Chapter Text
Newton’s first law goes like this: an object at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by a net external force.
_______________
Mike Wheeler’s life is…well, boring.
He wakes up at the same time everyday, to the same jarring chime of the same unrelenting alarm clock. He shoves his feet into the same worn slippers and shuffles off to the bathroom to brush his teeth with the same frayed toothbrush. He spits, rinses, and checks the time. He’ll invariably be running at least a few minutes late, so flossing gets skipped. Oh well, he’ll do it in the evening. Then it’s off to the kitchen to grab a bowl of the same cereal, and eat it in front of the television playing the same sitcom with the same cheesy laugh track.
After the episode ends and his bowl is empty, Mike checks his watch and is somehow always shocked to discover that he should have left five minutes ago. He dashes out the door with a rushed goodbye to his mom shouted over his shoulder. He finds his bike tucked away at the side of the house, waiting for him like it always is. He swings a leg over and pushes off, pedalling furiously all the way to school.
Really, it’s a five minute bike ride, but if you’re in a hurry (and Mike always is), you can make it in three. Which means he pulls up in front of Hawkins High almost exactly one minute before first period.
The school day is always a blur. He tunes in for the science classes and sometimes math, but he drifts through his other classes as if on autopilot. Mostly, he lets his brain wander to more important things, like trying to figure out the exact logistics of time travel in Star Trek, or picking monsters for the party’s next campaign.
Lunch offers the day’s only reprieve from the mind numbing tedium that is the American public school system. Even then, he sits himself down at the same table in the same cafeteria with the same group of lovable losers. Most days they even have variations of the same conversation: Max cracks dirty joke after dirty joke, which El will inevitably ask a blushing Will to explain to her, all while Dustin and Lucas shout over each other about whatever they’ve managed to find a way to argue about that day, usually resorting to Mike as a tiebreaker in the end.
But too soon the bell interrupts them with a shrill ring, and they all shuffle off to their respective classes.
The second half of the day is somehow double the length of the first half. It drags by like a snail through molasses. Most of this time, Mike spends with his eyes fixed on the second hand of the wall-mounted clock, trying to make it go faster with sheer power of will. (No luck yet.)
Eventually, mercifully, that final bell rings, and it is the most beautiful thing Mike has ever heard in his life.
He finds the rest of the Party standing out front of the school, around the bike rack they’ve commandeered for themselves. They stand there, usually for a good fifteen minutes, arguing about where to spend their afternoon. Of course, the options are limited by the fact that this is Hawkins, and there are only about three things to do there anyway. Usually, they wind up at either the theatre or the arcade.
The afternoon always races by like it’s trying to break a record, and before Mike knows it he’s saying goodbye and heading home in the paper-thin light of a purple dusk. When he arrives (with a mumbled apology to his mom for staying out after sundown, again ), he plops down to dinner, and then a few hours of half-assed homework.
Then, all too soon, sleep is tugging at his eyelids, and Mike collapses into bed, all earlier promises of evening flossing forgotten.
And then when he wakes up, he does it all again. And again. And again.
…Yeah, boring is the word for it.
But hey, boring isn’t that bad. Boring is good. Boring is safe. Boring means no extra dimensional monsters trying to kill him and his friends.
Actually, they’ve gone almost four years now without a single otherworldly evil threatening the town (unless you count the sudden steady increase of mullets popping up over the past few months, which has, needless to say, been a dark time). And Mike finds a certain comfort in the monotony that freedom from monsters and evil government organisations offers. There’s something reassuring about knowing exactly how your day will go before it even starts; about knowing who you’ll talk to, what they’ll say, and how you’ll respond.
There is comfort in predictability, and it’s something Mike has come to rely on, these past few peaceful—if boring—years.
Unfortunately, that means that when that routine is broken—when that predictability is yanked out from under him like a load-bearing pillar from a building—it sometimes takes Mike a minute to adjust.
Like right now, for instance.
