Work Text:
Henry gets the notification on his phone when he’s trying to decide which Pride and Prejudice to rewatch (1995 or 2005—both of equal merit, but the BBC version is more of a commitment, and it is already quite late in the evening).
It starts off innocent enough—the little bubble popping up on his screen proclaiming ‘It’s a match!’. Henry absent-mindedly swipes it away with his index finger and goes back to debating Jennifer versus Keira.
Henry eventually settles for Jennifer (Colin Firth and that scene are always a big pull, plus he doesn’t have to be up particularly early tomorrow), makes himself a cup of tea and rummages around for a pack of biscuits. Then, when he’s finally settled onto his bed, dunking dark chocolate Hobnobs into his mug and fully engrossed in Lizzie and Darcy snarking at each other, he swipes onto his phone and glances at his notifications.
What he sees causes him to drop his biscuit into his tea. On a normal occasion, he would stare down forlornly into his mug, lamenting the now unsalvageable biscuit and perfectly good brew. But tonight, he puts his mug aside blindly, the liquid sloshing onto his sheets in the process, his eyes riveted to the screen of his phone.
It’s the first time he’s used a dating app. Well, he’s had the app on his phone for a while, having downloaded it in a moment of weakness after his therapist suggested it as a torturous way of ‘putting himself out there more.’ Pez was delighted to hear this news and insisted on curating his profile, which Henry had heavily edited afterwards.
Pez must have swiped through a bunch of random profiles as well, because Henry certainly hasn’t opened the app since he deleted Pez’s glowing proclamation that he is a ‘British sex-god with a trust-fund, unbelievable sexual prowess and crippling insecurity: in other words, the Holy Grail.’
Henry would have remembered swiping right on Alex, because Alex happens to be the most beautiful man Henry has ever laid eyes on.
He navigates to Alex’s profile and swipes through his photos. Jesus Christ. Alex is dark-haired and smirky-mouthed, looking back over his shoulder with a grin at the camera. Alex is bare-chested and bronzed in a selfie at the edge of a waterfall. Alex is laughing in sunglasses and a suit that spreads across tight shoulders and cuts in at the waist. Alex is—
—fuck, what the fuck, Alex is messaging him.
The DM pops up, but it isn’t a ‘hey’ or a ‘how’s it going’ or even a terrible, cheesy pick-up line. It’s a link. Henry taps on it, and it takes him to a webpage entitled ‘Alex Claremont-Diaz’s Comprehensive Coitus Questionnaire.’ The page is coloured in shades of pink, purple and blue which makes it rather difficult to read the little paragraph of introductory text:
Welcome and congratulations! If you are reading this you have been selected as a lucky recipient of my carnal compatibility quiz (a sexy census, if you will). Please complete this survey in as much detail as possible, answering each question with total honesty. Answering dishonestly could put someone’s life at risk!! Remember, kids, with great sexual power comes great responsibility. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.
Henry’s brow furrows. He thinks it’s spam at first, which would be a shame but is entirely tenable. After all, no one that attractive would ever willingly look at his profile and swipe right, unless they happened to be a bot.
But then Alex has included his full name on the survey, so that must be a good sign. Henry swipes over to Instagram, taps in Alex’s name and sure enough, a profile pops up with the same shots of Alex from his profile on the dating app.
Henry purses his lips. This seems like a very weird and elaborate joke, but he can’t quite tell how. He’s never used a dating app before. He’s barely dated at all since he moved here for university. Maybe sexual compatibility quizzes are just standard protocol these days.
He squints at the little indicator in the left corner of the page that tells him how long it will take to complete the quiz: thirty-six minutes.
Goodness. He’s going to need his laptop for this one.
It’s a good thing, in the end, that he chose Pride and Prejudice (1995) this evening, because it takes him much longer than thirty-six minutes to complete Alex’s ‘sexy census.’ It is comprehensive, to say the least.
He’s just contemplating his opinion on roleplay (not opposed, but where does he land on a numerical rating scale? He can’t help but think a Likert scale may have been more appropriate for this quiz) when Pez tumbles through his door, wearing something obscenely glittery and brandishing a half-drunk bottle of brandy.
“Oh god, Hazza,” Pez slurs, lurching over to Henry’s bed and throwing himself dramatically at the bottom of it. “Don’t tell me you passed on drag bingo to write a bloody essay.”
Henry hums, too busy reading a question on the kinds of roleplay he’s theoretically interested in (‘educational,’ ‘sports,’ ‘historical,’ or ‘vocational’?) to pay much attention. “Not an essay,” he replies distractedly. “What do you think ‘historical roleplay’ entails?”
