Chapter Text
Will first noticed it on a Sunday afternoon in April.
It was positively dreadful outside, one of those dark, muggy days that promised an end to frosty mornings. The clouds hung low, rain threatening to drench the streets outside the apartment he shared with Mike in Brooklyn.
He didn’t mind the rain in spring, knowing warmth was on the horizon. His jersey cotton t-shirt clung to his skin under the thick, humid air, but it was a welcome reprieve from the bitter chill of winter that always seeped into his veins, a painful reminder of a time when his body didn’t belong to him.
Will was seated on the floor with his back against the deck of their navy blue couch, which was faded and worn. The fabric had begun to pill up around the edges of the cushions and there was a spattering of cat scratches on the bottom right corner. But it was free, passed down to him from Jonathan once he had Adult Money to purchase something slightly less musty, so Will wasn’t complaining.
On the coffee table in front of him sat an overripe pear that had been on the counter for a week as its skin grew freckled with brown spots. Will had been staring at the pear so long his eyes were beginning to cross and he could no longer tell where the table ended and the fruit began.
He was pressing his knees so firmly against the edge of the table that it was leaving an imprint on the skin. His sketchbook was splayed open across his thighs, pencil in his mouth, nearly chewed down to the graphite.
It was homework for his studio class, the pear, and its browning appearance was a result of his procrastination. The pear was purchased on Tuesday and it had been sitting on the counter, its rapidly shriveling skin taunting him every time he entered the kitchen. Before he knew it, it was Sunday.
The assignment was due tomorrow.
Will wasn’t in the habit of putting his work off until the last minute. He was typically a master of time management, a diligent student.
Mike was not. He was regularly downing five cups of coffee in an attempt to fuel a frenzied homework marathon, completing three weeks worth of work in twelve hours. Will usually ordered pizza and watched in amusement from the couch until his eyelids were heavy, his mind at ease knowing he’d completed all his work days earlier.
If it had been any other fruit, Will would have finished the sketch the day he bought it, but it wasn’t any other fruit. It was a pear.
It wasn’t as if Will had some long-standing vendetta against pears—in fact, he enjoyed them quite a bit. He found them just sweet enough, and he liked the way the tender skin gave easily against his teeth, unlike the rough bite of an apple.
His avoidance of pears was new. It was tied to a single moment that occurred in the kitchen a few weeks ago.
It happened on a Wednesday evening, the pear incident. Will had arrived home late after attending a visiting artist lecture, a riveting hour-long seminar on monochromatic portraits. It was for extra credit.
When he walked in the door, Mike was leaning up against the counter, eating a pear. Mouth full of fruit, he’d smiled and mumbled a greeting in Will’s direction, a dribble of juice running down his chin as he did.
Will had spent five minutes answering questions about his day as he watched Mike eat the pear, sucking on the juicy flesh, nibbling at the skin. It almost killed him. He hadn’t looked at a pear the same way since.
So his sketchbook was blank and he was chewing on his pencil, locked in a one-way staring contest with a piece of fruit. He was pressing his knees into the table so hard he thought it might break the skin, but the pain was easier to manage than the possibility of becoming aroused by a pear while Mike was sitting behind him on the couch.
He didn’t realize how hard he was gripping the pencil until it gave way under his teeth, breaking in half with a loud snap that echoed through the room.
Mike laughed from his spot on the couch, his head propped up by a throw pillow against its edge. He’d been engrossed in the latest X-Men comic until the sound drew his attention, his eyes peering over the edge at the broken pencil.
“Jesus, Will—what, did that pencil threaten to murder your entire family or something?”
Will felt a rush of heat crawl up his neck, blooming across his face, painting him bright red. “Shut up,” he murmured. “I’m just… stressed.”
“Clearly,” Mike said, letting the comic fall flat on his chest. “Y’know, I gotta say I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did with the way you’ve been going to town on that thing for the past twenty minutes.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Will sighed, the lie tasting bitter as it rolled off his tongue.
Mike shrugged as he sat up, carefully setting X-Men Adventures #6 on the coffee table, right next to the pear.
“Maybe you’re thinking too much like Will when you really should be thinking like the pear. If the pear could draw itself, what would it draw?”
He stood up, making a wide sweeping gesture with his arms as he moved through the space. When he reached the other side of the coffee table, he spun around and locked eyes with Will, his hands framing the fruit. “Think like the pear you must, young Padawan. Only then succeed, you will.”
Will laughed. “I think that might be the worst Yoda impression you’ve ever done.”
