#daniel caesar

❝ People disappear for their own reasons—don't take it like it's about you. ❞

Those words left Steve Harrington's mouth that she repeated more than times she could count felt like a slap more than a word of advice, Steve is (Y/n)'s cousin and the reason she met Will; The Will who left her emotionally drained and made her view love as some sort of game rather than a sacred practice.

She didn't know why this was affecting her this much when she's already talking to someone new—someone sweet—someone kind—someone who is sure of her not like Will who had left her alongside everything else in Hawkins.

A thought suddenly came to her mind; maybe the Will she knew—his smell of warm vanilla and cedarwood—the boy that used to give her drawings and flowers crafted from papers—was the version that he wanted her to know and not who he really was. But damn! She made it clear that she didn't gave a f*ck about his reputation.

The cheerleader sighed deeply that seems like she's trying to escape the thoughts that was consuming her mind so she stood up going to her white wooden closet painted with flowers she started rummaging inside to find a white shoe box, after a few minutes, she found it: the box was labeled "summer of '85" containing a few film camera videos, letters, and drawings that Will left her.

She almost burned this before in her backyard after she found out that Will left without a single goodbye but she couldn't when that stupid-cute smile-sweater loving-curly teen boy still occupied her heart.

(Y/n) got a single video tape with the label ❛ The rocking boat and his anchor ❜ a memory slipped in her mind again that almost made her eyes roll, of course! This was named by him, but she had no choice but to play it; she wanted to grieve whatever they were especially during this time when she felt like a passing air to him rather than his solace

She almost burned this before in her backyard after she found out that Will left without a single goodbye but she couldn't when that stupid—cute smile—sweater loving—curly teen boy still occupied her heart.

Ironically, after she pushed the play button the song ❛ Every Breath You Take ❜ by The Police, the song he sang to her when he thought she was asleep in his arms, played in her small rose colored radio that sat ontop of her vanity that further intensified the longing she felt—it felt like a punch in the gut and she accepted it.

The video was filmed by them when they went to indianapolis, the first half of summer where they felt like regular teenagers: A girl not clouded with responsibilities and a guy not clouded with uncertainties.

She couldn't help but smile that betrayed the tears streaming down her face as she watches the video through their living room television, a smile not because of joy but a smile caused by reminiscing-reminiscing a love lost to confusion.

It'd break my heart but I'd understand if you'd leave me for another man with a little less on his mind—less on his plate—less in his brain.

Unbeknownst to her, on the other side of town the 16 year old boy also had a cardboard box on top of his bed, taped shut and labeled with a shaky, borrowed Sharpie: 'Unsorted.' He knew exactly what was inside: a handful of things he couldn't throw away, mostly the detritus of a life he'd been forced to abandon. And in every fiber of those contents-a dried paper flower she didn't give to her, a ticket stub for a film he wanted to watch with her, a faint rose colored shirt with a smear of makeup—everything that was about her.

He traced the label with a thumb, his heart thudding a slow, miserable rhythm against his ribs. He felt like he, too, was unsorted.

The irony wasn't lost on him. She viewed him as her solace. She once wrote him a note along with snacks in order to comfort him after a particularly bad panic attack he'd suffered because of his nightmares of the Upside down; ❝ I will always be here for you no matter how messy you can be or no matter how confusing you can be, nerd. xx lowe ❞

He remembered reading it. He remembered the fierce, hot surge of love—and the immediate, crushing terror that followed.

Will also remember that he's a half-formed person asking a fully realized girl to wait, to pause her life, to accept a love that might disappear every time he faced a difficult truth about himself. He couldn't—he wouldn't—be that selfish.

The easiest, cruelest solution had been to vanish. To rip off the bandage in one quick, painful motion. No farewell meant no witnessing the moment her face realized the boy who smelled like vanilla and cedarwood was a scared kid who couldn't handle the weight of her trust.

❝

To my Dearest, lowe,

I saw you the other day. You were wearing the cheer uniform, and you looked incredible—you know you always do. My feet moved before my head did; I almost walked right up to you, ready to say something, anything. Then I froze. I stopped myself. I guess I'm just scared to face you, scared of the hurt I know is still there because of me.

I owe you so much more than the silent treatment I gave you at the end. I wasn't acting distant to hurt you; I was trying to make my leaving easier on me, which was the cruelest, most selfish thing I've ever done to you.

