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Tonight is the night. Frenchie already has it in his mind as he rings the doorbell, and he's been practicing how the conversation will go with his pillow (who was very responsive). He's been seeing Izzy for a moment now, and while he doesn't exactly know what his full feelings are for him, he knows this is heading into something he's never experienced before. Some of it was the circumstances. He’s never dated a man that’s married before. Hell, he didn't even know what ‘polyamory’ was until a midnight google session led him down a rabbit hole of buzzwords and Reddit posts.
But the biggest part is the feeling he gets when he knows they’ll be together. He feels warm, and a little sick, but not to the extent of puking. He gets nervous when Izzy teases him or touches him, but it's not a bad nervous; more like jumping off of something and landing perfectly on your feet. Anything Izzy wants to do, he suddenly wants to do it too. He even likes Izzy's husband, how soft he is around the eyes and the way he speaks so gently, like a warm blanket.
So yeah, tonight he's definitely going to do it. He's not going to chicken out when Izzy gets close this time. He's going to grab his face and tell him–
“Have this wine!” Frenchie thrusts the bottle out the moment Izzy opens the door, and for some reason his heart is pounding. He's hoping it's a heart attack and that it’ll overshadow the incredible greeting he’d just given.
“You wanna come in and share it with me?” Izzy teases, but Frenchie is already crossing the threshold. The house is nice and warm as it always is, but a delightful smell hits his nose.
“Smells good in here.”
Izzy is studying the label as he locks the front door, “mm, so do you.”
Yuck, there's that same stomach feeling again, the little lurch of excitement. He's been feeling that more and more lately. At first he figured it was a parasite, those are becoming more common and he doesn't wash his fruit, so.
Izzy leads him into the kitchen as he goes to hunt for a corkscrew. The table is set with beautiful white plates, gold leaves patterned on the edges, and he’s not going to ignore the two candles burning in the center. His mouth feels dry. He knew this was a date, but he's never had anyone care this much.
The pop of the cork brings him back, and he blinks to clear his mind, “is the house quiet?”
“Why? Do you want an audience?”
Of course he accepts the glass he's passed, fighting the urge to down it in one gulp, “let the wine hit and I might.”
Except the wine tastes awful, and he does a very poor job of masking the grimace. He's never had wine before, but he's pretty sure that's not what it's supposed to taste like and apparently Izzy has the same notion because his glass is abandoned after his own sip.
“Where uh,” Izzy clears his throat, “where'd you get the wine? It's…potent.”
“That’s a nice word for ‘fucking disgusting', mate.” He looks down at the purple liquid in his glass, flicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to clear his palate. Izzy smirks, flashing shark teeth.
“You want something else?”
Frenchie nods, setting his glass down with Izzy’s before glancing around the kitchen. They both know what they’ll be drinking, so he doesn't bother with requests. At some point he thinks they should slow down on the alcohol but if it doesn't hurt, why change it?
The kitchen is bigger than Frenchie is used to, with an island and double ovens. It's not stone marble, or anything severely bougie but he still feels small in the space. Incredible for his height. Calm washes over him as he watches Izzy flit around. The man is so quiet on his feet, barely a squeak from each step as he pours drinks and checks the oven. Frenchie wonders if he's quiet everywhere.
The sound of Izzy's voice pulls him back, “did you ever find the problem with your radio?”
Honestly, he forgot he even told Izzy about the old ham radio he was fixing. It originally started as an impulse hobby, something he figured he would be obsessed with briefly, rip apart and then never put back together but suddenly it became months of trial and error. He was so close to the glory of making it work that he could actually taste it, but there was something missing.
“You…you remembered that?” Most nodded politely to his rambles. He never expected anyone to actually listen.
“Of course,” Izzy side eyes him, pulling a big oven mitt over his hand. “You were excited, thought you solved the problem last time.”
“Oh! Uh. Yeah,” he nods, “no.” He can talk his hobbies any time with such vigor and authority, but now he's stumbling when asked. He's excited, suddenly, and sure, it was the bare minimum for Izzy to listen to him but caring on top of it? “I can't figure it out. I'm missing something, but I can't tell what it is. All it gives me is dead air. But I've been teaching myself Morse code in the interim.”
His memory was complete dogshit, but lucky for him, useless tapping was in his wheelhouse. He follows the smell of the meal Izzy sets in the center of the table, and pulls a chair out for himself. When Izzy pulls the oven mitt off, he taps three times, swipes three times, then taps three more times against the table cloth.
