at two in the morning?
He takes the phone off the hook, leaning against the kitchen counter and lazily holding it to his ear.
“Hello?”
For a moment there’s no response; only breathing.
Very familiar breathing.
But it sounds wrong; short and hitched. Will wraps his arms around himself, feeling his heart sink.
“…Mike?” He whispers.
Mike’s never strayed from their schedule before.
It’s Tuesday, and they always call every Friday evening— Mike also doesn’t waste any time in responding to him, and Will rubs absently over chest again.
“…Hey,” Mike starts quietly, and Will hears his voice crack in a way it hasn’t since they were fourteen. He clears his throat and tries again, “Hey, Will.”
His voice sounds thick; congested.
“Are you… have you been crying?” Will asks gently, and he feels his chest ache.
He hasn’t heard Mike cry since 1987.
It’s only been a few years since, sure, but it still makes Will’s insides twist in concern. Mike doesn’t really… cry. Will hates it, Mike hates it, and hates even more to do it in front of a witness, and Will knows he’s probably the person who’s witnessed Mike’s tears more than a few times— even then, those instances are just few and far between.
And a silly thought passes through:
Could this be that tugging in his chest? Mike Wheeler crying thousands of miles away?
Will wouldn’t put it past his stupid heart, honestly.
“Maybe?” Mike huffs a laugh, and Will feels his own lips twitch in a sympathetic smile. His chest loosens a little at the sound, and he slides down the cabinet until he’s on the floor, knees to his chest, phone cradled as close as possible to his face.
He always feels a little pathetic when his fingers are sore after their phone calls because it’s shameful evidence Will holds the phone to his ear like every call is the last time he’ll hear Mike’s voice.
“Mike,” Will whispers, coaxing.
“It’s nothing,” Will can practically see Mike shrugging, picking at a loose thread on his pants; “I don’t know, I think— I—“
His voice breaks, and Will holds the phone tighter.
“What happened?”
“I’m—“
Will waits, feeling helpless as Mike’s breath hitches with another nearly concealed sob. Will waits until Mike speaks again.
“I’m miserable,” Mike whispers into the phone like a shameful confession.
And Will tries to think back on every conversation they’ve had in the last year and a half since Will moved out to New York, trying to remember any hint of misery.
Mike is always attentive, always seemingly happy whenever Will answers the phone. He’s always talking about how he’s working on his novel, and how his semesters are going well in Chicago, and how much summer in Hawkins has changed.
Not once has Will suspected that his best friend has been miserable, and he feels the guilt crawling up to choke him.
He hears a sniffle, and what sounds like Mike wiping his face quickly. Will curls up on his kitchen floor and aches.
“What— why?” Will asks, “Did something happen? Are you—“
“I miss you.”
Will sucks in a breath like he’d just been punched in the gut.
The way Mike said it feels like a gentle shockwave; like a parting kiss, and if Will grips the phone any harder he’s worried it’ll crack. He’s worried his nose will start to bleed and the lights will start to flicker with the force of whatever emotion has his eyes prickling with heat.
Mike’s voice was barely above a whisper; shaky and broken. It sounded like a desperate wish on a dying star and Will wants to hold him. Will wants to hold him all the time, for as long as he can remember.
“I miss you,” Mike whispers again, “I— Fuck, I miss you.”
“Mike—“
“I miss you all the time,” Mike says brokenly, his words spilling out like he can’t help it, “It’s— I can’t do it anymore, I can’t—“
“Breathe,” Will urges over the phone, chest rattling and eyes watering, “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Mike takes a deep breath, and Will takes it with him, even though he’s sure it’s only putting off more tears that are sure to come, “You’re not coming this summer. I haven’t seen you in a year and a half and I know it’s-it’s pathetic—“
“It’s not pathetic,” Will interjects quickly, shaking his head, “It’s not—“
“It is, Will,” he hears Mike’s voice break over another hitched breath, “I know you’re… I just want you to be happy. I never want you to come back to Hawkins, but I’m fucking selfish. I’m so selfish, and I’m sorry.”
Will lets the tears spill over and he lets that want that’s always itching under his skin show itself.
“My whole life I’ve missed you every second you’ve been away from me,” Will confesses quietly into the receiver.
If you’re pathetic, I’m wretched.
He feels like his head is underwater, salty tears pouring out of tightly shut eyes. He feels the same way he did in California, but it’s worse this time somehow. It’s worse because he hears Mike’s voice every week. It’s worse because the love he has for his best friend is persistent and terrible and grows with every conversation; every dorky smile he can hear but not see.
It’s worse because now he knows that Mike misses him just as much as Will misses Mike.
“I’m sorry, I can’t come back for the summer,” Will chokes out, shaking his head, “I can’t come back because I’m worried I’ll never leave.”
It’s probably the most honest Will’s been with Mike since he left. It’s the most honest thing Will’s spoken aloud in a very long time, and he feels himself shaking, almost afraid he’s going to fall apart and Mike won’t be able to put him back together again.
Hawkins holds every trauma; every nightmare and every ghost that haunts the dark hallways of his mind.
Hawkins also holds his love, and he’d suffer there the moment Mike gives him that look that says please.
Stay.
“Will—“
“Come to New York,” Will breathes desperately before thinking, “Please? I’m sorry I haven’t said it before—“
“Okay,” Mike whispers, almost immediately. Will smiles, laughing lightly over another choked cry, “Okay. As soon as I can, I’ll be there. I’ll come.”
“Don’t hang up,” Will says quickly, without even thinking about how Mike’s phone is in the basement, nowhere near any sleep-able surface.
“I won’t,” Mike says immediately. Will quickly sets the phone down, practically running to his bedroom and settling on his bed, picking up the phone on his nightstand and curling up on his side, sighing in relief when he hears Mike’s quick breathing on the other end.
“Stay,” Will murmurs vaguely after a moment, feeling himself sinking into unconsciousness; feeling like his whole world is right here in his hand, Mike’s breathing in his ear.
“Always,” Will hears whispered back to him before his eyes fluttered closed; the ache in his chest finally soothed.