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The man is odd but Frenchie’s seen odder. He was odder by most definitions, wearing two different socks because he felt it brought him good luck and never whistling indoors in case the demons were listening. He was told from a young age that he was weird or creepy, so he didn't really mind the weird or creepy people he came in contact with.
Izzy was a different kind of odd though. Frenchie thought The Elbowing was the funniest thing about his day, truthfully it didn't even phase him. He went about his life after that, laughing at the apples when he passed them, but Izzy had come back later in the week to apologize. It was adorable, actually, watching him stumble over his awkwardness.
Frenchie wasn't even sure why he was apologizing in the first place. It was funny. Didn't he think it was funny, too? But after he finished, he ended with asking Frenchie out for coffee. He doesn't like coffee, it tastes like dirt, but a funny tickle flickered through his belly at the prospect, so he accepted anyway.
“He's hot as fuck,” Frenchie explains to his roommate, John. He was big and tall and spent most of his time huddled in corners, so Frenchie loved tacking a “wee” to his name. He's helping Frenchie get ready, though the outfit chosen isn't far off from the normal outfits he wears. Black jeans, loose fitting navy shirt under his black vest and thin scarf wrapped around his neck. He's not going to get into a ballroom gown for dirt. Sorry, Izzy.
“At least he knows you like pain.” Wee John teases, shifting on his stool as his knitting needles click violently. He's told Frenchie several times what he's making and he never seems to remember. He's too afraid to ask again.
“What if he really is just apologizing? What if it isn't a date?”
Wee John looks up from his row and shrugs, “then you move on. Chalk it up to him being nice. Free danish?”
That seems to do it and Frenchie nods. If it's not a date, at least he gets free food.
Frenchie’s stomach does acrobatic flips under his skin and he imagines an alien inside is ready to burst out, spewing green sludge all over the table he's sitting in front of.
The cafe is cute, at least, with hanging greenery and soft guitar playing in the background. Frenchie has already stolen babies from the plants he likes the most so he can plant them when he gets home. It seems bougie here, especially when he lifts the menu. People pay for this?
He tenses when he hears his name, attempting to get up like a gentleman. They did that, right? Got up from the table to greet their date? Except his scarf is stuck under the table and the best sounding hork comes out of his newly choked throat.
“Fuck, you alright?” His ears burn from the sultry scratch of Izzy’s voice.
“M’alright! M’alright,” once he's free, he nods and flashes Izzy a half smile.
He finally looks Izzy over, his heart rushes to his throat. Christ he looks incredible, his white button down tight enough to fucking burst, a black harness strapped over his shoulders and hugging his chest, basically cradling his tits. Frenchie looks down at his own outfit and suddenly understands why Izzy ran for the door after he elbowed him.
Frenchie lets out a squeaked laugh, then clears his throat, “hey! Hi.”
Izzy ushers him to sit and he's very quick to obey, scooting himself close to the table for comfort. He can't drop anything on himself if he sits this close.
“You didn't have to…do this, you know?” Frenchie explains, “I thought the elbow was funny. We talked about that, but I just thought I'd say it again. Y’know, in case…” he rambles, waving his hands about. Chill, man. But Izzy smirks, the thinnest line of pearly white teeth poking out.
“I know,” he nods, comfortably crossing one leg over the other. Frenchie read somewhere once that people are more comfortable when your mannerisms match theirs, so he follows suit, crossing his legs comfortably one over the other. “I just like the way you handle fruit.”
That isn't supposed to work, is it?
“Is that all?” Frenchie returns a smile, leaning against his hand, “I can teach you. It's all in the wrist.” He wiggles his fingers in Izzy’s direction, wiggling his foot back and forth like a flirtatious school girl.
Izzy leans forward, “can I be honest with you?”
“It is the best policy.”
“I really hate coffee.” His voice is barely above a whisper, like he can lie if Frenchie fires back with how much he loves it. It's easy to swallow your words when they barely leave your mouth.
“Do you wanna go get drunk instead?”
It may not work. Maybe he's a recovering something, and Frenchie will feel like a total douchebag for even suggesting it, but there's a glint in Izzy’s eyes at the offer that tells him maybe he's done something right.
“Lead the fucking way.”
“But they're brother and sister? And they're fucking?”
“Yeah,” Frenchie nods, straw tucked into his cheek. “I mean, it was like medieval times or whatever so they didn't have anyone else to fuck. Lots of inbreeding.”
Izzy blinks slowly, his fourth g&t coming to meet his lips before he replies, “and that's the show? Just them fucking?”
“Well, and everyone else fucks too. Also there's dragons, which is pretty cool and a throne with swords in it. I think they're fighting for it, I don't know, I stopped paying attention.” He shrugs, it's more Wee John’s speed than his, but he loves a good roommate activity.
“I'd rather have treasure than a throne of swords.”
Frenchie’s head is swimming. Izzy bought him a cherry bomb, and he's been sucking down Tom Collins’ all night. The liquor hasn't fully hit him yet but he knows he’ll end up in front of the toilet tomorrow morning. He doesn't really care, though, because the company he's keeping has been worth it. Izzy listens to what he says, asks him questions about his interests, seems intrigued instead of horrified when he says something off beat.
Not everyone sees his superstitions as a charming part of his personality, often demeaning the way he feels because they don't understand it. When Izzy spills the salt at their table, he doesn't even flinch when Frenchie tells him to throw some over his shoulder - he just does it without question.
“What? Like a pirate?”
Izzy hums into his drink, polishing off one more glass, “I think I'd be pretty fucking good at it. Scaring people into giving me money. I already yell orders at people, it can't be that different.” He shrugs, “plus, I'm pretty good with a knife.”
Any decent, normal person might be a little terrified of that statement. Of how Izzy seems to say with his whole chest that he would basically cut someone in the face if given a reason to, but Frenchie sucks the rest of his drink down to keep his mouth occupied so he doesn't make a fucking fool of himself. Because cut me, daddy is really more of a relationship thing than a first date thing. Because he can't have another indecent exposure on his rap sheet (it was a total accident, by the way. Not his fault).
“I'd be a bard.” He decides to go with instead of begging Izzy to pillage him, “they loved their music back then. Ambiance and all.”
“You play?” Izzy's found new interest, turning slightly to face him better. He's clearly just as affected by his own drinks, face flushed under the dim lights as he chews his last straw.
“Guitar, piano, lute.” He nods, “I sing sometimes. When I'm bored. Or Wee John forces me to. Do you play anything?”
“Piano,” Izzy nods, “sing sometimes, too.” He sounds almost…shy from the admission as he eyes his empty glass.
“Ah, I bet you have a beautiful voice.” And maybe he's trying to flirt. He can't really tell what his drunk face is doing, but Izzy seems to like it because he's smiling back.
“Do you want another drink?” He offers, but Frenchie has to have some self control. He shakes his head politely.
“Probably shouldn’t. I have to bike home.”
“You're not biking home,” Izzy all but snorts, “I'll get you a cab. We’ll get your bike tomorrow.”
Frenchie notices the use of we and smiles to himself. Or at least he hopes it's to himself. Izzy pays the tab, Frenchie pays the tip because immediately a fight breaks out on who should buy. Like a gentleman, Izzy leads him outside to where cabs line the street for their late night fares and before he can do it himself, Izzy opens the back door for him.
“I had a really nice time. You're a nice guy.”
Izzy grins like a shark, and it's not the coolness of night that causes Frenchie to shiver, “you haven't seen how nice I can be. Maybe next time.”