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Peter learned the hard way that knowledge can't be taken back without a lobotomy. Or a brain that regenerates thirty times a day. Or a robot's mind. And unfortunately, he has none of these.
Peter's body had — changed, after the spider bite. He was more muscular, yes, and more flexible, stronger, effortlessly better. He didn't know if it would last, or if bad habits could have the better of his brand new muscles. So, he did some research.
A bit– a bit too much research.
Peter looked longingly at the cinnamon rolls on display in the small shop near his street. He used to love cinnamon rolls. And chocolate. And hot dogs. Fuck, hot dogs. New York's signature food; and yet its friendly neighborhood superhero couldn't even eat them anymore.
At first, it was about trying to do what was best for himself and his vigilante activities. His strength was important, and nutrition was crucial — he didn't worry very much about exercise, given that every waking moment of Spider-man's life was spent either web-slinging and fighting a criminal or another, or trying to make enough money to stay warm in the winter, and cold in the summer.
(Spiders, Peter would soon learn, were not good at heat regulation.)
He realized pretty early on that his metabolism was a lot faster than regular people's — or his own, before the mutation. He did some tests, increasing and decreasing his intake and weighing himself. And– And that's probably how it started.
He realized he actually needed a lot of calories to maintain his current weight. And that meant a lot of food. And that meant a lot of money. And that meant– well, it meant that it was easier for him to lose a few pounds. Nothing too big, just whatever fit his wallet.
He learned that his favorite ramen were 290 calories a packet.
He learned that a single, 200 calories protein bar could keep him full for a whole day.
He learned that some foods were important and that everything else was bad, and that he didn't need that much, really, as long as he was still standing, as long as he could keep going, and who cares if he feels weaker and weaker every day or if he's obsessed with his scale or if the idea of going to a restaurant terrifies him—
There are two thoughts that break his denial.
The first one, funnily enough, occurs to him in a moment of deep identity crisis. The duality of Spider-man vs. Peter Parker is not a funny topic, and his brain often feels cut into two, very distinct parts — one great, admirable, witty and brave; the other timid, laughable, nerdy, good-for-nothing nobody. Peter recounts distractedly the many reasons why Spider-man is better than him, and a very new thought emerges.
Peter thinks, "Spider-man doesn't eat."
And it's true. Peter is very paranoid of his secret identity being revealed, and eating would require him to take his mask off at least partly. Spider-man can't afford that. He might take a quick water break in an alley sometimes, but it takes less than five seconds, and that's it. Spider-man doesn't eat. He can't. He doesn't need to, either.
When that thought escapes Peter's psyche to imprint itself onto Peter's brain, it's almost casual. An argument like another. At this point, Peter has eaten two protein bars and a tomato and nothing else in the last 24 hours. He feels shitty, and tired, and he thinks "Yeah, sure, Spider-man doesn't eat, he's better than me, what else is new." It takes him a few seconds to realize that–
that–
Oh.
People don't– feel guilty for needing food.
Not normal people, at least.
He promptly ignores this new train of thought. He has better things to do. Places to go. People to save.
The next thought is the one that really does it for him.
So, May is Peter's everything, right. She's the light of his day, his mother and his aunt and would be his best friend if MJ wasn't there. She's his biggest support and he is the luckiest man on Earth to be her nephew.
Here's the thing:
Aunt May knows that money is tight for Peter. It's been better since $10 makes for a week's worth of food, but it's still not ideal. So, when Aunt May invites him over, it's always for dinner, and it's always something big.
So when Peter starts considering stopping his visits altogether, that's where he draws the line.
Holy shit, he thinks. I have an eating disorder.
And Peter feels really stupid in that moment. Because, like, yeah, that's a pretty good line to draw, but also he's done his goddamn research, and he knows he doesn't eat enough. He knows his thinking is toxic, he knows he should eat more and be less strict with himself and counting calories is bad and yada yada, but he didn't, um, know it was that bad.