Mike is standing in the middle of his own basement, halfway between the couch and the table, holding a Coke he doesn’t remember wanting, with his mouth hanging open like he’s forgotten how to close it. Just barely, he registers the conversation continuing around him as if his entire world view wasn’t just shattered to a million pieces in front of them.
“Wait, Will, do it again, I forgot to act surprised.” Lucas’ voice is drenched with faux-sincerity offset by the kindness in his laughter. Will laughs too.
“What, I guess you already knew?”
“Only since, like, third grade, dude.”
“And here I was thinking I was so sneaky. Damn.” Will’s voice is light, full of laughter, but even in his dazed state, Mike can detect a slight waver in it. “Dustin, did you know—oh!” There’s the soft thud of bodies colliding, and Mike has to assume Dustin has just tackled Will with a hug—he can only assume, because his eyes are turned the other way and he can’t seem to un-stick them no matter how hard he tries.
“Ymh hmun euh mmm beh fend en I luh yah,” comes Dustin’s voice, muffled by the bear hug he has Will trapped in.
“What?”
“I said ‘you're one of my best friends and I love you’.”
“Thanks, Dustin.” The waver fades a little from his voice. “You’re one of my best friends too.” There’s a pause. “Uh, are you gonna let me go, or…?”
“No,” Dustin says, voice muffled again. “’m showing my support.”
“Alright, buddy.” Will pats him on the back. “Alright.”
“And we ,” starts Max, gesturing between herself and El, “are obviously cool with it.”
“Very cool,” El adds, lifting their linked hands as if in proof.
“Good to know.” Will chuckles. “Thanks, guys.”
“Seriously, man, welcome outta the closet! The air is better out here.” Max inhales loudly, and lets out a dramatic sigh. “Tastes like sweet, sweet homosexuality.” Everyone laughs at that, except Mike.
Now, by this point, it is becoming more and more evident to everyone, including Mike, that he is the only one who hasn’t said anything at all. He knows he has to, knows he needs to show his support for one of his oldest and closest friends. Unfortunately, his brain stopped working the second Will had spilled those two words out onto the floor between them, so the only thing that comes out when Mike opens his mouth is:
“Wait, you’re gay?” Every head in the room swivels towards him.
“Um…yeah?” Will answers slowly. He says it like Mike has just asked if the sky is really blue, or if The Empire Strikes back is actually a good movie. Like it’s something obvious.
Which it isn’t. Not to Mike, anyway.
Something about it just isn’t making sense in his brain. He feels like a cartoon robot about to explode—all of his thoughts have been reduced to one long string of DOES NOT COMPUTE!
He tries to make this revelation fit with all the things he knows about Will, everything he’s learned about him in the many years they’ve spent at each other’s sides. He tries to place it somewhere between he likes strawberry ice cream best and he hates being cold and he wants to go to France and he’s scared of heights and he’s a surprisingly fast runner . But can’t get it to fit right in his head.
It’s like for the past decade, he’s been trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle, carefully placing piece after piece. And then, when he thinks he’s finally finished, he finds one last piece stuck to the bottom of the box. He doesn’t think there’s space for it in the picture he’s made.
But Mike is a scientist at heart, and he knows how to draw a conclusion from the available data, even if it contradicts his hypothesis.
He starts, just like he always does when facing an unknown, with what he does know—the “data” he has so far. Here’s what he comes up with:
- Will has never once shown romantic interest in a girl.
- He’s always been different from the other boys at school.
- When he was a kid, Will used to have a lot of ugly words spat at him. Words that mean gay.
- He got so upset that time Mike said it wasn’t his fault he didn’t like girls. (Those were ugly words too. Mike still hates himself for throwing them at him. )
- Will is more tactile than Dustin or Lucas. He and Mike hug more often, or lean against each other on the couch.
- Sometimes when Mike looks at him, he sees something swimming in Will’s eyes, just under the surface. Something sad. Something big.
- He really likes Han Solo. Like, a lot.
- He literally just fucking said he was gay, Jesus Christ, Mike.