But right now I have to be honest: I felt some sort of happiness when I saw you with Marcus you two seem so happy because you need someone steady now, someone who isn't always fighting shadows and that someone is him—It would break my heart to see you with someone else but you don't deserve a mess—someone like me.

Still Longing afar,

Will

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❞

Of course, everything that was stated will forever be embedded in his mind, he was a coward—a coward that chose to ignore the girl who might be the love of his life.

He stopped writing, reading it again then folding it like it was sacred, he put it in a small blue box along with other letters and the pictures they took of eachother and of each other.

Flashhback

❝ Remember Will Byers? The boy who left town for some reason, they're back. ❞

Maddy, her co-cheer captain, told her over the telephone, her voice laced with cheerfulness and gossipy in nature. (Y/n) stiffened in her bed—her breath hitched as every memory she and Will had was now swarming her mind, drowning out Maddy's voice.

Now, he was back, and (Y/n) had no choice but to act like she's fine. "He's going to go to attend Hawkins next week again, Madeleine, Dustin Henderson's friend, told me " Maddy confirmed over the phone, her voice now a cautious murmur rather than a cheerful gossip. Maddy was referring to the new boy, the sweet, kind, sure guy (Y/n) had been seeing casually for the past two months. Hawkins was the big mall twenty minutes away.

She saw them suddenly: summer light pouring through the window of the cabin they'd rented in Indianapolis, Will tracing the lines of her palm with a charcoal pencil before kissing her there, whispering that her hand felt like the future. She remembered his frantic, cute laughter when they tried to ride a tandem bike and immediately crashed into a pile of brightly colored leaves. Then there was the specific warmth of his sweater, the way he smelled of warm vanilla and cedarwood, as he sang ❛ Every Breath You Take ❜ poorly but sweetly into her hair, convinced she was asleep.

"Okay," (Y/n) replied, her voice unnaturally even. "Good for him." She added before hanging up, she couldn't carry on talking about him, the cheerleader sighed deeply gathering herself to be ready for what she would do.

Her telephone dropped onto her comforter as she pressed the heel of her hands to her eyes. Cheer practice was in three hours. She’d have to put on the uniform, pull her hair into a perfect high ponytail, shout counts, throw girls into the air, and pretend that her chest wasn’t cracking open.

A week later, (Y/n) had thrown on an elaborate outfit: cropped, deep crimson sweatshirt, worn deliberately pulled off one shoulder to reveal the clean, stark white of the halter tank top beneath and a wide leg dark-wash denim paired with platform boots and the cheer varsity jacket tied around her bag. She looked at the mirror one last time smiling at herself, she knew this would turn heads especially his.

The moment she reached Hawkins' High, she was bracing herself to see him, she walked through the hallway alongside her cheer members and then She saw him and he's taller, face more defined, and gone was the cute bowl cut hair he once had during the summer, ❝ He changed ❞ The cheerleader said to herself admiring the boy she once and still is madly in love with but suddenly a hand was suddenly slid on her waist.

Then she saw him smiling down at her, Marcus Craige, Star Basketball player and Point Guard—Hawkin's Golden boy and the guy who had covered, but now resurfaced, bruise that Will had left in her heart.

She exchanged a force smile at Marcus, hoping that the boy wouldn't notice that her eyes told a different story, as she walked past Will Byers and The Party alongside Marcus who was kissing her temple, she couldn't but offer a smile to him but in exchange she got a blank stare from Will then walked right past her.

The Cheerleader frowned subtly, wondering why he would act like that.

Please do not lean on me, I'm unstable, You're all you need, I've seen it, you're able.

A few weeks later, The park was a skeletal portrait of autumn: trees stripped bare, the air smelling of wet leaves and the distant, metallic promise of snow. The swing set, once a site of frantic, joyful momentum, stood perfectly still, the chains frosted with morning dew. Will sat on one of the wooden benches, his sweater sleeves pulled to the end of his hands, the cold seeping through the denim of his jeans. He hadn't meant to come here, but his walk had been less a stroll and more an escape from the Wheeler house, where the silence of Karen’s disappointment was louder than Mike’s frantic, oblivious chatter about Dungeons and Dragons.

He hadn't been here five minutes when he saw her.

(Y/n) emerged from the row of bare oaks, hands tucked deep into the pockets of a thick, brown leather jacket, her shoulders hunched against the chill. She wasn't wearing her cheerleader bravado tonight. She looked small, contemplative, the kind of honest vulnerability he hadn't allowed himself to witness since the summer of '85.

