"You're bloody right I am upset, Francis!", he exclaimed, as he bashed his clenched fist angrily onto the table and got up, about to leave the otherwise quiet and peaceful café.

It was such an exceptionally beautiful day. Certainly not a suitable day to be arguing with someone.

Francis was resting his head in his hands, elbows on the table, seemingly unaffected by Arthur's attempt to make him feel guilty.

In fact, he thought is was quite fun to watch his friend going into a fit over something, to him, as small as being a couple of hours late to a meeting.

"You where supposed to be here hours ago, you git! Doesn't the words "Important" and "Business" exist in your vocabulary? Wait, let me guess. You couldn't be bothered to come because of some pretty lady you had to seduce?" He was gesticulating wildly, which in Arthur's case was a sign of great annoyance.

"I'm right, aren't I?", he said accusingly, as he narrowed his eyes and lowered his unusually thick, seemingly neverending eyebrows in an attempt to look infuriating.

The Frenchman flicked his wavy hair out of his eyes.

"Well, what can I say? Love is like drugs.", he said, as he shrugged his shoulders.

"Like drugs?", Arthur replied, with one of those massive eyebrows slightly raised, and with a look of minor disgust. "I really don't understand you French the least."

"Mon Dieu.", Francis muttered in his native tongue. "You Brits are so unpassionate about romance." He sighed as he shook his head in disbelief.

Leaning forwards on the table, he locked his eyes on Arthur's, determined to make him feel every single word he was about to hear.

He drew one last, deep breath before speaking.

"Love is my drug, it's my medicine. It's what fuels me. It's what pleases me. It's my all. It's my everything... It's my heroin."

In reply, Arthur tilted his head to the side, with a somewhat mocking expression.

"You French. Bloody twats the whole bunch of you.", was his words, as he slammed the door open and made his way down the street.

He got a nice parting gift from Francis, in the form of a gesture made by one certain finger.

Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland had known from the very start that they where a match made by the devil himself.