
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/136967.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Mike_Chang/Will_Schuester
  Character:
      Mike_Chang, Will_Schuester, Terri_Schuester
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-12-01 Words: 2161
****** with ash in your mouth, you ask for rain ******
by ellydash
Summary
     Will's sick. Will dreams.
Notes
     Set during The Substitute (2x07).
The Nyquil makes Will’s body hum, like there’s a low dosage of electricity
enveloping his skin.
He hasn’t been this sick in years, not since the year he and Terri went to
Chicago for their third anniversary, when they both came down with the flu and
had to forfeit their tickets to the national tour of Dreamgirls (Terri wasn’t
that disappointed). He’d forgotten how deep flu ache penetrates into the
muscle, how moving just enough to grab a glass of orange juice off the bedside
table can catalyze a world of hurt. 
“Oww,” he whimpers, out loud, even though there’s no one to hear him. Terri’s
gone out for more Nyquil and some popsicles to sooth his throat. Relying on
Terri makes Will feel nauseous, although he’s not sure how much of that is the
flu and how much of it is the twinkle in his ex-wife’s eyes when she says
things like look at my poor little boy, so weak and defenseless. 
Will curls up in a fetal position, his legs protesting at the movement, closes
his eyes, and waits for the Nyquil to shut him down. 
He dreams.

*

He’s flying. 
Not flying, exactly, although he can’t feel the ground beneath his feet.
Dancing. He can hear the music off in the distance, somewhere: a pretty piano,
a chamber ensemble with voluptuous vibrato, 4/4 time. A foxtrot. 
His arm is on someone’s shoulder; his hand in someone’s hand. He knows who it
is without looking: Mike Chang.
“Are you Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers?” Mike asks him, and he tries to catch a
glimpse of his face but can’t; only sees a blurred shock of dark hair. “I want
to be Fred.” 
“Ginger had all the sex appeal,” Will says, his feet spinning, the world
blurring. He can feel the hard muscle of Mike’s shoulder. 
“Yeah, yeah, she did it backwards and in heels. I know that old chestnut. You
know, Mr. Schue, ballroom dancing isn’t really my thing. You should let me do
what I’m good at.”
Mike twirls him around, suddenly, and Will’s spiraling, first out, then in. His
arms collide with the brick wall of Mike’s chest. “Pop and lock?”
“Among other things,” Mike says, in Will’s ear, and tucks his leg around the
back of Will’s, drawing him closer. Will’s staring over Mike’s shoulder, and he
thinks he can actually see the high notes shaking off the violins’
fingerboards, little shimmering things floating in the distance. “You have to
decide, Mr. Schue. Fred or Ginger?”
Will can’t talk. He’s breathing too hard from the exertion. Mike’s leg slides
between his and suddenly Will’s bending backwards, his body arching towards the
floor in a graceful bridge. He braces his hands on the laminate, trembling from
the strain. 
“Neither,” he manages. “I’m Gene Kelly.” 
Mike curves over him, his body folding onto Will’s with impossible control. 
“No, you’re not.” He’s grinning. His face hovers above Will. “You’re just – ”

* 

“ – a little sickie, that’s what you are, my sweet sick boy.” Terri’s voice
overlaps with Mike’s, and Will’s drawn up and out, back into his bed, through
to Terri’s cool, soft hands on his cheeks. “Did you sleep well?”
God, Will’s burning up. “I was,” he says, irritably, “until you woke me.” The
sheets push against his back, rasping the sensitive skin like sandpaper.
“Please, Terri, just let me rest, okay?”
She stands up, offended. “You know, Will, I certainly don’t have to be here to
take care of you. I don’t have to go fetch your medicine or rub your back or
fluff your pillows for you. I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart.”
“I’m sure you are.” He’s already sliding under a wave of drowsiness, his
eyelids drooping. “I appreciate it. You know that. I just need to nap.”
“Fine,” she hisses. “I’ll be in the living room, watching our copy of National
Treasure: Book of Secrets.”
He tries to say I threw that out after you left, I threw out all the Jerry
Bruckheimer movies, but it’s too much effort, and it seems like a much better
idea to give himself over to the rapid swell of sleep.

