Alfred stretches and yawns, completely ignoring the look Francis gives him. They're in a starbucks, not a restaurant for crying out loud; Alfred might be sort of superhuman but even he feels the effects of sleeping only two hours plus jetlag.
"Tsk, Alfred, I thought you were raised better than that." Francis stirs his latte frappuccino something and Alfred resists the urge to stick his tongue out because that would only prove Francis' point. Besides, Francis lips curve in the way they only do when he's messing with Alfred and Alfred is a goddamned master in reading Francis, he knows exactly what he's up to.
"Well, you can't really blame me," Alfred says and leans back in his chair, poking Francis' leg with his shoe. When Francis bends down to huff and brush away the dirt from his pants, like Alfred knew he would, Alfred steals his drink and empties it in one swig.
A mistake, as it turns out.
Amidst the hacking and sputtering Alfred does Francis finds the time to pull up his phone and snap a photo, and Alfred hopes they won't use that one on his grave because he is surely dying, what is that?
"That's not coffee," Alfred wheezes out and Francis sighs, grabbing Alfred's hand.
"I love you Alfred, but you're not the brightest sometimes."
Alfred makes a suffering grimace and coughs some more. If he dies the day before their wedding he'll kill someone.