Arthur almost felt sorry for the poor fitting-room assistant, the key word being 'almost'. He had been on the receiving end of one of Francis's many temper tantrums –and they really were tantrums- on more than one occasion, so he could sympathise with the zit-faced, quaky-kneed, 'I'm-definitely-not-getting-paid-enough-for-this' teenager who was currently shaking in his boots.

Almost, because being an onlooker was proving to be incredibly entertaining, even if he did have to act as Francis's makeshift shopping trolley.

"Listen here, if I said I do not need a bigger size, then I do not need a bigger size." Francis mumbled something in French that Arthur snorted a laugh at and the young once fresh-faced adolescent swallowed at. "Ah, sorry, I forgot I am dealing with the English-speaking world. If you would be so kind as to fetch me my correct size? The smaller one?"

"Y-Yes, sir!"

As the youth scampered away, Francis heaved a dramatic sigh, to which Arthur rolled his eyes at. His bottom lip began to poke out, and Arthur knew what was coming. Big fat blue eyes were turned to him -and they could really only be described as big and fat-, and Francis's love of theatre reared its ugly head.

Long hair gently swept back, hand to his heart. "Arthur? Do you think I'm-"

"No."

"-beautiful?" Arthur bit his tongue at Francis's mock hurt expression, only betrayed by the slight smirk taking over his pout. Francis gasped and clutched his head mid-swoon. "You don't think so? You think me ugly?"

"No."

"Filthy?"

"No!"

"Old?"

"Well, we are nearing our forties-"

"Fat?"

"We're both getting a bit soft around the middle, it's you and that damned French style with the cream and-"

"Oh, Arthur! Such hurtful words! Oh, agony! Death! Death! Where? Only the sweet sting of death-!"

"Are you quite done?"

"Pity the heart of sorrow-!"

"What will it take to make you shut up?"

Immediately Francis's stance was tall and straight, entirely businessman-like. He started intently at Arthur from around the tower of clothes he held. "I get to buy the socks without you-"

"THAT'S-"

"-or, you take me to the new French restaurant that opened down the corner, and you know how gastronomically attuned I am. If it does not please me, I will complain about it for days on end until your ears fall off. I could easily take lunch with Antonio one day, but should you choose this option, every waking hour of your existence around me will be hell, and may I remind you that we live together." Francis leaned in close to Arthur, staring straight into his eyes with their noses touching. "Do you want to take that chance, Monsieur Kirkland?"

Arthur swallowed and considered for a moment. "Two argyle pairs-"

"Non."

"At least one!"

"Alright, but only because they are warm and practical." Francis grabbed Arthur's hand from under the clothes and shook it, nearly toppling the entire tower. "Pleasure doing business with you, mon cher." And then he kissed Arthur on the cheek and slunk away in the direction of the socks.

Arthur shook his head, once again unwittingly the victim of his boyfriend- house-mate's silly French antics, and was left with pile of unpaid for clothes. It wasn't the first time, and definitely not the last, and Arthur found himself suddenly overcome with emotion at the thought.

Idly he searched around for the cash register when he heard heavy breathing. The assistant from earlier came skidding around the corner of the fitting-rooms, scrabbling against the wall for leverage with his full hands before he managed to turn and brake just in front of Arthur.

"E-Excuse me, sir," he said to Arthur, "where is your husband?"

Hands busy with five pairs of argyle socks, Francis could not contain his grin at the echoing screams of the once fitting-room assistant.