Steam billowed out when Francis opened the shower door and filled the room, effectively beginning to dampen the newspaper Arthur was trying to read. "Arthur, could you wash my back? The gym last night left me a little stiff."
"Stiff is the right word," Arthur muttered, flipping a page of his newspaper and snapping it out, "the answer is no-"
"How about-"
"And I am definitely not washing your undercarriage."
"You sound like such an old man when you say that, Arthur."
"Good, then maybe you'll be less attracted to my wrinkly balls and I won't have to touch yours."
Francis gave a lopsided grin, not bothered in the slightest at the insult to his testicles. "Constipated, are you?"
Arthur grumbled under his breath.
"Diarrhea, perhaps?"
Arthur grumbled a little louder, and Francis couldn't help but heave a heavy sigh. "You ate Indian take-away again." It was not a question, and Arthur took a moment to gather his argument.
"It was only the butter-chick-"
"You know it gives you an upset stomach, yet you keep going back! I am so glad I did not fuck you last night, I cannot imagine- I am going to throw up simply thinking about it!" Francis gagged and shut the shower door, and the rest of his speech echoed off the glass. "I told you not to eat there- I leave you alone for one night- Every time you say you will stop, that you cannot take another night after the curry and you still keep going back!" Slapping sounds soon followed and Arthur took comfort in the knowledge that Francis could still wash his own genitalia.
"I keep going back to you, don't I?" Arthur's voice was muffled, as if he only wanted the drug-dealer and accompanying police on the current page to hear.
"I don't give you an upset stomach so bad that your lovely anus bleeds shit all day." Arthur rolled his eyes, hoping that Francis may have said something a little more endearing, but appreciated the compliment to his anus nonetheless.
A moment of silence between them passed, only halted by the sound of Francis turning off the water. Once again, he opened the glass door, fully intending to walk out- only to slam himself back in the shower. Through the steam-frosted glass, Arthur could slightly make out Francis bracing himself on the tiled wall and holding his nose. "My Go- Arthur! Open a window!"
"Was in here before you came in, it's your own fault." Arthur merely turned the page of his slightly soggy newspaper.
"Arthur, I need to get groceries before we starve to death in this house."
"Off you go, then."
"Arthur, if you order anymore take-out you are going to shit yourself inside-out."
"Then you should buy groceries."
"You do not expect me to- no, how foolish of me." Francis opened the shower door again, swinging it several times in an attempt to fan the smell away, before grabbing his towel from the rack and sprinting as fast as a naked wet Frenchman can in a slippery bathroom to the bedroom.
Francis would have felt sorry for Arthur and his poor stomach had Arthur actually been making attempt at hiding his shit-eating grin.
Arthur turned another page, grinning to the sports-section. "You're wetting the carpet."
"Oh go lick a toilet bowl- because I am not cleaning that disgusting, foul, inhuman mess up!"
"Don't forget to buy toilet paper."