Like a cigarette addict. "I can stop whenever I want" sorta deal. Except, of course, you can't stop, but when you try and fail, you just tell yourself that you know you hypothetically could, but you had such a shitty day, or you just really want one right now, or you did good on that physics exam and you deserve a good cig to celebrate. Complete denial. You know it, at the back of your mind, that you're addicted, but it doesn't, like, hit you.
Everyone has a problem with their body. The weight loss industry is extremely lucrative. Peter just happens to be a bit more intense, and a bit faster at it than others.
(But Peter is not stupid. And he realizes that this argument, of course, completely ignores the fact that Peter originally did not want to lose any weight.)
So, really, he should've snapped out of denial sooner. He should've stopped the first time he fainted, really. Or when he started getting out of bed later and later because he couldn't be hungry if he wasn't awake. Or when he started feeling twists of guilt in his stomach for even looking at a kebab shop.
So, he goes to Aunt May's, eats as little as he can, goes home, collapses on his bed, cries for a few minutes, and wakes up the next day to the sound of a particularly loud car horn at about 2PM.
And then he puts his Spider-man costume on and doesn't eat until 9pm, time at which he grabs a protein bar and a banana and calls it a meal.
So, no big change, really.
As he said– in denial, but not stupid.
And eating disorder, huh, he thinks. I can work with that.
And he can.
He has.
For the past six months.
He guesses that's just his life, now.
Nothing really changes in Peter's life.
If anything, he's just able to handle the mental load of his fear of eating a bit better. He puts words on emotions, on feelings — this is a binge urge, this is high restriction, this is purging — and it makes him feel more controlled, in a way. A bit more sane. Which sounds counter-intuitive, but he's done some research about eating disorders and recovery and he's definitely not ready to do anything about it. The thought of going to a mental hospital makes him feel like a fly caught in the web of a caffeinated spider, for several reasons.
Specifically, Spider-man doesn't have time for this.
Recovery is a lot of effort and unlearning bad patterns and habits, and while Peter would love to be able to stand up without his vision turning black, he also doesn't really have the right motivation, currently. All he's heard about people being forced into recovery are horror stories, with a very high percentage of "it made me worse", and he's not willing to take the risk.
So when Deadpool, of all people, starts making weird comments, he isn't exactly thrilled.
"Heyyy Spidey-cakes!" greets the mercenary, cheerful as always, and Peter pretends not to notice a spot on the leather of his glove that is definitely wet with blood.
"Hey, 'Pool," Peter responds. He leans back on the wall he's sticking to. He's been feeling light-headed since the morning, and pretty nauseous, and Deadpool's sweat-gunpowder-and-blood smell isn't helping. What is helping, however, is the delicious smell of the taco in his hand.
Peter hasn't eaten a taco in months at this point, and he's always delighted to smell some good food. Especially those he can't eat. The smell easily translates into taste, and Peter's nausea dims considerably. Small mercies.
"Want some?" asks Deadpool, thrusting a takeout bag at Peter with his other hand. The smell becomes stronger, and Peter smiles.
"Nah, thanks," he says. "I don't eat on patrol. Besides, Mexican is your favorite, and I'd hate to steal it from you."
"I'm offering," insists Deadpool, and Peter frowns. "I already got plenty of these bad boys, sweetums, don't you worry. And it's takeout, which means you can take it home!"
"And let you follow me to my apartment? No, thanks."
"Aww, come on, Spidey, you know I wouldn't do that!"
Peter raises an eyebrow under the mask, which he's about 90% doesn't show in his lenses, but his silence must be eloquent enough anyway; Deadpool sighs exaggeratedly, and brings the bag back closer to himself.
"Okay, fine, whatever, I can totally waste that delicious food instead of letting you have the best meal of your sad, pathetic broke life. Sure. Your wish is my command."
"Where is this coming from, DP?"
That's the real question. Deadpool's eaten in front of him before, on patrol. In fact, that's something he's done regularly since they've started hanging out more often. Deadpool loves food, and his metabolism burns through it like tissue paper. He has the body of a professional bodybuilder and the takeout diet of a depressed office worker. But he's never, ever insisted on giving Peter food. Peter was pretty sure that Deadpool thought Spider-man was too secretive to eat in front of him. Which wasn't exactly wrong, either.