*

Will’s standing in front of the glee club, trying to read from a set list, but
his eyes won’t focus on the page. He’s wearing sweatpants and nothing else;
he’s not sure why he thought this was an appropriate outfit for school. Sue’s
going to kill him with wordplay and bureaucratic threats when she sees him, and
he probably deserves it.
“Need some help?” Mike asks, and he rises, in the back row. He’s shirtless,
too. It’s the only thing Will can see, the contours of Mike’s stomach, the
angled planes just north of his hips. 
“I don’t need a dance partner, Mike. Not for this number,” Will tells him, but
he doesn’t know to what number he’s referring, and anyway if there’s a dance
planned it won’t involve him. He’s the teacher. He’s Mike’s teacher. 
Mike’s in front of him, against him, thigh pressing against thigh. Will’s aware
that the others are watching, closely, and he can only imagine what Santana’s
going to say about this behind his back.
“It’s not what you need, Mr. Schue. It’s what you want,” Mike murmurs. “I know
what you want.”
Will doesn’t move. He can’t. He’s pushed back against the piano. Mike’s leaning
over him, his hand pushing down in between their bodies, cupping Will through
his pants, and his students are right there, oh, Jesus, he’s getting hard right
in front of his students.
“Look at you.” Mike’s speaking right against Will’s neck, drawing a line with
his tongue just below Will’s jaw. Will bucks against him suddenly at the
contact. “You can’t stop yourself, can you? You’re so desperate for it, you’d
bend over for me right here, wouldn’t you? Right in front of everyone.”
No, Will wants to object, I wouldn’t, I’m not like that, but Mike grinds his
hand against Will's cock, the heel of his palm perfect, excruciating pressure,
and Will’s protest slides into a groan, low and thick in his throat. 
“Wanna dance, Mr. Schue?” Mike asks, sweetly.

*

“Will?” It’s Terri’s voice, from the living room. “Is everything all right?
You’re making weird noises.”
He’s shaking, drenched in sweat. 
“Yeah,” he manages. 
“Well, be quiet, then. I’m trying to watch Animal Hoarders and you’re
distracting me.” 
Will reaches one hand below the clammy sheets, inside his boxers, and hisses at
the feedback of palm to hard cock, skin alarmingly sensitive, the thrum of
blood beneath the surface as he wraps his fingers around it, lightly.
“Ah,” he whimpers, very quietly. 
He doesn’t pump his fist; he can’t. Not enough strength in his weakened, tired
arm for that. He moves his fingers, instead, and the friction isn’t enough,
nowhere near enough to send him over the edge. 
Mike Chang? he thinks, through the haze. What the hell is wrong with me? He’s
my student, for Christ’s sake. My male student. My underage male student.
(wanna dance, mr. schue?)
God help him, he does.