“You know Morse code?” Frenchie looks up in wonder, just enough time to catch the playful glint that passes Izzy's eye.
He shrugs, “military. Not sure how much I remember, but it's there somewhere.”
Dinner is disgustingly perfect. The food is incredible (Frenchie would probably eat anything, but he asks for seconds), the conversation moves well, and he even manages to make Izzy laugh a few times. Each time he does, a little bell dings in Frenchie’s ear like toast popping out of a toaster. He wants to hear the puffed sound as much as possible.
They clean the kitchen together even though Izzy insists he's got it. Of course, Frenchie makes him wash the dishes, because if his hands touch soggy food he may wither and die but he's good to dry and put them away. By the end, every cabinet door is open and Izzy has to go around shutting them all. He sucks down each glass of whiskey he's given until he's nice and warm and it gives him the confidence to reach out and grab Izzy’s hand.
Frenchie thinks he might get him some lotion for Christmas, but he doesn't mind the rough fingers that intertwine with his own. It's nice, actually, as he's pulled along into the living room.
“Your house is really nice.”
His apartment with Wee John is kind of a dump, but he loves that it is. Things were broken and cracked and sometimes cold air leaked through the windows, but it was theirs and no one else’s.
Izzy looks around the living room, then looks to Frenchie as they take seats side by side on the sectional, “thanks. Wasn't always like this, so it's nice people think so.”
“Did you do it all yourselves?”
“More or less, yeah,” Izzy nods, bringing his glass to his lips. “What Fang wants, he gets. He's good with this shit, I'm good with the tools.”
“I'm sure you're good with tools.” It's not the alcohol, he's trying his best to flirt. There's something sexy in Izzy giving Fang what he wants, and he's not mad about the thought of Izzy in nothing but a tool belt. It wouldn't be good if he hit his junk, but Frenchie tries not to think about that, “play a game with me.”
“What kind of game?” Izzy’s intrigued, at least.
“I'm gonna test your Morse code.”
Frenchie brings his hand down to Izzy's thigh, tapping and swiping I Z Z Y. Start easy, and see where the night goes.
“C’mon, that’s easy. Try something else.”
Frenchie thinks before coding: P A S T A
“You liked the food, I presume?”
T A S T Y
Izzy snorts, the hint of a smile at the edge of his lips, “unlike the wine.”
Y U C K
Frenchie scrunches his nose as he remembers the bitter taste. It really does linger.
“I'm gonna make it harder.”
It's Izzy’s turn to flirt, “I bet you will.”
R O O S T E R
“That's one word for it, yeah.”
P L E A S E
Frenchie’s eyes drift from his finger dancing along Izzy’s jeans to watch his reaction as he adds to his message. Keeping his eyes on him, he swipes, dots, swipes. Dots twice, dots three, then dots three more times.
K I S S
All he can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, taking over the silence between them. It takes a moment for Izzy to move, but when he does it's not long before soft lips are meeting Frenchie’s. His heart drains from his ears, sensation coming back to him all at once, especially when Izzy’s hand cups his cheek to bring him closer.
He could probably stay like this forever, letting Izzy steal what little breath he has left. It would be such a peaceful way to go.
As nice as it is though, something burns deeper inside of him. He's been wanting Izzy for so long, kept himself from touching too much or asking for more until he was sure of this. The kiss felt like permission he desperately craved and now that he was granted it, he didn't want to hold himself back. Izzy follows suit as he deepens the kiss, little moans drifting back and forth between them.
When Frenchie slides into his lap, Izzy’s hands end up on his waist, pulling him in close like any space between them would be far too much. When they part to breathe it isn't long before Frenchie decides to explore, teeth meeting Izzy’s earlobe before lips traveled his neck and over his swallow. The soft grunt he’s given pulls him back and he's realizing how heavy his own breathing is.
“Too much?” He pants, searching for any sign he's doing something wrong. Izzy seems just as wrecked as he is, eyes half lidded as he blinks up at him.
“Not for the reason you think.”
But Frenchie knows. He can feel him, the way his fingers curl into Frenchie’s shirt, tips touching just enough. Being a little bastard he rolls his hips down, catching Izzy's sigh between their lips and drinking it in.
He's fairly certain he feels Izzy’s finger against his back, swiping and tapping gently.
S O S