"Look, Webs, you've said before you're not exactly financially comfortable–"
"I have never said that," Peter counters immediately, "I complained about my heater not working and my studio apartment being too small."
"Same thing," responds Deapool, waving the hand holding his taco dismissively, and finishes the food. He chews for a few seconds, then gulps his final mouthful down. "Anyway, I've been noticing you getting a bit thinner, and I've only been here a month, and I definitely should not be able to notice you losing weight in such a short amount of time. Plus, you're already scrawny as is." Peter is almost offended at that, because he's a superhero with more muscles than most of the human population, but compared to literally any other super, he does look… noticeably weaker.
He doesn't respond, letting Deadpool speak. And speak, he does. "I don't care about your dignity or your pride or whatever," he says, "and I'd much rather transfer money directly into your bank account, but you wouldn't let me and you wouldn't even use my 'murder money' (Deadpool does actual air-quotes as he says that), so that's the best I got."
Peter rolls his eyes, letting his head show the movement with a small but noticeable twist of the neck, and pretends he's not ecstatic at the idea that Deadpool noticed a change in his body mass in just four weeks. "I can take care of myself just fine, 'Pool," he lies, and he knows he should feel bad for lying to the merc but he's too busy being touched by the sweet gesture.
"If that were true, we wouldn't be here talking about it, Spider-man."
Ah.
Seems like Deadpool was more serious about this than Peter had anticipated.
"Like, seriously," the merc continues as Peter cringes under the cover of his costume, "you look– unwell. Borderline malnourished, and you're a superhero, and it's just– it's not right, you know? I know you used to be a lot more buff than that. Well, not buff, per say, 'cause look at me, look at you, you were always more of a lean kinda dude anyway — but there's a line between lean and skinny and you're crossing it a bit too much, eye-em-oh." Peter's been sliding off the wall while Deadpool was talking, bringing himself to a more appropriate eye-level rather than towering over him like he was doing, hanging onto that building. Deadpool barely seems to notice, if at all. "- and it took a lotta pep talks to actually come and talk to you about it, you know, 'cause it's never nice to point out stuff in someone's body like that, and maybe you have body image issues, you could have an eating disorder for all I know — do you have an eating disorder? — and I'm being insensitive but I'm kinda concerned, and– do you have an eating disorder?" Deadpool snaps his head back up from where it had fallen amongst his rambling, and Peter feels so put on the spot that the nausea comes back full force.
"No," he croaks out, then clears his throat with a cough. "No, 'Pool, I don't have an eating disorder. I've just been busy." The lie tastes like vomit on his tongue.
"Bullshit. Spider-man is too busy to eat? What, is there a new villain in town? 'Cause if there is, I haven't seen 'em."
"Patrolling takes a lot of time, and I have a day job. You know, for that heater and studio I was talking about earlier? Spider-man doesn't pay the bills."
"Well he doesn't pay for groceries, either, clearly."
Peter's breath catches in his throat, but it's more out of irritation than guilt or confusion. "Yeah, well, not all of us can be top-tier mercenaries with enough money to buy all of New York three brand-new cars." Peter is pissed, he realizes. Maybe he's upset that Deadpool is judging him, maybe he's upset that he brought up the financial issues that started this whole mess in the first place.
"First of all, baby boy, that's one bitch of a hyperbole there — have you seen how many people there are in this city? — and second, if money's the problem, then I have a gift right fucking there," Deadpool insists, holding out the bag of fresh food to Peter once again.
"The problem isn't that I don't have money for food, Deadpool," Peter says venomously, "it's that acquiring money at all takes time. And that, and Spider-man, take priority over anything else. Food is a necessity, but I'd rather have a place to sleep."
"Then– fucking– take my goddamn money, Spidey!" Deadpool all but screams at him, and Peter's frustration suddenly twists into guilt as he realizes that Deadpool is clearly, desperately, deeply worried. Peter got the fucking Merc with the Mouth worried, for Heaven's sake. What's wrong with him? "I'd rather you not starve yourself to keep the shittiest roof on the planet over your head!"
