"Oh, honhonhonhon." Arthur stood up abruptly, cursing as he nearly knocked over his expensive tea set.
"Fucking hell… Francis!" he yelled and stormed into his living room, slamming the glass sliding door behind him. "How the hell did he get into my house?" he muttered, practically seething with rage. "Come out, Francis! I know you're there!" The honhonhons came again and Arthur's head snapped. With a growl, he pushed the front door open, nearly bashing the Frenchman standing behind it. "Francis," Arthur said coldly, his green eyes glittering dangerously as they regarded the man. Francis was attired in a flamboyant pink number with a matching chiffon scarf, his mellifluous golden hair loose and wavy around his shoulders.
"Ha-aaii! France Nii-saan is here!" Francis chirped, tossing his flowery scarf over his shoulder. He batted his cerulean eyes seductively and blew the angry man a kiss, just to irritate him. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"You visited me!" The Frenchman laughed at his flustered friend's angry spluttering and waltzed uninvited into the apartment, swinging his grocery bag. Arthur followed him, his glowering gaze silently burning holes into the other man's back. Francis glanced casually over his shoulder, casting an appraising glance over Arthur. "Well, you're as unstylish as ever." Arthur choked in disbelief. Who could possibly be so ungentlemanly as to criticise a (unwilling, in this case) host's appearance in their own home? His face was scarlet as he struggled out incoherent half-insults, which Francis watched with great amusement.
"Take off your shoes" was eventually all Arthur managed, and the Frenchman obliged.
"You're probably wondering why I came, mon cher," Francis said, fixing the tousled blonde-haired man with a soulful look. "Or, you're wondering why I don't visit more often?"
"Fuck off, you prat," snapped Arthur, who had seemed to regain his voice. "You wish. Now, what are you doing here, and who the hell let you in?"
"Your lovely concierge," the blue-eyed man purred, running a hand through his perfectly styled blonde waves. "Once he heard you were a friend of mine, he was just so happy to oblige, Anglettere."
"He's sixty five years old and a grump," muttered Arthur, and his eyes widened in realisation. "And we are not friends. I hate you, remember?" Francis laughed obnoxiously, tossing back his luscious hair while Arthur watched (in secret envy).
"Likewise!" the Frenchman cried, patting him patronisingly on his head. "But I'm here because I need a favour, mon ami." Arthur raised a thick eyebrow, a reluctant frisson of curiosity running through his body.
"Well, I suppose you should sit down first, idiot," the messy-haired man said ungraciously, gesturing without much enthusiasm towards one of his comfy couches. "And I'll fetch you some tea." Without waiting for a response, Arthur whirled and stalked off to the kitchen. Yes, he certainly loathed Francis, but his gentlemanly onuses could never be forgotten. After all, a host's duty was to ensure the comfort of his guests, no matter how… perverted… or bloody French they just so happened to be. Just as he had put the kettle on, he heard a loud voice nattering away from the living room.
"Yes, now, mon ami!" Francis jabbered into his cellphone. "Yes, at le Anglettere's home! Hurry up." Arthur's mouth gaped open as he made eye contact with the Frenchman.
"Y-You… you can't just invite people to my house without consulting me!" Seemingly undisturbed, Francis smirked and terminated the call with unnecessary flair, batting his eyelashes.
"Alfred's on his way already, Arthur," he hummed silkily, dangling the cellphone in front of his face. "Unless you would like to call him off?" Green eyes narrowed, the Englishman stomped towards Francis and extended his hand for the phone. "But he's gone to so much trouble," Francis pouted, shoving the cellphone into his pocket hastily. "Surely you wouldn't want to let his efforts go to waste?"
"What efforts?" Arthur relented, drawing back in disinclination. Like it or not, Francis had him there. He knew of Arthur and Alfred's brotherly relationship- after all, Arthur had practically raised Alfred- and he knew how the Englishman would hate to see Alfred crestfallen.
"You'll just have to see," came the annoying response, and the blonde huffed, making his way back to the kitchen. "And oh, where's my wine, Anglettere?"
"You're getting tea," Arthur hissed, his green eyes crackling, and the Frenchman dissolved into a fit of laughter. Honestly. "Idiot," he muttered under his breath as he arranged his scones and chocolate chip cookies on a platter. "Prat. Wanker. Git. Sodding…. French." He carried the tea tray back into the living room and he set it down on the elegant white coffee table. With as much decorum as he could muster, he proffered his plate of treats to Francis. "Would you care for a scone or a biscuit?" Francis jabbed a finger at the offending food in horror.
"Are those what they are?" he exclaimed, his eyes filled with revulsion. "I thought they were some sort of obscure English fertiliser! Mon cher, are those even edible?"
"Yes, they bloody fucking are!" Arthur roared and Francis drew back in alarm as the British man uncharacteristically (he usually eats like a proper gentleman) crammed a scone defiantly into his mouth. "I am a-" (mumble mumble) "-fucking good cook, and if you don't want one-" (gulp) "-that's fine. But I'll have you know-" (mumble mumble) "-you're missing out," he muffled incoherently through a mouthful of scone, wildly gesticulating with his hands in an attempt to punctuate his tirade.
"Whatever you say," Francis responded insufferably with a raise of his perfectly plucked eyebrows. "But Anglettere, even you must admit that your cooking is atrocio-" The Frenchman was interrupted by the sound of Arthur's loud doorbell. Arthur stood up, plastered the most irritated expression he could muster on his face, and made for the door. Francis closed his eyes and reclined on the couch, resting his feet on the opposite armrest- something he would never be allowed to do under Arthur's watch. The Englishman's place really was quite comfortable, despite said fastidious and persnickety owner. He smiled. He would have to come over more often.
"Um, Francis?" came Arthur Kirkland's very dangerous voice. Francis opened his eyes to see a strangely calm Englishman standing in front of him. "Would you like to explain why the whole fucking world is standing on my doorstep?"