Arthur ran down the stairs, irritated for having been interrupted and eager to go back to his reading, and went towards the door.
-What do you want? – he asked harshly, before even figuring out who had knocked.
-I could do with something to eat. – Francis stormed into the living room as soon as the door cracked open, water dripping from his hair and clothes. – Seriously, I'm starving! – he said with that bloody annoying accent when the English just glared at him.
-What the- You come into my house, dampen my floor and demand that I give you my food? That food you say is bloody "dégoûtant" – he mimed the word in bad French.
-Vous êtes trop paresseux. – rolling his eyes, he went towards the kitchen still talking. On account of the distance, Arthur couldn't make out what he had been saying, or was it for the French? Anyway, he couldn't care less. He went upstairs, grabbed one of his shirts and went back down.
As soon as he had handed it over to the blond, he headed to the couch on the next room and sank on it with an exasperated sigh. He should do away with that bloody git, maybe he should make up an excuse, but he was sure Francis wouldn't bother with that.
-Leave! Now. – shouted Arthur. – Do that bloody shirt up! – he said, glaring at the Frenchman's bare chest with narrow eyes.
-What were you saying? – How could someone ruin such a word as "were"? At least he was buttoning his shirt.
-Go. Away. – he hissed, emphasizing each word, and received a puppy look in response.
-I have nowhere to go. – He was pouting! How could he?
- You'll have to do with it. – the Englishman answered, grabbed the other's arm and pushed him through the door, closing it right behind him and leaning onto it.
- My coat! – he heard that strangely endearing accent say and, after finding Francis' belongings, he shoved them through a crack of the door. Leaning onto the door again, Arthur exhaled a frustrated puff of air. After all, he knew he couldn't do without the French himself. But he'd never admit it to anyone.