“Perfected the voice, I have not. Yet make you laugh, I did.” Mike smirked, a teasing glint in his eye as he moseyed out of the room.
Will focused intently on the pear, tracing the specks of brown with his eyes instead of watching Mike walk away, as if the visual of him sucking the life out of the tender fruit was any safer of a thought.
He gritted his teeth, inhaling sharply as his gaze drifted to the comic book on the table, dissecting the cover art. Wolverine and Sabretooth were fighting each other, tearing each other to shreds.
If claws were to spontaneously erupt from his knuckles, Will imagined he would destroy the pear, reducing it to nothing but a mess of pulp, skin, and seeds.
He wondered if his professor would accept a sketch of a pear that once was.
His thoughts were interrupted by the faint rustling of drawers and the unmistakable sound of Mike mumbling vaguely to himself. Will swiveled his head in the direction of the sound, realizing it was coming from his bedroom.
“Uhhh… Mike? What are you doing in my room?”
“Getting you a new pencil,” Mike called out, the soft rattle of his hands rummaging through his belongings still echoing through the apartment. “I thought I knew where you kept them but… aha! Found them.”
Mike sauntered back into the room with a smile on his face. He was twiddling the pencil between his fingertips like a baton and humming to himself as if he hadn’t just strolled in and out of Will’s bedroom like it was his own.
When he reached the coffee table, he held his hands out with his palms up, presenting the freshly sharpened pencil to Will. He had a goofy smile on his face, clearly proud of himself.
“Your light saber,” he said. “Be careful, young Padawan. The force is strong with this one. Clear your mind, must you, if you are to enter the mind of the pear and conjure it onto the page.”
Will rolled his eyes, an amused grin tugging at his lips as he took the pencil. “Thank you. That was better, by the way.”
Mike beamed, lighting up at the praise. He snatched the comic up as he plopped back down onto the couch, settling in with a satisfied hum.
“How did—how did you know where to find them? The pencils,” Will said.
“I pay attention, Will. I know things.”
“Mike.” He quirked an eyebrow.
“What? I do! Okay, maybe not, like, with everyone,” Mike laughed. “With you, though, I do. Or… I try to, at least.”
Will blinked, studying him for a moment before turning his attention back to the overripe pear. Finally, he lowered his pencil to the page, guiding it along the paper in loose strokes.
With you, though, I do.
The shape of the pear began to take form beneath his fingers.
Will rifled through his memories with Mike. Did he know things?
Well, he knew how Will took his coffee, for one—two sugars, no cream. He knew his class schedule by heart, casually rattling off both of their availability to the party whenever they were making plans. And he knew where he kept his pencils, apparently.
So Mike did know things… and he didn’t just know things. He used that information to do things for him. Like making his coffee in the morning, which he’d been doing almost every day for the past year.
And he seemed to really enjoy it.
He was practically glowing, eyes sparkling, the corners of his mouth stretched so wide it must have hurt… and all he’d done was fetch Will a pencil.
Will looked down at the rough sketch, the pencil taking root in his mouth again as he pored over the details. It wasn’t his best. Latching onto the pencil, he mindlessly gnawed at the wood as his eyes flitted between the paper and the browning pear.
He wondered if Mike would eat it if he asked him to.
He wondered if his professor would accept a sketch of a pear between Mike’s teeth, its juice running down his chin.
“Careful,” Mike said, eyes still glued to the comic. “You’ll end up chewing through that one too if you keep biting it like that.”
Will unclenched his jaw, letting the pencil fall into his palm. He folded his fingers around it, rolling it around, running his thumb along the grooved bite marks.
There were already visible nicks in the yellow paint, cutting through to the raw wood underneath. It sent a shiver up his spine, blindsided by his own show of strength.
He wondered if his teeth were strong enough to break skin.
He wondered if Mike would let him sink his teeth into him if he asked.
Will looked back at the sketch. It looked wrong. Too… sharp.
There was a large window in their living room that usually bathed the space in light, but the clouds had opened up, saturating the world outside their apartment. They were safe and dry inside, but the room was dim, illuminated only by the kitchen light and the warm, yellow floor lamp in the corner.
When it sat on the countertop, the pear was on display, every brown speck and wrinkle and dent highlighted under the harsh fluorescent light of their kitchen. Will had winced every time he looked at it, its blemishes a painful reminder of his perversion.
In the living room, the pear was enveloped in shadows. It was easier to look at in the dark. Maybe it was still edible after all.
He laid the pencil flat against the sketchbook and dragged it across the page, harnessing the power of shading to soften the pear’s dirty secrets, making it more palatable to the naked eye.