Peter visibly flinches as Deadpool says "starve". He immediately hates the word. It sounds– wrong. Intentional. Despite everything, he figures, he's not ready to admit to himself that it's exactly what he's been doing.
"I don't want your money," he replies, but it's too soft on his tongue and he knows that Deadpool won't take "no" for an answer.
"Is it about the merc thing?" Deadpool asks, and then snorts. "I'm stupid. Of course it's about the merc thing. Or your pride, maybe, but as I said– I don't care. I really don't. I just– I'm worried, okay?" Deadpool sighs, and Peter's shoulders inch up to his face. "I don't care that you don't want to depend on me, or that you don't want to use blood-earned money, or that you think you can handle it. It's not– good. I–"
Peter sighs. "Okay," he says. He doesn't really know what he's agreeing to, and he doesn't want to agree to anything, so he continues, "it's just been extra-hard, lately. Been going through some stuff. I'll make time, 'Pool." He almost adds "promise", but catches himself, because if anything, he's a man of his word. Even while he's lying through his teeth.
Deadpool looks at him, dubitative, and Peter's heart tightens in his chest. He holds the bag at Peter once more. "Taco tuesday?" he says, and Peter knows it wasn't meant to sound like a question.
Peter takes the bag. He hates wasting food. Throwing edible goods down the trash was always something he was taught not to do, and he feels selfish just washing expired milk down the drain. He has no idea what he's going to do with those tacos.
"Thanks," he says, and his voice cracks. He should've used some sort of excuse of loss of appetite due to that "stuff" he's apparently going through.
Deadpool looks at him still, and Peter registers after a few seconds that he's waiting for him to dig in. He swallows forcibly. "I'll eat it at home," he says, his voice rough.
Deadpool stares at the bag for a few more moments, then turns on his heels and walks away.
Peter ends up distributing the takeout to the homeless people he sees on the streets on his way back home, and when he climbs into his bed, he cries until the sun sets and then again until it comes back up.
Taco Tuesday becomes a tradition, and Peter is forced to accept that Deadpool sticking around means he'll inevitably see that Peter's not getting much of his weight back. They hang out more and more over the next few months, patrolling together (to Peter's surprise, Wade admits lying low on the merc business while they work together, and makes an effort not to kill criminals unless he's especially pissed) and they form a sort of hesitant friendship. That friendship solidifies after a while, and although Peter makes no great effort to completely recover, he makes more and more attempts at increasing his daily intake. A little at a time. Baby steps, baby steps. He even starts eating the tacos with Deadpool, though usually only eats one, often 'accidentally' drops them, and sometimes lets a burglar punch him especially hard in the gut and pukes in a trash can. But it works to reassure Wade, so it's enough.
Inevitably, one tuesday, it rains. Peter is ready to do a raincheck on Taco Tuesday (literally), but Wade insists on finding a decent place to eat where Spider-man can feel at ease pulling part of his mask off and where they won't be soaking wet by the end of their meal. He offers for them to take shelter to one of his safe houses around the city, but quickly retracts his offer, and Peter takes the hint that Wade's places might not be their best choice. And after so much time spent together, Wade is practically his best friend, and although he hasn't revealed his face to him yet, he's let enough hints slip out that he can safely say he trusts him with his identity. So, Peter offers to take Wade back to his place, and Wade beams bright like the sunlight the whole way there.
"Terrible place, baby boy, I love it," Wade says upon entering. He looks around — exaggeratedly considering the size of the apartment — and whistles at a wet stain on the ceiling.
"Well, you knew what you were in for," Peter replies, and fights the impulse to drop his mask on his bed in the corner. Habits die hard.
Wade places the takeout bag on the small countertop in the kitchen area and opens the fridge, inexplicably. "Dude, there's nothing in there," he says, pointing at the inside of it, which contains three water bottles, iceberg lettuce, some mushrooms, two eggs, and five tomatoes.
Peter shrugs noncommittally as Wade opens the pantry above the sink. In there lie about ten protein bars, five packets of ramen noodles, broth cubes and three packets of konjac noodles. Konjac noodles are Peter's favorite things in the entire world. He's taken the habit to eat them as a soup with some beef broth and a boiled egg white. It's usually the highlight of his week when he has the energy to make them, which he realizes only now sounds awfully pathetic.