And if that’s the data set, there’s really only one reasonable conclusion to draw, which Mike’s mind articulates eloquently as: oh .
“Oh,” he says aloud.
“...Oh?” Will looks nervous now, and Mike can’t stand the fact that he’s the one who put that expression on his face. “Is that, like…cool with you?
“Mike Wheeler,” Max cuts in, getting to her feet to stand opposite him, “if the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘hell yeah it is’, you’re gonna be spending the evening in the ER. Will is too nice to beat you up, but I’m not.”
“Nonononono it’s cool, it’s cool, of course it’s cool!” Mike raises his hands like he’s being arrested. Max squints at him for a minute, but she nods.
“Really?” Will’s voice is soft again.
“Yeah.” He meets Will’s eyes, needing him to know he means it. “Will, you’re my best friend. I…” He reaches for the words, but can’t find them. Either the words are too big, or the feeling is. “You’re my best friend,” he says again, softer.
Will smiles at him. And just like that, all the puzzle pieces fit, and the picture is whole, and it’s beautiful.
Then all the tension leaks out of the room like air from a tire. Like a sigh of relief.
Mike stays sitting next to Will on the carpet for the rest of the night, which passes by in a blur of easy smiles and infectious laughter. Every so often, Mike’s eyes stray to Will’s face and he’s a little awe-struck by how much lighter he looks—in both senses of the word. He has so much less to carry now, and everything about him is brighter because of it. He looks like the sun.
It’s one of those nights that no one wants to end, but that always ends anyway. First Dustin, then Lucas, then Max and El say their goodbyes and head out. Will lingers a little longer, though, and Mike is glad.
“Thanks for tonight, Mike,” he says eventually. “Really.”
“Yeah, of course,” Mike says, not knowing what he’s being thanked for. “Anytime.” They’re both quiet for a while.
“Hey, can I ask—” Mike starts at the exact time Will says:
“So are you—” They stop, and laugh.
“You go,” says Mike.
“Oh, I was just gonna ask…” He lifts a hand to the back of his neck and looks down. “I mean, you’re, uh, really cool with me being gay?”
“Really really,” Mike answers honestly. “Promise.” Will nods.
“It’s just, you were kinda…”
“I know.” Mike winces. “Sorry. I was just…processing, I guess. I was surprised.”
“Yeah? I think you were the only one.”
“Yeah, well I’m not a great detective. I always lose at Clue.” That makes Will laugh. He knows it’s true.
“Yeah, well Dustin is freakishly good at that game, anyway. No normal human stands a chance when he’s playing.”
“Thanks, Will. I’ll keep that in mind next game night.” They’re quiet for another minute, but it’s a comfortable kind of quiet.
“So, uh, what were you gonna say?”
“Oh, yeah,” Mike says, having already forgotten he was going to say anything at all. “I was gonna ask how long you’ve known. That you’re gay, I mean. Only if you feel comfortable telling me, obviously,” he adds quickly.
“Oh,” Will says. He seems surprised by the question, but not upset. He smiles a little. “A really long time, Mike.” Part of him wants to ask how long a really long time is, but he doesn’t. There was something in Will’s voice when he answered that makes him hesitate to pry any further. Instead he just nods, and says:
“Cool.”
“Cool,” Will repeats with a smile. They’re quiet for a minute longer, but then Mike yawns, which makes Will yawn, which makes them both laugh. “Alright, I should go. Thanks again.” He turns to leave.
“Hey.” Will turns back towards him. He’s not sure what makes him do it, but Mike darts out a hand to grab Will’s. “Thanks for telling me.” He squeezes once and lets go.
“Yeah.” Will is still smiling as he turns and climbs the stairs out of view. “Goodnight, Mike.”
Mike can still feel the warmth of Will’s fingers against his palm.
_______________
Or maybe Newton’s first law goes like this: a teenage boy living in stasis will continue living in stasis until he’s shaken by some external revelation. And something is set into motion.