Halfway through, Will noticed the pencil had dulled. He pursed his lips and leaned back, deciding if he wanted to make the trek back to his bedroom for his pencil sharpener.
Mike seemed to notice the shift immediately, as if he’d been watching Will out of the corner of his eye the entire time. His stomach fluttered at the thought.
He lowered the comic book, his attention squarely on Will. “What’s up?”
Will watched him for a moment, studying the way his pupils expanded. He could almost see the electricity on Mike’s skin—he was buzzing, every atom in his body eagerly anticipating whatever it was Will needed from him.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to get up after all.
“My light saber has lost its sharpness,” he sighed wistfully, waving the dull pencil in the air. “I have grown weary, and the journey to my sleeping quarters is much too long in my current state.”
Mike smirked and reached into his pocket.
“Fear not. I have prepared for this very moment,” he said, opening his palm to reveal a blue pencil sharpener. Will’s pencil sharpener. Mike gestured to the pencil, his fingers curling in like he wanted Will to hand it over.
The moment Will did, Mike didn’t hesitate. He twisted the end of the pencil through the blade, letting the shavings fall onto his chest, until it was sharp again.
Will watched the entire display, stunned—the way he jumped into action, the precision with which he sharpened it, the way he let the pencil shavings drop onto him as if he was Will’s personal trash can, and the stupid grin plastered on his face as he did it, like he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.
Mike held the freshly sharpened pencil out in Will’s direction, beaming with delight.
When Will took it from his hand, Mike brushed the shavings off his chest. They fell to the floor, settling on the hardwood. He turned his attention back to the comic in his hands like he hadn’t even noticed.
Will let his gaze fall to the pencil shavings, thinking.
He knew he shouldn’t take advantage of Mike’s kindness. Normally he wouldn’t, but the moment he took the pencil from his hand, a fire ignited in his belly that he couldn’t ignore. Will wanted to test him.
And really… it seemed like Mike was enjoying it, like he was on the edge of his seat waiting for an opportunity to be of use. If he wanted it, would it really be so wrong?
He looked up at Mike, gesturing to the shavings he’d knocked onto the ground.
“Would you clean that up?”
Mike jumped to his feet, carelessly discarding the comic book on the couch, to grab the broom and dust pan from the kitchen.
He was back in less than fifteen seconds, on his knees, sweeping the shavings up with an unexpected fervency. Will’s jaw fell slack at the display—never in his life had he seen Mike so eager to clean.
Once he’d brushed the last of the shavings into the dust pan, Mike—still on his knees—lifted his gaze, looking at Will.
“Sorry about that,” he said, smirking. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”
Mike lingered for a moment, his eyes darting around Will’s face, like he was waiting for a response. Will couldn’t even breathe, let alone speak, so he just nodded and tried to swallow his nerves. Mike seemed satisfied, the smirk on his face expanding as he stood up and made his way back into the kitchen.
Will tried to catch his breath, gripping the edge of the coffee table. He looked at the clean floor, the sharpened pencil, his sketchbook, the pear.
It was undeniable.
Mike was more than just enjoying it.
He seemed to be actively begging for it, desperate to be at Will’s every beck and call, ready to bend at a moment’s notice.
What the fuck?
When Mike returned, he plopped back onto the couch, still buzzing with delight as he picked the comic book up again. Will wondered if he was even reading it.
He didn’t lay back against the throw pillow immediately, instead leaning forward, angling his head to inspect Will’s progress, the sketch nearly complete.
“Looks good,” Mike said before leaning back into the couch. “The Force is strong within you, young Padawan,” he added with a laugh, his eyes settling back onto the page.
It was a good few minutes before Will was able to collect his jaw from the floor and get back to sketching, because Will couldn’t stop replaying moments in his mind, combing through the history of their friendship. They’d been roommates for almost three years, and friends since they were five, but this was the first time he’d noticed it.
He didn’t know when it started but as he finished the shading on the pear, it occurred to him that Mike had been eager to please for far longer than he’d ever realized.
It felt different, though, as if Mike had only recently realized it himself. He was pushing for it now, like he wanted Will to know how much he liked it.
Will wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he knew he wanted to find out.
Ten minutes later, the assignment was complete. He placed the sketchbook on the coffee table and sat back to review his work, his gaze flitting back and forth between the pear and the drawing.
It wasn’t perfect, but that wasn’t the point.
His professor had asked them to draw the pear, but the objective of the assignment had more to do with the artist’s perspective, letting your unique eye come out in the sketch.