"Konjac noodles, Spidey? Really?" asks Wade, whom Peter hadn't anticipated knowing about that kind of food.
"I like asian cuisine," he replies, suddenly flustered. Wade isn't fucking stupid. These noodles are pretty hard to find, and 10 calories for a hundred grams. He's been having problems with his weight. It's not very hard to do the math.
Wade sighs exasperatedly. "This is ridiculous," he huffs under his breath, but lets it go.
Which means that it's not a surprise. It's a confirmation, if anything.
Peter is fucked.
Wade plops down on Peter's bed with a sigh and six tacos in his hand. He taps the space at his side gently, inviting Peter to sit down. Peter reluctantly complies, and Wade thrusts a taco into his hand with a bit more force than necessary. The merc looks at him, and it's hard to tell with the mask, but Peter can tell he's glowering. Wade's eyes won't stop staring daggers into his, as if daring him to do something other than eat the damn food.
Okay, sure. Peter has a few options:
He can pretend everything okay, eat the fucking tacos like a normal person, knowing that Wade won't let him get away with only eating one, and cry himself to sleep for a few days. Or make himself vomit when Wade is gone, but he's never been good at it, and it's not guaranteed he'll be able to.
He can eat a little bit of taco, pretend he's full or tired or whatever else and kick Wade out, at the risk of seeming suspicious, or making the merc feel unwanted and rejected. Which is the last thing Peter wants, really, seeing as Wade clearly cares about him, and doesn't handle rejection very well.
He can confess everything, all pretenses dropped, and let Wade help him.
The last option makes him want to jump out the window without his web-shooters, but it's the only solution that doesn't hurt Wade, or what's left of his own dignity. He also, maybe, perhaps, thinks that might be the right thing to do.
"Okay, Wade, let's just–" Damnit, it's harder than he thought it would be. "Let's– let's stop for a second there. What do you think?"
Wade looks at him blankly for a couple of seconds. "About what?"
Peter hides his face in his palms and groans.
"The– the– you know," Peter stammers painfully. "Everything… Urgh." He gestures vaguely with the hand holding the taco.
Wade raises an eyebrow under the mask. They stare at each other for a couple of seconds, then Wade relaxes a bit and leans further back on the bed, resting his back against the wall.
"So, you finally wanna talk about that eating disorder you've definitely had for at least a couple months?"
Peter freezes despite himself. "You knew? How long have you known? Why didn't you say anything, you big jerk?" His words are biting, but there's nothing hostile in his tone. Not exactly playful, either, but he's not being aggressive.
"What, like you wanted me to address it?" the merc replies, crossing his fingers behind his head and letting it rest in his hands. Peter's Spider-man lenses narrow. Wade is being arrogant about it. He's making fun of him. "If you had wanted me to know, babycakes, you'd have told me. I wasn't about to force you to talk about something you're obviously sensitive about. I was waiting for you to come to me about it."
Wade is completely right. Peter had not, at any moment — and not today, either, actually — wanted Wade to ask about it. He hadn't wanted him to know, but most of all, he hadn't wanted to talk about it. It was too raw in his mind for him to want to process and discuss with another person. And Wade had waited on his ass like a gentleman.
"Okay, fair," Peter sighs, leaning back against the wall to face Wade more comfortably. "What gave it away?"
"Aside from the rapid, concerning weight loss? Probably your attitude. You weren't nearly as concerned about it as you should've been. And also, like, come on, I know you don't get punched in the stomach that easily."
Peter snorts. "I'm flattered that my perfect agility and dodging skills were the final nail on the coffin."
The conversation isn't as scary or confrontational as Peter thought it would be. He knows eventually Wade will want to talk in a more serious manner, but the easiness of the admission is the only thing keeping him afloat, and quite honestly it's the most sincere he's been in months. Dropping the mask feels good, for once.