She stopped abruptly when she saw him. Not with the sudden stiffness of their high school encounter, but with a slow, heavy recognition. It was as if two people, long separated by a great distance, had finally realized they were standing on opposite banks of the same narrow, frozen river.

She walked towards the bench, the crunch of dead leaves under her boots the only sound that dared to break the profound quiet.

❛❛ I guess… this is where the people who are avoiding home end up ❜❜ (Y/n) finally broke the deafening silence as she sat beside him

Will nodded, watching a shard of light catch the sadness in her eyes. It was a sadness he had caused, a damage he had inflicted, and seeing it was far worse than the blank stare he had received at the school.

❛❛ I didn’t think you came here anymore. ❜❜ Will said to her suprised

❛❛ I don’t. Not since… I started trying to find places that didn’t feel like I was talking to a ghost. ❜❜ He flinched. The word ghost resonated with the way he felt—a faded impression of the boy she’d loved, haunted by the demons he couldn't share.

The cheerleader finally turned her attention to him, her voice low, steady, and utterly drained of pretense.

❛❛ Why here, Will? Why now? You didn’t even look at me the other day. Now we’re sitting in the one place where we used to talk about… everything. ❜❜

❛❛ I know. I know how it looked. ❜❜ He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them, though the cold was internal. ❛❛ I didn’t leave you a note. I didn’t call. I just… vanished. And I know what Steve said to you, about it not being personal. But I need you to know. ❜❜

He paused, searching for the right words, the words that could be honest without being selfish.

The more that we both try to fight it the harder it's gon' be, I wish that we could stand united, instead we're crumblin'.

❛❛ The more that we both try to fight it, the harder it’s gonna be for us. I wasn’t fighting you, (Y/n). I was fighting the fact that I was scared to death of what being with me would do to you. ❜❜

She finally moved, pushing off the tree to sit at the far end of the bench, leaving a chasm of splintered wood between them.

❛❛ You could have told me you know? I loved you so much—even now—I have a choice too you know? when it about us ❜❜ the cheerleader wiped the tears forming in her eyes

Will felt the familiar, crushing weight of guilt settle onto his shoulders. Her tears, quickly wiped away, were a devastating testament to the injury he had inflicted. He watched her pull the sleeves of her brown leather jacket down over her hands, mimicking his own habit, and the small, mirrored action was a fresh stab of pain.

❛❛ I know you had a choice. That’s exactly why I had to leave. I saw your choice, (Y/n), and it was me. And you didn’t deserve the version of me I was going to give you. ❜❜ He shifted on the bench, pulling his gaze from the frosted swing set to look directly at her.

❛❛ That whole summer, I felt like I was on borrowed time. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop—the next gate, the next shadow, the next time I wouldn’t be myself. You made me feel whole, like the messiness didn’t matter. But it does. You’re like a sun, (Y/n). You shine bright. I was afraid that if I stayed, if I let you keep choosing me, you’d end up losing that. That your future would get tangled up in my uncertainty. ❜❜ He said as he looked away from her, voice shaky, encompassing the quiet park, the empty swings.

❛❛ I needed to give you the chance to choose a future that was certain. Someone who wouldn't disappear, whose mind wasn't half-occupied by what lurked beneath this town. I needed you to realize that you are all you need, I’ve seen it, you're capable. And I couldn't let my love, which I knew was strong enough to keep you tethered to me, stop you from realizing that. ❜❜ the younger byers continued

❛❛ Did you ever ask yourself that maybe being lost in you was what I wanted? ❜❜ (Y/n) said to him, her voice laced with seriousness and sincerity.

❛❛ But I know you would choose what you thought was right for you rather than thinking of what could be the better thing for us. ❜❜ the cheerleader left after she said that not wanting to hear another mindless explanation from him anymore.

I know that you gon' always love me in spite of things you've seen — in spite of things you've heard me say no matter how obscene.

❛❛ You have got to stop running from her, you're only fooling yourself that you're over her. ❜❜

Jonathan Byers told his younger brother who's spacing out sitting in the stained sofa at the Wheeler's basement, The room was bathed in the warm, yellow glow of a single lamp, a small beacon against the early evening chill.

Jonathan didn't look up from the vintage 35mm camera he was meticulously cleaning, but his voice was heavy with the weariness of an older brother who had been watching the same self-inflicted damage loop for months.

