Francis did not know when it had happened or, more importantly, how he had let it happen. Even if he did not know when it was he fell in love, he could remember the exact hour, minute, the very second he realized it.

It had been a fairly regular evening for them. They were curled up on opposite ends of the sofa watching Casablanca on the classic film channel. It was a movie they both enjoyed; Arthur liked it because he liked classic films in general and war films in particular, and he also rather fancied Humphrey Bogart; Francis liked it because he liked things that had to do with France, and he adored the scene where the patrons of Rick's bar drowned out the Nazis by singing La Marseillaise. They were both slightly in love with Ingrid Bergman.

Arthur was curled up by the end of the couch with a blanket, teetering on the verge of sleep. It was a quiet moment and as Francis looked over at him, he began to picture Arthur grumpily reading the paper in the morning, Arthur dancing to Louis Armstrong whilst doing laundry; Arthur, who thinks that a pot of tea will fix anything, Arthur, who hides his collection of Agatha Christie mysteries with his porn, and will fight you tooth and nail if you imply he has either. Francis mutes the television and pulls the blanket off of his shoulders and drapes it over him so that he would be able to sleep easier.

And just like that, Francis realized a horrible, terrible truth. He was absolutely, hopelessly, completely in love with his flatmate.