"Don't get cocky about it," Wade says with a smile in his voice. He stuffs half a taco in his mouth and looks at Peter. "Don't think I'm gonna go easy on you just because you were finally honest with me," he warns good-naturedly.
Peter sighs and shakes his head. "I know, I know, you're gonna be the worst fucking doctor I've ever seen."
"The best of the best, you mean. Look at me, I'm in peak health. The living embodiment of good decisions."
Peter throws his head back and laughs.
They're fighting your average convenience store robber when Spider-man allows himself to take a step back around Deadpool for the first time.
They almost have him apprehended already — the guy was good with a gun, Peter will give him that, but it was nothing Wade's healing factor couldn't handle and Peter's Spidey-sense makes him basically immune to those kinds of attacks. But today he woke up even more dizzy than normal, and when black spots fill his vision completely randomly, he jumps up a wall and onto the ceiling to take a breather. After a few moments, his vision clears, and Wade gives him an opening that leaves him free to web the robber to the wall from where Peter is hanging above their heads.
He leaps down to the floor next to the guy, and Deadpool lets him call the police before he hands him a protein bar from one of his pouches.
It's… a really sweet gesture. Protein bars are one of Peter's only safe foods (because they feel like productive food, useful food, something actually worth spending calories on) and he notices Wade gave him one of the same kind that are in his pantry. Peter happily unwraps and eats the protein bar after thanking the merc.
"When did you start keeping that on you? Or is the brand a coincidence?" he asks. Wade could be carrying them for himself, after all, even though Peter's never seen him eat one before. He's a merc with a body like a WWE champion.
"Not a coincidence," Wade responds with a shake of the head. "I noticed you had a lot of those at your place, figured it was the best thing I could make you eat in a pinch." Peter nods. "Though don't think it means we're not getting some damn proper food after this, baby boy."
Peter smiles apologetically. "Actually, eating after having a protein bar makes me sick."
Wade stares at him blankly, probably trying to gauge if Peter is being sincere or not, then shrugs.
"I'll hold your mask back if you puke in a trashcan."
"I had a surprise bloodwork done," says Peter. "Apparently I have too much protein in my blood."
Wade bursts out laughing.
"Wade, I'm not eating chocolate cake. You've gotta be kidding me."
Wade deposits the cake on the counter as Peter pinches his nose bridge exasperatedly.
"We've been trying to work our way up and I've decided you've been doing great so far, Petey-pie. So, next step is cake."
Peter looks at Wade while he unwraps the cake, takes a plate from one of the cupboards, and sets it down on the brand new table in the middle of Peter's studio apartment. "Couldn't you have gotten a different kind, though? Like… Carrot cake, or something? It might've at least made me feel a bit better about it."
Wade gives him a smile that shows teeth. It's not a friendly one. "That defeats the whole purpose, baby boy. It's gotta be completely useless by your fucked up standards."
Wade grabs a knife that was drying by the sink and Peter can't help but look at the muscles left uncovered by his t-shirt as he extends his arm. Wade cuts a slice (it's massive, God, Peter hopes he doesn't intend to feed it to him) and looks at him straight in the eyes as he raises it to his mouth. He eats it slowly, but not noisily, because if Peter had to guess he's probably trying to make him want the cake, not be disgusted by chewing sounds. Peter doesn't break eye contact, purely because if he looks at Wade's tongue sliding pieces of cake into his mouth he thinks he might faint like a Victorian woman.
Peter squirms from where he's still leaning on the wall as Wade licks his lips clean and sucks his thumb into his mouth to get the last bit of chocolate frosting staining it, still looking at him. Peter bites his lip absentmindedly, finally forcing his eyes to stray from Wade's to take a look at the cake instead.
"I don't even like chocolate that much," he says, gulping down despite himself.
"Yes, you do, sweetheart."
Wade's never called him sweetheart before. His nicknames are usually intentionally stupid or exaggerated. The thumb sucking might've been intentional.
Peter raises an eyebrow at the thought.
He cuts himself a small slice of cake, which he divides in two equal parts. He walks to the kitchen area with a little more ass-wiggling than usual (two can play at that game, Wade) and grabs a spoon. He comes back and sits down on his bed, facing the small table. He pointedly avoids looking at Wade's face as he forces a piece of cake in his mouth, chews on it for a couple of seconds, then thoroughly licks the spoon clean in what he hopes is a seductive manner.
