This was written regarding the next match between the teams from France and Spain taking place in March 2010 in St. Denis, which I realize is 4 years ago and also Spain won the world cup eventually, but this was 4 months in the future for me at the time of writing, so I didn't know. And yes, I am referring to the FIFA handing the French team a victory they did not deserve over North Ireland, hence the reference to England and his brother.

It was supposed to be a friendly soccer match, but France's expression was nothing short of thunderous when Spain arrived at the field the afternoon before their teams played. Why, he did not even try to cop a feel after Spain sidled up and gave him a hug in greeting. Not that Spain would have noticed such a thing, but eventually, the silent frostiness emanating from the other nation made itself apparent to him.

"France, is there something wrong?" he asked meekly as they changed into their uniforms in an empty locker room.

With a forced grin that bordered on a grimace, France replied, "Non, non. It is nothing of concern to you at any rate, so do not worry about it." He turned away to check his reflection, tying his long hair back so that it stayed out of his eyes, but Spain was still watching him warily.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do, you look so upset," Spain tried once more, and France sighed dramatically, shaking his head.

"Forgive me, Spain, I have been a terrible host," France murmured, leaning over to kiss him on both cheeks with a half-smile on his lips. "There, shall we start over again? Welcome to St. Denis, mon cher, I have been waiting to see you for a long time~."

Nodding, Spain returned the kisses enthusiastically, and France patted him on the bum to show willing. "And I'm really glad to be here! Ah, so, let's just play football for a little bit, France, I'm sure it will take your mind off of whatever it is that's bothering you."

"…Err, yes, of course." He figured it would not do any good to admit that it was his national team's scandalous qualification for the World Cup playoffs which had been putting him into a constant bad mood. Not to mention, England and his even more foul-tempered brother would not let him hear the end of it, and his first and last attempt to explain himself nearly ended in a fight. That, combined with the Spanish team's practically perfect record so far…

"How about we make this a little more interesting?" France suggested, a little too casually. "Maybe a prize for the winner? Or a penalty for the loser?"

"But our teams are both in the playoffs, what could we possibly-?"

"No, I meant between ourselves, just you and me," France said, gracing Spain with a signature wink and leer. Green eyes blinking in confusion, Spain gaped at him, and then he laughed.

"All right, all right, sure. I'm up for anything you decide, as long as the penalty doesn't cost me too much."

"Trust me, it is something you can afford. And is there anything you want if you win? I would be… at your service." Though he doubted he would lose against his brother nation, France was always and forever the opportunist, no matter the situation.

"Gracias, but a flawless victory against you will be enough for me," Spain replied, grinning back at him cheekily.

"Oho, brave words, mon ami, seeing as only one of us has won the World Cup before, and I do not believe that was you."

Chuckling, Spain grabbed a ball from a bin and tossed it to France, who kicked it up into the air and caught it. "Enough talking, I say we prove who's better at football on the field. Come on!"

They decided to tally the points after an hour, or however long it took to break a draw if the score tied at the end of the hour. Since they were the only ones playing, with no other player to pass to or defend the goal, the score would depend on each nation's speed, agility, accuracy and experience. But both France and Spain were more or less evenly matched in all areas, and so the deciding factors would have to take in account France's tendency towards playing dirty (especially when the clock threatened to run overtime) and if Spain will remain completely oblivious to that fact.

As it turned out, with one side known for its offense and the other for its defense, they remained goalless after forty minutes. Being similar in speed and build, each player could not break free with the ball before the opponent caught up and kicked the ball away to his side. Then there were the nit-picky issues of out of bounds, offsides and self-refereed fouls, which Spain and France eventually ignored in favor of just trying to get the ball within shooting distance of the goal.

Completely absorbed in the sport, Spain found himself mentally flailing for a strategy to defeat France's iron defense. The other nation played cautiously, which meant he rarely struck out for his goal even when he had a good chance of making a point, preferring to prevent Spain from scoring at any cost. But he had little time to muse over a strategy, his thoughts leaping and tumbling in a rush to catch up with his bones and muscles and tendons, moving with the sole purpose of making a goal. Kick, feint, dash, block, duck, shoot, fake…

France, on the other hand, felt the gloomy thoughts of the past few months lift as he played. His team had studied the Spanish team by watching replays (which he enjoyed for another reason entirely), the coaches formulating counter-strategies to their offensive power. None of which applied to this particular situation, of course. All he could think of to do was keep the goal safe, and maybe "bumping" into Spain a little more often than necessary, helped by the fact that Spain was not shy when it came to keeping control of the ball.

With only ten minutes left in the hour, France managed to break free of Spain, and he raced towards the goal, making a shot that should have gone in and ensured his win. But Spain had stepped up at the last possible moment, ruining his aim and causing both nations to stumble and fall. They crashed to the ground in a heap of tangled arms and legs. Too frantic to take advantage of this otherwise ideal accident, France looked up in dismay to see the ball go wide, rolling to a halt and bumping askew of the goal post.

"Ah, that counts, that counts! I scored first!" France shouted victoriously, attempting to disentangle himself from Spain.

"No way, the ball didn't actually go into the cage!" Spain protested, grabbing onto France's waist and almost de-pantsing him in the process. "I'm not counting that, score's still 0-0!"

They struggled to their feet and ran over to where the innocent ball lay on the grass.

"From this angle, it looks like it went in," France said at last, while Spain shook his head in denial. They continued arguing as they jogged back to the center of the field, only pausing while Spain, furious at having conceded even an almost-but-not-quite-goal to France, kicked the ball hard enough for it to land squarely in between the goalposts fifty meters away.

Staring aghast at the ecstatic Spain, France uttered a disappointed sigh and shook his head. That goal definitely counted, no doubt. Now he was losing, on both counts… unless he could…

When they did the kick-off again, France lobbed the ball high and far into the air, until it almost disappeared into the light of the sun. Spain dashed forward, chin lifted, eyes squinting against the glare as he tried to follow the ball's progress, and then he felt a heavy body tackling him face-first into the turf from behind.

"Oof!"

France then let the time run down as he covered Spain's dirt-smeared face with kisses. Spain, torn between laughter and anger, opted for the former, returning France's ill-timed affection with his own irrepressible enthusiasm until both were absolutely breathless. They lay in each other's arms like that, crushing blades of grass below them, basking in the warm French sun above them, cheeks flushed and hearts racing in exhilarated rhythm that could not be completely accounted for by their exertion of the last hour.

Finally, when they had tasted enough of each other's mouths and France had rested his cheek against the crook of Spain's neck, making a contented purring noise as the other nation stroked his hair, Spain yawned and murmured softly, "I won, you know."

"I suppose you did," France replied, not wanting to argue anymore.

"Mmm…"

"So, what is my punishment?" France asked after a brief silence, nuzzling Spain's ear.

"I think you are going to have to help me wash all this mud off. You were the one who got it on me, by tackling me. Which was a foul, by the way."

"Very true." France looked into Spain's eyes, and smiled to see that his "foul" was met with 100% approval from his opponent.

As they walked to the locker room showers, arms around each other's shoulders, they forgot to check where France's kick landed and thus failed to notice that a sudden brisk breeze had eased the ball into the shadow of the goal posts.

It didn't really matter. They both won, as far as France was concerned. That afternoon and twice later that evening, in fact. Because, after all, sometimes it paid to play dirty.