Will flinched, the words were like a punch in the gut where he was left fatal. He tried to muster the blank apathy he’d practiced, the same one he’d used so flawlessly in the school hallway, but after the encounter in the park, it felt like it wasn't working anymore.

❛❛ I’m not running, ❜❜ Will mumbled, his voice tight. ❛❛ I just—I just need to find mike. We were supposed to sketch out the crawl plan tonight. ❜❜

❛❛ You need to stop lying, ❜❜ Jonathan countered, placing his mug down with a soft thud. ❛❛ I saw your face after you came back from the park. You were terrified, Will. Not because of a monster or a gate, but because she cried. Because she told you that you were broken and she was doing it with you. ❜❜

Will’s shoulders slumped. He felt hollowed out, as if the entire weight of his love and cowardice was weighing out . He remembered her face—the genuine hurt, the terrible understanding—and the potential finality of her decision to walk back to her ‘stable world.’

❛❛ She’s with Marcus, ❜❜ Will said, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. ❛❛ She deserves Marcus. He’s everything I told her she needed. He’s certain. She’s the Golden Girl, the perfect answer. She needs that steady hand. ❜❜

❛❛ And you’re certain of her, ❜❜ Jonathan pointed out, leaning back against the sofa. ❛❛ That’s the difference. You know, without a doubt, that she still loves you. She practically screamed at you, didn't she? That she was only choosing Marcus because you made her choice for her. You left her because you thought you were protecting her, but you were really protecting yourself from the fear of being loved fully, chaos and all. ❜❜

❛❛ I'm just saying don't let your uncertainty make you lose the girl of your dreams. ❜❜ The older brother continued as he smiled that simply told his younger brother to "Get your shit together"

“It’s a lot. The travelling. That’s why I’m so hesitant about dating, y’know? Just feels like I have to leave again, everytime. Over and over again, keeping a suitcase half-packed, and hoping they don’t get tired of me when I come home. No matter how much I care for them, no one can hold me down.” he admits, nervously fiddling with his napkin, and you look up at him cautiously.

It’s only the third date, if you could even call it that. It had been an impulsive decision to grab a coffee before your shift.

“That sounds serious. You’re talking to me like you want this to be serious.”

He frowns.

“Yeah, shit. Sorry. I mean, I am horrifically obsessed with you, so it’s kind of been in the back of my mind. Didn’t mean to weird you out.”

You smile.

“Not weirded out. Just surprised. Kind of thought you’d give up after I told you I don’t actually like F1.” you reply casually, but your hand stretches slightly, brushing his.

“I don’t care if you like F1. I just want you to like me.”

Now, you wish you’d taken his warning to heart, just a little more. It has been months of this now; his constant flights, and muffled facetime calls, and timezones so different you question how whatever countries he’s in even fits on the planet, if it's so far.

You wonder if maybe, it might be time to give up on it. Not because you’re tired of him when he comes home; it’s the way he never does.

And maybe it would be different, if you’re sure he loves you. But you’re not, because he’s never said it. And the odd stupid video and postcard from Italy doesn’t fill your growing insecurity and spreading headache.

It isn't his fault, or yours either, but it isn’t working. And you know you’re his favourite person, the person who paints his cheeks that endearing pink in interviews, the person he sends trophy selfies to, hair still damp.

And he’s your favourite person too, from the photos of your barely legible poems to the plate you painted at the weekend, and the way every love song might just be about him.

If he could show you his love, maybe you’d live without it ever being said. But miles and seas and wifi that only works on one side of a hotel room just isn’t enough for you, no matter how much you wish it was. 

When you decide to cut it off, you don’t say all that. Instead, it’s courteous, a quick blame of hectic lives and too much distance, and he apologises as if he did anything wrong, when you know he simply tried his best. 

You expect it to be amicable, but you also half expect to never hear from him again.

What you don’t expect is for it to turn sour- but that is what happens to love that is still alive when it is cut off, it sours, but doesn’t fade.

His heart twists uncomfortably at the mention of your name- your stomach hurts at his, and you both can’t admit that you’d rather yet another crackly videocall than nothing at all, but it’s too late.

Months pass. You’d lasted half a year together, and now half a year apart, but Oscar just couldn’t get over it. You’d broken up in August. You’d almost made it to the summer break. He could’ve seen you. Could’ve told you how much he loved you, since he’d never got the chance. He’d thought you’d wait. It still hurts that you didn’t.

It’s the Australian Grand Prix this week. Even though you're not going, you see him everywhere. Your fucking burger had his face on it, to celebrate his pole position.