Pez, always game for answering a bizarre question with absolutely zero context, tilts his head thoughtfully. “Well, that depends. What sort of history are we talking about here?” He nods at the television. “Period drama-style, Lizzie and Darcy talking in circles and insulting each other, where the most sexual contact you have is your knuckles brushing?”
“I think the aim is for the roleplay to be an overtly sexual thing. Not that I’m denying the sexual chemistry in Pride and Prejudice. The hand clench in the 2005 version is intense and iconic.”
“It could be worse,” Pez muses. “I could have suggested Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. Seven years without consummating.” Pez shudders. “Perhaps Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor? Lord knows they knew how to get down and dirty.”
Henry winces. “That would involve rather a lot of vodka.”
Pez nods and pats Henry’s knee sympathetically. “I know it’s not your drink of choice, my dear, but it would certainly help you get into character. You’d have to wear a lot of gauche diamond jewellery and fornicate on the lawns of your current partners.”
“I haven’t answered the question on exhibitionism yet,” Henry says thoughtfully, rubbing a hand across his jaw.
At that, Pez sits up abruptly, spilling brandy onto the carpet in the process. “Don’t tell me Buzzfeed has branched out into sex quizzes.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Nice try, but I saw you redoing that ‘Which Star Wars character are you?’ quiz until you got Luke. You, my sweet, sensitive lad, were born into nobility and are therefore a Leia through and through, you can’t deny it.”
“For the last time, Bea sent me that—”
“Yes, yes,” Pez says impatiently, and before Henry can stop him, he yanks Henry’s laptop out of his hands. “What on God’s green earth is this?”
“I matched with someone on Tinder and they sent me a sexual compatibility quiz,” Henry answers, stealing the laptop back before Pez learns a little too much about him. “It’s rather long, but I’m eighty-five percent of the way through, so I might as well finish it.”
“A what?”
Henry pauses. He’d assumed Pez would be au fait with these things, given that he’s quite the man-about-town. But from the way Pez’s eyebrows have disappeared into his platinum blonde hairline, he is starting to suspect this isn’t entirely standard protocol. “Is this… not a usual thing?”
“Sending a prospective partner a survey about their sexual preferences to see whether you are compatible in the bedroom?” Pez asks incredulously. “Oh, Henry. Honey. No.”
“Oh,” Henry says, feeling deflated.
“It’s a bloody brilliant idea, though,” Pez cackles, scooting himself up the bed to lean over Henry’s shoulder. “Good lord, there are over a hundred questions. Hang on, they are categorised? This is incredible. Think about how much time it would save! I want one. Scroll down, I want to see if there is any info on who created it.”
The only identifier of the creator is an email address listed in tiny text at the bottom of the page: [email protected]. Pez fires off an email and receives an automated response that is simply a gif of Roman Roy nervously watching a flurry of emails arrive in his inbox and nothing else. Henry bats Pez off until he regains control of his laptop and resumes the quiz. It takes him the better part of an hour to complete it, largely in part to his dithering over the series of questions about bondage and his brain requiring a system reboot after imagining Alex tied to his bedpost. After a substantial amount of staring off into space, the survey is complete, and Henry dithers over hitting the ‘submit’ button.
It’s been a considerable chore and rather illuminating to allow himself the time to quantify his sexual preferences in such explicit and exacting detail. But he does find the concept of the survey quite impressive. Sensible, even. Why bother with the awkwardness of working out your sexual compatibility with someone over a series of potentially mortifying conversations or encounters when you can just… do a quiz? Henry has to admit, it takes a lot of the leg work out of it. Lord knows he’s had enough embarrassing, fumbled encounters when trying to find out if someone he is attracted to is attracted to him as well.
It would be nice to be in with a chance with someone as gorgeous and vibrant as Alex, but while Henry doesn’t actually expect to ever hear from him, he hits submit anyway. There’s no indication of his results, just a page containing a single gif of Han Solo saying ‘thank you.’ Pez cheers loudly next to him and Henry takes a swig from the brandy bottle, because why the hell not. And then they snuggle up on his bed and fall asleep as Darcy professes his most ardent love and admiration for Lizzie.
The DM comes in the next morning—less than twelve hours after Henry had submitted his answers. Henry’s in class when the notification pops up on his phone, and any opinions he was forming on the history and literature of the South Asian diaspora dissolve from his brain at the three words of the message:
CONGRATULATIONS—YOU WIN
Henry’s heart pounds as he covertly slides his phone underneath his desk and types out a quick response.
