A/N: FIFA FIC. For the Germany VS England game tomorrow. There will be a sequel. Enjoy

I OWN NOTHING!

Just one more sip and Arthur would call it a night, prepared to pay the barkeep and head back to his hotel. The next day was a big one and he knew how much sleep he wouldn't be getting that night. Draining his glass, he reached for his wallet, but before his fingers could reach the fabric of his pocket, an all too enthusiastic hand slapped his back.

"Hey, Artie! Fancy seeing you here!"

That obnoxious voice, thick with accent, was hard to miss, especially with such a distinct cackle to follow. "Dammit, Gilbert, what in God's name is wrong with you?"

The silver haired Prussian plopped on the open bar stool beside the temperamental nation, signaling over the bartender to order a tall glass of beer. "Just grabbing a beer," he said, matter-of-factly before raising his hand to signal the man behind the counter once more. "Hey! Barkeep! Make that two!"

Arthur's hand rested on his pocketed wallet, more than anxious to bolt out of the bar and away from his new companion. "I see. So you're eager to get drunk tonight, is that right?"

Laughing, Gilbert reached over and grabbed Arthur's arm, bringing the green eyed nation in close for a tight brotherly squeeze. "Hell no! That second beer's for you, buddy! Although, nothing's gonna stop me from getting drunk, kesese!"

None of this was looking promising for Arthur, who was already feeling slightly tipsy from his one and only drink of the night. "Gilbert, please, I'd like to get back to my hotel room before…"

"Before what? You're not gonna sleep tonight! I know you too well, man," Gilbert said, sliding the frothy glass of liquor towards his English friend. "This one's on me."

Arthur sighed and reluctantly accepted the drink. "Thanks, Gilbert," he said, raising it to the air for a ceremonious toast. "To a good game."

Gilbert laughed and clicked his glass against the other. "To West kicking your ass," he proudly stated, bringing the glass to his lips before taking in a swig of the liquid. "Damn, this South African beer ain't so bad!"

Unfortunately, Arthur couldn't join in on Gilbert's opinion of the bar's signature drink. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" He asked sternly, his mind plagued by the thought of the next day's game.

"This beer! It's pretty good!"

"Not the fucking beer, Beilschmidt, what you said before that!"

Red eyes gazed straight through Arthur, as if they were the eyes of a child looking upon the world for the first time. "About West," he said innocently, sipping the booze in hand before his expression took a one-eighty spin for the worst. "His team is kicking your ass to the ground, Kirkland!"

Arthur took a dangerous gulp from his glass and slammed it down against the counter. "Oh, don't you even dare, Beilschmidt! I know my boys and they're ready for another win."

"With that Italian coaching them? Yeah right," he said with an eye roll. "They're too busy marveling at the wonder of boiling water. West's team is gonna plow you harder than they did Australia."

Arthur could feel the competitive rage writhe in his body, his eyes burning with an acidic luster. "You take that back," he said, gripping his glass to the point of crushing it in his hand.

"Okay," Gilbert said after a fierce silence between the two. He glanced at his glass, a devilish smirk slithering across his face. "Then let's make this interesting."

"Interesting?" For years, Arthur had juggled between being heated rivals and inseparable friends with the Prussian, and he knew what hid behind Gilbert's smirk. Stifling a lip tremor, Arthur took another sip of the beer. "What's on your mind, Gilbert?"

Gilbert's infamous cackle filled their area of the bar, his glass rising for another toast. "A bet, Kirkland. West's team wins, and you've gotta buy a round of drinks for the boys."

"And if England wins?"

"I'm not done!" The silver-haired man held his glass in the air, his eyes swirling with a storm of ideas. "You buy us drinks," he started, pausing for drama, "in ithis/i."

Arthur didn't notice the quick workings of Gilbert's free hand, its sudden slapping against the counter eliciting a small yelp from the English nation. The second his hand slipped away, a piece of paper lay on the counter and Arthur glared at it, far from amused.

"Do you always just carry a clipping from the Victoria's Secret magazine with you?"

"No. That's from Frederick's of Hollywood," Gilbert stated casually, flicking the piece of paper towards Arthur. "Wear that sexy number when you buy us drinks."

The butterflies in Arthur's stomach batted their wings at a harsher pace once his eyes caught the details of the lingerie on the paper. The thought of him serving the whole German Football team wearing…

No. Arthur was sure his boys would win. That skanky little excuse for "clothing" would never touch his flesh. He smirked and met Gilbert's gaze with a rivaling competitive edge. "I trust this will be your punishment when Germany looses?"

"If Germany looses. Which won't happen. And of course; West and I will even get a matching set," Gilbert said, a hint of pink crossing his cheeks.

Arthur laughed and rose his glass against Gilbert's. "To England's victory!"

"To Deutschland!"

Their glasses clicked and drained once a third party joined, the tall blonde sitting on the free stool on Gilbert's other side. "Bruder, what's going on?"

"HEY WEST," Gilbert yelled, clinging to his younger brother with a formidable force of love. "Artie and I are just enjoying a few drinks!"

Arthur gave Ludwig a meek smile, a new surge of competitive edge electrifying between the two blonde nations. "Evening, Ludwig," he said.

The German nation nodded back politely, signaling over the bartender.

"You know what," Arthur said, leaning forward over the counter. "The next three are on me," he said to the bartender, getting an excited laugh from Gilbert.

"Arthur, you're not supposed to buy is drinks until tomorrow night," he said to a baffled Ludwig.

Arthur smirked, waiting for the drinks to greet them at the counter before sliding them over to his German companions, raising his glass to his lips. "That's what you think," he said, taking a mighty gulp of his beer. He could almost taste his victory.

"What about tomorrow night?" Ludwig asked, taking cautious sips of his beer before deeming it worthy for consumption.

"The game, West! Arthur and I have a bet going on: loser buys the winning team drinks!"

Ludwig smiled, leaning over the counter to shoot another healthy gaze of sportsmanship towards Arthur. "Then he better be prepared. Löw can hold his liquor quite well."

And eruption of laughter roared through the bar, the tall blonde's entry into the betting game adding to the fun of the night. Arthur already accepted the fact that he wouldn't get any sleep that night; he just didn't think he'd be spending it at the bar.

A few notes:
- England's coach, Fabio Capello, is Italian. I had to throw a canon joke in there somehow. xD
- Victoria's Secret & Frederick's of Hollywood are notorious stores for selling women's underwear, the latter better known for selling lingerie.
- I have no idea how well Joachim Löw [the German coach] can hold his liquor, but for this fic's sake...XD

~erbby