That was your final straw. You pick up the phone.

[Voicemail to: Oscar Piastri. From: You. Time, 17:24]

▶‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

‘Hi, Oscar. Sorry for reaching out so randomly, it’s been a while. Hope you’re doing okay. I mean, you won the fucking championship, so y’know, I’m sure you are. I meant to congratulate you for that, I promise. Just chickened out, so, well done for that. OP1, now, huh? Anyway, I’m in Melbourne right now, and I can’t help but think of you, because you’re everywhere. I’m looking at you toasted on my bun right now. The sesame seeds spell your name, I cannot make this shit up. So, good luck for tomorrow. I hope you win, I’m rooting for you.’

In the dark of a hotel room, Oscar’s tired fingers slip, and accidentally click on a new voicemail, even though he never checks those. He is glad someone in the universe is smiling at him though, when your name flashes in red.

[Voicemail to: You. From: Oscar Piastri. Time, 23:42]

▶‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

‘Holy shit, I’ve missed your voice. Sorry, that’s so pathetic, but I can't help it. It’s so good to hear from you again. I’m good, yeah, thanks. Hope you are too. The other night, I thought about inviting you to the race. I knew you were here, I remember you telling me you had accidentally booked your trip on the same weekend. Chickened out too, I guess. [Strained laugh], maybe we could get a more normal burger sometime? I’m staying in town for a bit. If not, don’t worry. I’m not even really expecting a voicemail back to this, to be honest. You’re probably thinking you made a mistake, and I’m thinking the same right now. Anyway, thank you. I’m nervous, but I’m really pushing for that win tomorrow.’

With a little hesitation, you press play, at 23:47, for the third time. And each word hits like a sucker punch.

You’re greeted by your own nervous face as you actually call him.

“Hello?” he murmurs groggily, and you give him an awkward smile. When he recognises you, he breaks into a glorious grin. He looks too handsome, half asleep, and you almost hang up before you say something ridiculous.

“Hey. I hope it’s not too late. I know you have a busy day tomor-”

“No, no. This is perfect. You’re perfect. Hi.” he says quickly, too quickly, and you laugh.

“Smooth, Piastri. Real smooth.”

There’s a fond silence, and a familiar sound of noise, and you wonder if maybe you’d been dramatic. Maybe this could’ve been enough.

“I missed you too.” you admit, and he beams.

“Well, that makes me feel a little less insane. It’s been so long now, but I still find myself waiting for your call, or buying you stupid fridge magnets. Lando’s taken to calling me ‘pathetic Piastri’, now. And it’s catching.” he confesses, his voice shrinking, and you give him a fond look.

He pauses, his face more determined now.

“I know it’s the middle of the night. I know this is insane. Can I see you, though? I lost you over a screen once. I don’t want to do that again.” he requests, his tone soft, and you don't know what overcomes you as you share your location with him.

He arrives, clearly still in his pyjamas, hair resembling something like a bird's nest, and you have to hold yourself back from leaping at him.

He clearly doesn’t have the same self restraint, because he embraces you so tightly you swear a rib might crack, but you complain in silence.

“It’s so good to see you.” he whispers, looking down at you, and you grin up at him.

“Yeah, yeah, you sap. Is that really why you’re here?’

He frowns, thinking of what to say, and a look crosses his face. A look that threatens to stomp on your heart, a look that tempts you to make a mistake.

“Oscar-” you warn, but it’s too late. His lips find yours, hand gently brushing your hair, and you can’t break away.

When your forehead rests against his, both your cheeks slightly flushed, you know this might’ve been the closure you wanted, but not the closure you needed.

“After this weekend, you’ll get on a plane. And you’ll travel far away.” you begin, chewing your bottom lip. His arms stay firmly around your waist, but you shuffle back anyway.

“You left me, with this, this pain. I had to carry it everyday.” 

He sighs, his eyes searching yours for something.

“I tried not to ask for much. I just wanted us to stay true, and-”

“-and I did that. But, I just couldn’t. You never made me feel like it was worth it, the way I’d curl up alone and hope I’d see you in a few fucking months.” you retort, and he steps back, like he’s wounded.

“If you love me Oscar, let me hear you say it. At least now, when you’re actually here.” 

This is it. His only chance, his one way back to you. Because if he can say it now, to your face when he couldn't even say it behind a screen before, then there must be some inkling of truth in it.

“I love you.” he says instantly, like it never meant anything at all.