As delightful as this news is, may I ask what it is I have won?
Alex’s response comes back immediately.
isn’t it obvious? me
Would I be right in assuming this is in regards to the survey I completed?
bingo, sweetheart. you may pass go and collect $200!
I get the money as well? How generous.
the money is a metaphor. for my dick
Your dick is worth $200? You have a rather high opinion of yourself.
well I’ve never had it formally appraised, but the feedback I’ve received has been nothing short of excellent
Do you have some reviews I can read? A Yelp page, perhaps?
contrary to popular belief I don’t send a fucking evaluation form out
But you do send out sex quizzes to matches on dating apps. It seems like a formal review process would be the next logical step.
i’ll add it to my to-do list, sweetheart
They end up messaging for the remainder of the day and well into the evening, and Henry spends most of it in a state of distracted excitement. Alex is incredible. Sure, he’s a bit fucking mad in that he sends out sex quizzes to his Tinder matches, but he’s witty and rude and a little bit brash and Henry is already head-over-bloody-heels. His tea goes cold while he’s caught up in their back-and-forth and then he manages to upend it all over his trousers when Alex sends him a sweaty post-lacrosse practice selfie.
Pez, who hasn’t bothered to leave Henry’s room to go back to his own, raises one perfectly-arched eyebrow at him. “Everything alright?”
Henry swears, attempting to mop up cold tea before it stains. “What? Yes. Fine.”
Pez smirks. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain dark-eyed beauty with a penchant for sexually-promiscuous data sampling? I assume he received your quiz results?”
Henry looks up from his phone. “It would seem that way.”
“And?” Pez asks, waggling his eyebrows. “Would he like you to upload your data to his hard drive?”
“Jesus Christ, Pez,” Henry admonishes.
“Is he going to perform some penetration testing on your wetware?”
Henry closes his eyes, in visible pain. “Have you been Googling data innuendos?”
Pez flips around his laptop to show Henry his screen. “Perhaps. That and [email protected] got back to me. I’m commissioning my own quiz. They offered to do it for free but I suggested we work on a business plan together. This could be a very lucrative endeavour. We’re talking about changing the landscape of carnal knowledge here!”
Henry grimaces. “Please never say the words ‘carnal knowledge’ again.”
“Lovemaking? Fornication? Copulation information?”
“Requires some workshopping, I think.”
Pez nods solemnly. “I’ll gather a focus group.”
Henry’s phone dings in his pocket.
so, in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably tell you something
Colour me intrigued.
god, I forgot British people add extra vowels to everything
anyway, I got your questionnaire answers
I assumed so, given your opening message this morning.
right! so I should tell you you scored 100
Out of?
100
Henry nearly drops his phone.
so
any chance you’d want to collect your winnings any time soon?
If his presumption is correct, his winnings happen to be—in Alex’s own words—Alex’s dick. Henry takes a steadying sip of water but has apparently lost the innate knowledge of how to swallow and nearly chokes on his tongue. Mercifully Pez is engrossed by his laptop and doesn’t notice Henry nearly drowning.
What did you have in mind?
coffee? tomorrow?
Coffee. Yes. Coffee suggests a public place, which means that Alex is not immediately thinking about sex, or sex with him, specifically, which means that Henry most definitely will not be spending the next twelve hours in a state of dreadful sexual anticipation until they meet. Probably. Hopefully.
The next day, Pez smirks at him while Henry tries to arrange his hair into something resembling an artful style and fiddles with his chosen blazer and tie. Is a tie too much for coffee? It’s been such a long fucking time since Henry has been on a date.
“Use protection!” Pez trills, as Henry picks up his keys and heads out the door.
“It’s just a coffee date,” Henry hisses indignantly. “We’re not animals. I’ll see you this evening.”
Henry does not see Pez that evening, or the next evening, for that matter. He receives one text from Pez that reads, “Just a coffee date, hm?” Henry replies with an emoji of a middle finger.
When he eventually does make it home, he sees that Alex has sent him a message with another link. He clicks on it and is directed to another questionnaire, this time entitled, ‘Alex Claremont-Diaz’s Sexual Proficiency Feedback Form,’ with an accompanying paragraph that reads, ‘Congratulations! You have had sex with Alex Claremont-Diaz. Your honest evaluation is greatly appreciated to ensure our service remains at a high level of consistency and excellence. If you would like to have more sex with Alex Claremont-Diaz, please leave your contact information at the end of the form. Have a great day!’