Work Text:
Friday, 10:03 pm
Izzy’s got a death grip on his phone. He types five simple letters into the App Store, and hovers his finger over the download icon.
Stop being a fragile fucking twat and just do it.
Izzy hits the button and tosses his phone to the other side of the couch with a twitch. It’s been eight years since the motorcycle accident that left him without a leg, and about seven years and eleven months since his ex left him for his blonde, whimsical nurse. Fucking cliche. His buddy Jim keeps telling Izzy to make a profile, that he can ease himself into it; there’s no harm in looking, maybe having a quick flirt here and there to stretch the old muscles. Surely someone will find a grizzled, scarred, snarky little man attractive.
But, Izzy’d be lying if he said he was ever good at flirting. How he convinced Ed to stay with him for so long, he’ll never know. And now? His missing leg was something Izzy thought made him impossibly unattractive.
Izzy sighs heavily and rubs his eyes with his gloved hand before slipping the leather off his fingers. On a drunken whim, many years ago, he’d let Ed convince him to get their initials tattooed inside a heart on the back of his hand; it was mangled now, covered in some serious burn scars. Despite his missing leg, the discomfort from the prosthesis, and even the patronizing looks as he struggled to walk, seeing that tacky tattoo, a symbol of old love lost, was the worst of it.
As he ran his thumb over the marbled skin and fading ink, Izzy thought about Ed. Izzy had been smitten from the first time he saw those sparkling eyes and long wavy locks, but Ed always seemed more interested in receiving Izzy’s attention than returning it. Izzy was always a little too boring; always prepared for anything, always happy to be alone together; meanwhile Ed lived for the next adventure.
Deep down, Izzy was happy for Ed. The nurse took him to Hawaii, and they seemed like they were having a blast together with his two kids. But it hurt that Izzy was never enough - for Ed, or anyone else. He had friends, but he had never been anyone’s first priority. Normally thinking about Ed, fuming about Ed, results in Izzy downing a bottle. But tonight, he breathes a deep breath and reaches for his phone.
The app is needy, Izzy decides. He spends most of his time cursing at all the options that keep popping up, all the blanks he’s meant to fill in. He uploads his passport ID photo, but this fucking app demands more than one photo. He holds up his phone and takes a selfie, angled straight up his nose and cutting off half his hair. He sends it to Jim, who immediately sends back about a dozen secret photos they’ve taken over the years. Helpful twat.
Izzy settles on one grumpy portrait from inside a cafe, one from behind of his shoulders and shaggy hair while out in the sun, and one where he thinks he looks like a pink-toned Samuel Arrow from Muppet Treasure Island. Handsome, yet serious, according to Jim. And slightly peckish.
With his profile made, Izzy starts looking at the candidates, but quickly becomes overwhelmed by fish, muscles, and ambiguous group shots. In almost no time at all, he starts swiping left over and over without actually looking at the profiles; he goes as fast as he can until there are no options left. Lucky timing, that whiny prick Lucius from work was the next profile up.
Izzy settled into the couch for a sad, lonely Friday night with nothing but reruns of Love Island playing softly in the background.
Saturday, 12:40 am
Somehow, Izzy has ended up curled into a tiny ball on one end of the couch, practically falling off while his dog, Anne, managed to stretch as far as she possibly could.
He’s only lightly dozing when the phone resting on his brawny chest buzzes.
Izzy wakes with a start, snorting lightly and narrowly missing poor Anne’s face with his flailing thigh. He glances at his phone to check the time, and has to stare at the notification for a long while before he understands what it means.
Frenchie has commented on your photo.
Izzy ignores his shaking hands, and taps the notification. A profile opens, showing a very striking man. His light brown skin is dusted in freckles and a meager beard, his almond eyes gazing softly at the camera like the photo is being taken by a dear friend. He’s holding an old, shabby guitar upright on his knee, and has a bundle of purple flowers tucked neatly into his gorgeous natural hair.
Frenchie, M 37, lives about twenty minutes away. He’s a musician, loves noodles, and swears his roommate is gone most of the time. He also swears it’s normal to have a roommate at 37.
Izzy can’t help but smile to himself as he thumbs through the photos. Frenchie has style. Frenchie has a warm grin. Frenchie is sexy. Frenchie is … interested in him.
Another buzz, another comment. Izzy feels his cheeks start to warm as he hastily clicks over to read the comments responding to his photo.
F: Looks like I have my first groupie
F: I play this cafe all the time! I cant believe I never noticed you!
I: I’m easy to miss.
F: Me? Miss a hot biker daddy? Never!
Izzy types out at least a dozen different responses ranging from incredulous to shy, and can’t seem to settle on one.
I: What’s Frenchie short for?
A: M’last names French
I: Oh. That’s really boring.
They talk until 5 am. It’s awkward and surface-level, and Izzy isn’t sure why Frenchie keeps responding, but he does. Always within seconds, even when Izzy tries to play it cool and waits a minute.
F: I’d like to take you out tomorrow. Canoe ride?
Izzy feels hot.
