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This is the stupidest thing that's ever happened to him. So stupid, in fact, that on his drive home he vows never to tell another living soul about his new crush on the produce guy at their co-op. Well, it's not his co-op anymore since he’ll never be going back. He’ll go to Trader Joe’s or that place that smells like patchouli and sadness.
He can't show his face there again.
Izzy angrily stuffs apples into the crisper, butter into the door shelf, beer down below everything else. Reaching his fingers into the half empty bag, his fingers touch rind. It's coarse under his fingertips and he stalls, cursing under his breath as he lifts it from its confines.
Suddenly he's staring deep into the grooves and shifts of the honey dew melon now firmly in his grasp. He wonders, briefly, how hard he would need to swing it to knock himself the fuck out.
“Out with it.”
Izzy’s butt clenches, head swiveling to the door frame until his eyes meet Lucius's. Big, soft and annoying; the eyes Izzy fell into like diving a cold spring.
“What are you on about?” He snarls, and it's not his fault. Of course it's not. Lucius isn’t the one who made an ass of himself at the market.
“First of all, honey dew is disgusting.” Lucius crosses his arms, leaning against the frame to block Izzy’s path. He loves blocking him in the kitchen. No exits. Just him, and Izzy’s confessions. “Second, you have that weird look on your face again. Y'know,” Lucius curls his lips into a grumpy frown, tight and turned down. It's a signature, and Izzy returns it. “Yeah, that.”
Over the last two years Izzy has learned that running from Lucius when he wants answers is not a smart move to make. It's easier to just share your feelings than attempt to drop it because by Christmas, all of Izzy’s gifts will end up spelling out “tell me”.
Izzy growls, low but calm, setting the melon on the counter with a thump, “I met someone today…”
Fang only likes Honeycrisp apples. Pete will only eat pears if they're green, a few good days in between before they get too soft. Lucius wants red and green grapes to mix together.
Why Izzy put himself in this position? He’ll never fucking know, though oddly there was something nice about grocery shopping for everyone all at once. He doesn't have to worry about wrangling people that drift off, he doesn’t have to stop Pete from putting random shit into the cart when he isn't looking. Starting the list is the greatest thing he's ever done.
“You alright, then?”
A voice breaks Izzy out of his shopping mode, soft and airy. It wraps around him like a warm blanket. He looks up and around to make sure he's the one being addressed. And addressed he's being, by freckles and wiry black hair and lips that look soft.
The younger man looks Izzy over expectantly, tides turning on his face from helpful to confused to understanding. He brings thin fingers up, crossing the air in symbols as he signs the question he just asked. Izzy can't help but snort - he did look up after being asked, after all, a clear sign he had heard him - but felt a strange dip in his stomach at the affection.
“Uh, yeah,” Izzy nods as he remembers himself, “yeah, thanks.”
The man nods, reaching into the box beside him and producing apples to stock. Izzy glances down at the smock he's wearing, eyes searching for a name tag.
Frenchie.
Huh.
“I see you here often. Always look like you're buying for a family of six.” There's a glint in Frenchie’s eyes, at least he's amused.
Of course, he's not wrong. Especially when Ed and Stede come to visit. He's traipsed through this store with two carts completely full, added a second fridge to his basement. It’s getting out of hand, but his heart has never been fuller.
Izzy snorts, “just about.”
He attempts to go back to the pears, studying them like his heart isn't beating uncomfortably in his chest. The guy works here. He has to be polite. Stop acting like this is love at first sight, like some kind of horny teenager. But Frenchie’s cute, and his lopsided smile is really doing something to Izzy’s gut and if he's not careful with himself he could start daydreaming about that smock on his bedroom floor.
Or get stupid ideas like asking how to pick out the perfect melon. Melons that aren't on his list. Melons no one will eat. And Frenchie might tell him, “honey dew is my favorite. To pick the best, all you have to do is sniff the tip.” He puts the top of the melon to his nose and inhales, but shakes his head. “Nah, not this one,” and he sets it back down.
“What is it supposed to smell like?” Izzy finds his hands reaching for one, bringing the scarred fruit to his face. It smells like dirt and wax.
“Flowery.” Frenchie sniffs another, shrugging to that one. He must be close. Another and another before a dreamy smile spreads across his lips, “this is it.”
Izzy’s only two melons deep for himself, spending most of his time enamored by Frenchie’s facial journey regarding melons, but all he can smell is dirt and his own desperation.
“You should also thump them. Uh, hollow is best.” Frenchie holds the melon up to Izzy, using his free hand to tap the melon twice with his knuckle. “Just trust me on this. Means it's ripe. Nice and juicy.”
Izzy’s ears turn hot, though he really can't be sure why. He nods, taking the melon. He almost drops it when their fingers brush, just slightly, his calloused fingers biting gently into soft.
And honestly all of that would be fine. Normal. Not out of the realm for a day at the grocery store, being helped buying ripe produce by the fucking produce guy. No, it's when Izzy moves to the apples that's the problem. He thanks Frenchie for his help, moves on with a melon he doesn't want, but he's definitely not paying attention now.
He snaps open a little plastic bag and starts picking out apples. He spins his fingers over them, checking for bruises and soft spots and then he wonders if Frenchie might have some of his own. Izzy bets he's soft all over, softer than Lucius. Frenchie’s been running into his cart for the past five minutes so he no doubt has bruises on his hips. Bruises Izzy could dig into, make bigger, use to claim him.
One wrong pull, one poorly placed apple, and Izzy wraps his fingers around it. He hears the sound before he knows what's happening, the small tower of bright red apples collapsing like a house of cards. Thunk, thunk, thunk right at Izzy’s feet. He panics, dropping his carefully selected bundle into his cart before attempting to stop more produce from falling prey to gravity.
In the attempt, he doesn't even see Frenchie appear behind him, face apologetic as he moves in to help. Too bad Izzy moves back too soon, elbow driving straight into the soft stomach of a man who earns minimum wage touching fruit.
“Fuck,” they both hiss; Frenchie bent over and clutching his stomach, Izzy with his eyes wide in abject horror.
“Shit, I–” Izzy chokes out, but his mind has already decided that if this is fight or flight, it might just be best to run. He calls out incoherent apologies as he runs for the fucking hills.
“So now we have a melon no one's going to eat because you're in love with the produce boy?” Lucius teases.
“I'll eat the fucking melon, but I'm never going back.”
“It's really not that bad, Izzy. So you elbowed the grocer? We’ve all done things in front of a crush that we regret. It's a cute story to tell later.” Lucius shrugs, turning his hand over to pick at his cuticles. “It's like when Fang burnt his beard trying to impress you with his fire sticks.”
It still hasn't grown back the same, one small patch at the very end gone forever.
Lucius steps forward, hand coming to rest on Izzy’s shoulder. His voice is soft and comforting, sympathetic, “plus, you have to go back. That's the only store that carries the taquitos Pete and I like.”
“Oh, is that fucking all?” Izzy grunts, folding over the empty bag in his hands, “can't have prince and princess without their fucking taquitos, can we?”
Lucius rolls his eyes, “yeah, well, they're really good, so.” Izzy pushes his fingers into his eyes, hoping the sparkles he creates will blind him for the rest of his life. “I don't know why you're panicking, but it’ll be alright, Izzy. He seems like a nice guy if he decided to ask you if you needed help. Clearly fearless. If you feel really bad just go back and apologize to him. Ask him out for coffee or something.”
Yeah, no, it's never going to happen. Not in a million years. Not as long as breath still expands his lungs and plants grow.
“And if he rejects you, then we'll never go back.”