The first trigger was the accordions.

The second was the alcohol.

The third was his little soon-to-be-lover, sitting all alone in some corner of the club with only his drink and brain to entertain him.

Francis clicked his tongue. He couldn't let such a cute, lonely long-time enemy spend the night by himself, could he?

He sauntered over to Arthur and rested a hand on his shoulder, snatching away the drink and grinning down at him. "Bonjour, mon ami."

"Bugger off," the Brit groaned, snatching at his drink in a failed attempt to retrieve it. "I don't want to talk to you."

"I'm not asking for you to talk to me, Arthur, dear." Francis winked, placed the glass out of Arthur's reach, and grasped his hands and pulled him away from the bar. "I'm asking for you to dance with me."

"No." His dearest snatched his hands back. "I shan't do it."

"Let me rephrase that- I'm demanding that you dance with me." Francis grinned and snatched up Arthur's hands again, one arm around his waist for security as he dragged him out to the dance floor.

The music was loud, and the beats were so powerful Francis could feel his body pulse each time a low note sounded. He smirked as their bodies were crushed together, the throng of moving people around them making escape on Arthur's part impossible.

Francis wrapped one arm round the Brit's torso and the other hand grasped his fingers, and he was surprised when a cocky grin met his pleased smirk.

"Seems as though I'm stuck," Arthur yelled over the music, though through the noise it sounded like a murmur, "I might as well have some fun."

"Be my guest, mon chère lapin." The Frenchman grinded his hips down on the Brit's, grinning like a wild beast as he leaned forward to whisper Arthur's name.

And they moved for a while, dipping and swinging and yelling their heads off at one another for "purposely stepping on my toes" or any other ridiculous accusation that may or may not have been true.

Perhaps an hour passed, or half an hour, or ten minutes- either way they left the dance floor to return to the bar, sweating and flushed with more than the heat of the room.

"Forgive me," a breathless Arthur started, "but I must be leaving now." He snatched up his coat.

"You'll need a driver, non?" Francis grasped the Brit's arm. "You've just had alcohol- as a caring, concerned friend I cannot allow you to go home alone."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You just want an excuse to come home with me."

Francis quirked an eyebrow, not denying the accusation at all. Who was he to lie?

"No funny business- got it, frog?" The Brit got into his coat and slipped out of the building, Francis following quickly and quite eagerly.

The drive home was dull, considering the two occupying the car- most of it was spent in pensive silence on Francis' part, anyway- he had no idea what Arthur was thinking and quite frankly was too focused on devising a plan to jump him to care and somewhat awkward glances about whenever the car stopped.

Thankfully there were no complications, and Arthur parked his car and got them inside in one piece.

The Brit instantly dumped his coat on the hanger and wandered into his kitchen, clearly for some tea- it was his second favorite thing, next to drinking and ragging on Francis.

Named followed the slimmer man into the kitchen.

"Want a cup?"

Why not? "Oh- merci." Francis shot Arthur a small, somewhat flirtatious smile and sidled up beside him.

His response was a slight blush complete with furious glare. No actual protests, which was good- the best thing about the Englishman under the influence was that he was somewhat looser, not as quick to reject everything that was handed to him.

The sound of bubbling water was the only sound as they fell into a tense silence- no amount of alcohol could make Arthur forget the somewhat ritualistic, force-of-habit hate they felt for each other- and stared long and hard at miscellaneous objects, waiting for the other to speak first.

Francis heard something of a snap/click hybrid and looked up- the Brit had turned the stove off.

The Frenchman turned his gaze towards Arthur. "What about-"

"Come here." The smaller ducked out of the kitchen and perched on the big black sofa in his living room, leaning back against it with a sigh.

A curious and slightly apprehensive Francis obeyed without question, standing before the Brit with his hands hooked in his jeans pockets. "What is it?"

A slender, pale hand reached out and grasped onto the front of his shirt and yanked him down.

"I hate you," Arthur whispered, as if this was anything new.

And then he pressed their lips together and nothing else mattered.