The knowledge that this stranger read his profile and registered that he loves being on the water was making him feel seen - but the knowledge that Frenchie would indeed see him, see the way he limped, ask what happened to his leg (as everyone does), and inevitably designate him as disgusting or at the very least an unfit companion, well. That was already starting to hurt.
Izzy had left out any details about his situation; his photos were all waist up, none of his prompts were about injuries or possible red flags. He didn’t feel like it was wrong to exclude it when all he was doing was flirting a little bit; but now this man wants to meet him. Now he feels like he’s lied.
Izzy mentally flips a coin; unmatch, or tell the truth that he never intended to meet anyone. That he has zero self-confidence, knows he was never very appealing anyway, and that there was clearly some misunderstanding and that’s the only reason Frenchie was still chatting.
He goes to unmatch, but catches those deep brown eyes again instead. Notices the thick, long lashes, the way his lips quirk up on the corner, the way his shoulders go on for miles.
I: How about dinner instead? Somewhere with a table. I’ll make a reservation.
F: It’s a date!
With any luck, he’s a fucking pain in the arse in person.
Sunday, 6:28 pm
After being thoroughly poked and prodded (and re-dressed) by Jim, Izzy made his way to a cute pub an hour early for their date. It was all dark wood and moody lighting; perfect for anyone who wanted to hide.
Izzy was wearing a light sage green dress shirt, borrowed from one of Jim’s partners. It was a little too tight, so the top two buttons were undone and showed off graying curls. The front of the shirt was tucked into tight jeans; his hair was slicked back with the tiniest amount of gel that left wavy locks falling around his face.
Frenchie arrives a polite ten minutes early. He looks ethereal in a tight tank top and shawl with an endless stack of necklaces. He seemed overjoyed to meet Izzy, laughing and chattering away. The back-and-forth felt natural, almost too natural. This man felt comfortable and safe. Every time he tilted his head and smiled at Izzy, Izzy felt like his heart would float away.
This was the last thing Izzy wanted. Frenchie was supposed to be annoying, or vapid. But he listened intently and asked questions. He seemed to remember everything Izzy had said the night before. He was as charming as he was beautiful. And he was shockingly beautiful. It was never supposed to go this far, but the man sitting across from him was warm and relaxed in a way that Izzy had never been.
Izzy orders a rum, and Frenchie orders a cocktail.
“Isn’t that a little fruity?”
“I am a little fruity,” Frenchie laughs in response, taking a big swig of the orange and red drink.
“I don’t know if ‘little’ is accurate,” Izzy’s eyes quirk down to Frenchie’s considerable hands, easily engulfing the entire glass. “You seem a bit taller than your profile suggested.”
Frenchie popped a shiny cherry into his mouth, slowly chewing and making a big show of his lips as he leaned in closer.
“That’s cuz I am taller.”
Cautiously, Izzy asks, “so… you lied?” The feeling of hope is in the back of his mind. Maybe if Frenchie thought a small lie here and there was okay, he’d understand why Izzy hadn’t shared about the accident or his leg.
“Well yeah. When I tell people I’m 6’6 they spend the whole night looking me up and down, comparing me to door frames, questioning if it’s true. When they think I’m shorter, they’re pleasantly surprised.”
“I didn’t know it was so easy to tell the difference between a few inches.”
“Anything tinier than 5’8” and I can’t tell the difference from way up here.”
Izzy’s mouth fell open in shock before he hid behind his glass, which only encouraged a hearty belly laugh from Frenchie.
“Oi, Iz, I’m just teasing. You’re the perfect height; any taller, and you might not fit in my lap.”
For years to come, Izzy will describe the next moment as the single most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him.
Mid-swig, Izzy choked and sputtered, spilling half the glass down his shirt. Frenchie looked at him with mostly kindness (and a touch of amusement), but still - drenching himself in front of this young, graceful musician was mortifying. As his cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson, Frenchie gently offered some help.
“The loo is just over there, you can take my shawl. I think it would look good on you, anyway.”
Panicked, Izzy declined. The restroom was across the pub, he’d have to walk and skirt around tables; there’d be no way to avoid Frenchie’s gaze.
Frenchie tilted his head down slightly, and cocked an eyebrow. He kept his mouth shut and reached a long arm over his seat to snatch extra napkins from the neighbouring booth.
As the evening wore on, the two men continued enjoying each other’s company. The night was filled with teasing jabs, laughter, and more flirting than Izzy had anticipated.
The pleasant evening is abruptly cut short when Frenchie offers to walk Izzy home. He couldn’t accept even though he was desperate to. After all the things they’d shared and discussed tonight, he couldn’t suddenly tell Frenchie he was missing a leg. Frenchie would be disgusted, but nice guy that he is, he’d pretend to be okay with it. Izzy couldn’t put him in that position.
Izzy couldn’t even stand when Frenchie got up to leave. He just nodded his head, and tried not to make eye contact. He stared into his lap until he heard the pub’s door open and close.
It only took Izzy a few minutes to get home. He ripped off the stained shirt, and stomped around his apartment, as if anger towards the floor could cure him of his disappointment.
It wasn’t long before his phone buzzed.
F: look mate, i dont know what I did wrong but im sorry i did it. can you just let me know you made it home
F: ?
Fuuuuuuuuuck.