*

“You know,” Mike’s saying, in his ear, “good dancing has rules. So does good
sex. They’re pretty much the same thing.”
Will tries to grab at him, but he’s clutching at air. Mike steps away, neatly
evading capture. “No,” he chastens. “That’s not how this is gonna go, Mr.
Schue. Can I call you that while I fuck you? Mr. Schue, I mean.”
Will can only nod, his mouth dry.
“Good,” Mike says, cheerfully. “Now, you’re gonna do what I say, or else you’ll
wake up, and you don’t really want that, do you? No one there but Terri to take
care of that thick hard-on.” He gestures to the noticeable distension in Will’s
sweatpants. Will, breathing heavily, cups himself, sliding a shaking thumb over
his cock. 
They’re back in the music room, only the rest of the glee club’s gone, and
Will’s aware enough to feel grateful that some part of his fucked-up psyche
didn’t want his students in the background for this. “What do you want me to
do?” he asks, still stroking himself, unable to stop despite the flush of shame
rising up his neck. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just – just don’t make me wait
for it. Please. It’s been a long time.” 
Mike grins, and then he’s pulling Will against him, kissing his mouth, tugging
at Will’s ear with his teeth. Will gasps, rocking against Mike, and the room
tilts on its side, dragging them down with it, hitting the floor. Mike’s
panting, unbuckling his jeans, pushing them off his hips, rising to his knees,
yanking Will’s head onto his cock. “Suck me,” he commands, and Will moans,
obeys. He’s still halfway prone on the ground, supporting himself on his
forearms, back curved down, his stomach and thighs pressing against the cheap
laminate flooring, knees bent. Mike grabs for Will’s feet, and holding tightly,
tugs them towards Will’s bobbing head, bending him into a U-shape, the
increased leverage thrusting his cock deeper into Will’s mouth. 
Somewhere in the distance, Will hears Rod Stewart singing. You'd be a fool to
stop this tide/Spread your wings and let me come inside.
“Prince would’ve been a much better choice for a soundtrack,” Mike comments,
“but, hey, not my dream,” and he grabs Will’s hair, pulls him up. “Go lean
against the piano. You have lube in your messenger bag, don’t you?”
Will means to answer “Of course not,” because he doesn’t; why would he bring
lube to school? It comes out “How did you know?” instead, his voice trembling.
He pushes against the side of the piano, looking for friction, for pressure,
for something to mute the raw edges of need. Nothing’s working. Mike rummages
through Will’s bag, emerging triumphant with a small plastic bottle. 
“I know,” Mike tells him, “because I know you, Mr. Schue. We all know you. You
think you hide it really well, don’t you? You think we can’t tell how much you
want it, how you’d take it from anyone who’d care enough to touch you? How you
walk around the hallways half hard, trying not to look too closely at anyone so
you don’t freak yourself out too much about boundaries and appropriate
behavior? Of course you carry lube with you.”
Will knows he should be cowing with humiliation at this, but he isn't. His cock
twitches at Mike’s words, his breath a ragged sob in his throat. 
The sweatpants are yanked down, and then Mike’s wet fingers are pushing into
him, first one digit, than another, stretching him, saving him. It’s
incredible, the sensation of being filled after being empty for so long, and
Will ruts back against Mike’s hand, he’s moaning, saying not enough, not
enough, I need more. 
He hears the snap of a condom, and then oh, dear God, he’s got all the more he
could ever want, the burn of it eating at him like the punishment he knows he
deserves. Will’s mouth opens and closes, working soundless, hands braced on the
piano cover, and Mike drives into him, slowly, slowly, slowly. Will’s dimly
aware that Mike’s right leg is elevated, completely upright, pinned straight
against Will’s back, his foot hovering over Will’s shoulder. Mike’s doing the
vertical splits against Will’s back while fucking him, and Will isn’t sure if
that’s even possible. He knows Mike’s flexible, but Christ –
It doesn’t take more than a minute. When he comes, stuttering and shaking
against the piano, it’s without the help of Mike’s hand. The shame of all this
is better, more triggering, than any reacharound. Behind him, Mike gasps his
name, moves faster, spills into him, and they fold over the top of the piano in
a crude impression of a bow. 
Will thinks he hears applause.
“How did you know, Mike?” he asks, again, breathless, only this time the
question isn’t about lube. “How did you know what I needed?”
There’s a hand on his abdomen and another cupping the back of his neck. Mike
folds his leg, and lowers it to the ground, gracefully. 
“I think you know the answer to that,” he says. “It’s time to wake up now.”

*

He deliberately spills the orange juice on the bed, on himself, so Terri won’t
see the tracks of come on his lower belly or the sheets. She clucks at him, and
tells him he was always clumsy. Will knows she’s happy to have a chance to
remind him of one of his failures. 
Later, after he’s cleaned up and the bedding’s been remade, she’s rubbing his
back. When she kisses his aching skin, he turns his head to meet Terri’s and
covers her mouth with his. 
I knew what I needed, he thinks, but the implications of what lies behind that
knowing makes his stomach turn, and so he stops thinking. 
One hand strokes Terri’s abdomen. The other cups the back of her neck.
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