Only then does he allow his gaze to meet Wade's eyes, and he thinks he might've succeeded.
His heart does a backflip in his chest. And it's not from the sugar.
Wade then imitates him mockingly, taking the spoon from his hand and fitting the smallest, tiniest piece of cake on it, and putting it in his mouth with a decidedly unnecessary twist of the tongue. He overacts chewing it, knowing damn well the piece was too small to even bite anyway, and lets out a small sigh after swallowing that has Peter blushing. Peter retaliates by picking up the spoon and selecting a bigger part of the cake, as if to correct him, and when he bites down on it he's careful to let a quiet moan escape. He mouths around the spoon and makes his lips pop when he finally lets go of it.
From then on, it's a nonsensical contest of who can do the most ridiculous innuendo. Wade picks up a piece with his bare hand and extensively licks three of his fingers clean, Peter responds by sucking on two of his own. Wade "accidentally" drops a piece on his crotch, which he picks up with a groan and a single finger that he once again licks clean. Peter goes to lick a thick smear on Wade's collarbone, and almost a spoonful of frosting on his Adam's apple, and another on his lips, and Wade grabs his face and the half-eaten cake stays forgotten for the rest of the evening.
"Wait– Wait– Wade–"
"What?"
"How much– how many calories do you think there are in…"
"Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, baby boy, tell me you're not about to ask me how many calories there are in semen."
"Well, listen, it's going to get in my digestive system, and–"
"Shhh. You're not learning that information if I have anything to say about it."
"What, are you scared I'll refuse any more blowjobs?"
"Petey… Dammit. Shut up and swallow."
When Peter awakes the next morning, he almost forgets to be panicked at how unusually full he feels.
He's alone in the bed, but his studio isn't big enough that he can't see Wade in the kitchen area frying two eggs in Peter's biggest frying pan. There's bacon already on the table, but Wade seems to have gracefully spared him of his famous breakfast pancakes.
"Mornin'," Peter says, voice half muffled by the mattress.
Wade's eyes light up like a supernova. "Rise and shine, baby boy!" he says, way too loud for Peter. "There's some cake left, it's even better after a night in the fridge. But I wouldn't expect you to know the difference, you looked a bit distracted yesterday. Looked all up in your own head."
Peter snickers. "Ah, yes, and you had all the head in the world," he jests lightheartedly.
Wade humphs. "Only the best, baby cakes."
Peter shakes his head with a smirk. He yawns while trying to say "What time is it?" and it comes out more like a "Wha-ah-ayit?", but Wade already knew what he was going to ask and responds anyway.
"Ten o'clock, sweetums." He drops the eggs on the two plates at the table.
Peter mutters a "Jesus" under his breath, but sits up anyway, picking up a fork and toying at the bacon.
"So," Peter starts, and he sees Wade tense up in what is probably anticipation to the serious talk he thinks is coming, but Peter just says, "you might not believe me, but I've never actually liked egg yolks."
Wade visibly relaxes, but looks at him doubtingly. "Really, Petey? Egg yolks? I'm supposed to believe that?"
"I'm serious!" Peter says. "I always hated the texture. I can literally call my aunt right now to confirm it for you, if you want. On fried eggs, it's all slimy and weird, I always thought the membrane looked like–"
"Cum?"
"... snail slime. That was tiny me's opinion, Wade. Mind out of the gutter."
Wade shrugs. "Cum would've been tiny me's opinion."
Peter sighs. "Anyway, can I eat the white only? I know you cooked it in oil. That should compensate."
Wade shakes his head. "That's your problem, Petey-pie," he says, stabbing his own egg yolk into runny-ness. "You think compensation. You think numbers. That's not right."
"Thanks, Captain Obvious, I never would've guessed," Peter grunts. "So, it's 'no', then?"
Wade looks at him for a moment, then shrugs. "Eat all your bacon and then we'll talk."
Peter hums and starts on his bacon.