He’d been watching the pear shrivel away all week, wishing he could shrink himself along with it, burying himself in shame. But when he looked at the finished drawing, the desire to disappear was gone, hunger taking its place.
Mike’s voice rang out behind him. “All done?”
“Yep. Finally,” Will sighed, resting his head back on the couch cushion.
“Can I see?”
Will handed the sketchbook over, watching closely. Mike’s eyes scanned the page, soft and curious, inhaling every blemish. Maybe he knew it was more than just a pear.
When he’d thoroughly devoured every inch of the drawing, Mike smiled, setting the sketchbook back on the table. “I like it,” he said, “It’s very… detailed.”
“Thanks,” Will said, smiling back. “I’m just glad it’s done.”
“I bet,” Mike laughed, stretching his arms over his head. “So… what are you gonna do with the pear? Now that you’re done with it.”
Will looked at the pear.
He thought about the pencil and the sharpener, the twinkle in Mike’s eyes as he covered himself with the pencil shavings, the devious smirk on his face when he cleaned it up and said I’m a mess, aren’t I?
The pear was overripe, browning and wrinkled, but it wasn’t rotten. It would taste too sweet, maybe a little fermented, but it was still juicy and tender. There might even be people out there that preferred them that way. Maybe Mike liked them that way. Will could have sworn he saw a brown spot on the one he’d eaten weeks prior.
Will picked the pear up and looked at Mike.
“I want you to eat it.”
Mike didn’t say anything at first. He looked at the overripe pear and cocked his head to the side, thinking. Thinking for way too long, actually. Will’s palms began to sweat, panic rising in his chest.
Shit, did you read this completely wrong?
Will tried to steady himself, cobbling together some half-baked one-liner in his brain, hoping he could play it off as a joke. Before he could come up with anything, the pear was gone. Mike had grabbed it and the smirk was back.
“Okay.”
Mike held the fruit in his hands, turning it over, inspecting the mottled skin. The imperfections didn’t seem to phase him. He looked at Will as he brought it to his lips, sinking his teeth into the flesh.
It squirted when he bit into it, sending a gush of juice down his chin, the most obscene wet sound echoing through the room.
Will tracked the dribble, a tiny whimper escaping his lips as he watched it drip onto Mike’s shirt, a mixture of juice and saliva puddling onto the cotton. Mike didn’t even look down, his eyes fixed on Will as he took another bite.
The pear sat casually between his thumb and middle finger, his hand loose around the fruit. It was a rather large pear, long enough that Will had to strain his fingers to hold it by the edges, but Mike held it like it was nothing. Will was aware that his hands were large, but the size of the pear put things into perspective.
As he twirled it around with ease, Will found himself doing the most insane mental math, trying to guess the length of the pear in inches. Unable to tear his eyes away from the spectacle before him, he gave up on the math, but it was long. Mike’s hand was longer, swallowing the fruit. Will wasn’t even looking at the pear anymore, transfixed by his fingers and what they might feel like inside him.
It didn’t take long for Mike to finish the pear, the bites of flesh soft enough to practically dissolve in his mouth before ever reaching his esophagus.
Will peeled himself off the floor as he watched Mike lick his juice-soaked lips and wipe his chin off with the edge of his t-shirt. His gaze dropped reflexively when he lifted his shirt, drawn to the faint line of black hair that peeked out from his boxers, trailing up his stomach.
He gawked for several seconds before he realized what he was doing, a rush of heat pooling in his cheeks as he dared to look back up. Mike was grinning, a smug glimmer in his eyes.
The remnants of the pear sat in his palm and the top half of his shirt was soaked with sticky liquid. “Looks like I got a little wet,” he said.
Mike stared at him for a moment, like he was waiting for Will to say something. It was the same look from before, when he’d cleaned up the pencil shavings, but Will wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say.
What he wanted to say was most definitely not appropriate and his brain was short-circuiting. He reached for a thought, hoping it wasn’t too vulgar.
“You’re gonna get pear juice all over the sofa. Better change your shirt.”
Mike raised his eyebrows and stood up, locking eyes with Will as he gripped the hem of his wet t-shirt. He pulled it over his head and balled it up in his left hand.
“Like I said,” he smirked as he walked out of the room. “I’m a mess.”
Will didn’t force himself to stare at the coffee table, letting himself watch as Mike strolled shirtless through the kitchen, disappearing into his bedroom.
He looked back at the open sketchbook, eyeing the drawing of the pear that no longer existed, because Mike had eaten it.
Savored it, even, brown spots and wrinkles and all.
And he did it because Will told him to.