Author's note: This is a sequel of sorts to 'Of Family, Friends and Football'.
Of Family, Thugs and Gentlemen
Gilbert knew that he was indeed, awesome. Only an awesome person could learn how to play rugby in ten minutes, he decided.
Then again, considering that Arthur was not only one of the rare people who could perfectly explain the offside rule in football, but was also capable of explaining the laws of cricket, perhaps it was no surprise that Gilbert grasped the basics of the sport in no time.
"Football is a gentleman's game played by thugs," the Englishman continued to explain, "and rugby is a thug's game played by gentlemen."
Gilbert pondered over that for a few seconds. "Is there some stupid cryptic English meaning in that phrase that I just don't understand?"
Arthur shrugged. "Actually it just means we get to beat the pudding out of other people in pretense of playing a sport, and get cheered by all sorts at the same time."
"Awesome."
"I rather thought you would say that." Arthur cocked his head a little to the side and frowned. "Are you sure you want to play rugby with us? It's not going to be pretty."
"It sure as hell would be prettier than what West has in store for me when he finds out what happened to his credit limit," Gilbert said, and shuddered. Perhaps nicking his brother's credit card and putting it to what Gilbert had felt were justified expenses was not such an awesome idea after all. "Besides," he added, "how hard could it be?"
The grin on Arthur's face could only be described as evil.
--x--
Two hours later, Gilbert wished that instead of going to Arthur's he had gone somewhere else instead of playing rugby with the man and his brothers, or at the very least, agreed to do something less painful. Like agreeing to undergo the Chinese water torture. Taking several hits in the head from a certain Hungarian's frying pan. Staying at home to face Ludwig's wrath, and facing the following cruel and unusual punishment of cleaning the whole house armed only with a kiddie toothbrush. Eating Arthur's cooking – repeatedly.
Sure, there were rules, but after a while almost everyone seemed to ignore them and decided that it was all right to tackle and pound someone into the dirt just because he happened to be holding the wretched ball. He was developing a suspicion that the bastards were letting him get the ball on purpose, just so they could have an excuse of grinding his face in the mud.
At least he could catch his breath whenever the game was interrupted by one of the many arguments between the players, where someone would accuse someone of being a cheat, and then the inevitable someone taking sides – usually against Arthur – and of course, the minimum ten minutes of yelling before someone finally remembered that this was supposed be a friendly, brotherly-bonding activity.
Gilbert shook his head. He certainly did not have this, 'Oh no, I'm not playing with him'' or 'No we don't want him in our team' let's-torture-our-younger-sibling nonsense when he was bringing up his younger brother. "West," he muttered to himself, "you should be immensely grateful that I'm such a fucking awesome older brother."
Unlike these crazies, he silently added.
Scotland was generally angry all the time, at everyone and everything. Arthur even told him the man even yelled when asleep. It was almost like having that sour-faced Italian brat around, but at least all Gilbert had to do to get Lovino to shut up was to yell back and then watch him run to hide behind Antonio, or sputter something in Italian before leaving the scene in tears. Yelling at the Scotsman was just pointless because he would just yell back even louder.
Ireland – well, he was less angrier than Scotland most of the time, which was not saying much. The man did however, share his Scottish brother's penchant for taunting their English younger sibling.
Wales seemed to be the most sane one out of the lot; the man generally minded his own business – and he was also somewhat nicer. Except of course, when someone was insulting rugby or snooker. Or accused him of doing anything rude with sheep. He was not playing this particular game of rugby though, content to watch the whole thing from a deck chair while sipping a glass of lemonade, much to the disappointment of his English sibling, who really wanted the man to play on his side.
One of the things all the British Isles siblings had in common though, was their ability to throw insults at each other at a rate that made Gilbert almost dizzy in trying to follow the conversation. It certainly did not help that their strong lilts and accents were a bit hard to make out – plus, it also very certainly did not help that Arthur kept switching accents every other minute. He was pretty sure that the others were switching accents too, but he was not familiar with their speech yet to be certain.
Wales must have taken pity on him (not that Gilbert needed any of that, he was so awesome he was sure he could figure it out in no time) looking more than just a bit confused in one of the many fast-paced flurry of insulting matches and decided to engage him in small talk. "You'll get used to it after a while," he said from the sidelines.
"Hmm," Gilbert replied, his eyes narrowed as he tried to follow the very loud and angry conversation in front of him.
"They all do that."
"Do what?"
"Switch accents whenever they argue. England tends to switch between Geordie and Brummie when he's shouting at those two, and when he's really upset he starts talking like a Scouser."
"That's when he talks really fast, right?"
The man nodded. "Ireland's talking like an Ulsterman right now, but he'll switch to speaking like a Dubliner. And Scotland–" This was followed by a complicated explanation of Highland and Lowland accents, as well as something called 'nedspeak' which only puzzled Gilbert further.
Oh hell. Fortunately none of them had lapsed into speaking Gaelic. And Wales was at least making an effort to speak a bit more clearly, although his lilt was rather distracting.
"Look, if the bastard sprouts wings and a halo and is dressed in a white frock, just run in the opposite direction as fast as you can."
"Why the fuck should I run from someone dressed in a... dress?"
"Because that means he's furious enough to turn you into a worm and then feed you to your pet chicken, that's why."
"Oh."
After some more conversation about the siblings, Gilbert discovered that apparently Scotland and Ireland played rugby against their younger brother all the time, who would have to stand up to them on his own. Wales was expressly forbidden to play rugby with any of them on the pain of being hung, drawn and quartered.
"So how come you never let the Welsh guy play?" he asked when the rest gave up on the pretense of playing the rugby game and decided to stop for the day.
Scotland made a face. "He cheats."
"I do not cheat!" protested the accused.
"Ye dae cheat."
"You're just saying that because you're jealous I'm better at rugby than you. You lose to me all the time."
"Only 'coz ye cheat, sheep-shagger."
"Who the hell are you calling a sheep-shagger, you haggis-eating, Irn-Bru-drinking–" The rest of the Welshman's angry tirade was conducted in an odd, sing-song language that Gilbert could not understand, but it did not matter – it was likely a string of insults anyway, judging from the angry tone of voice.
Gilbert hastily revised his opinion that Arthur's Welsh sibling was the most normal one out of the lot, as the person in question immediately began a melee with a manic grin.
He recalled that once, a long time ago, Francis postulated at length on his belief that the reason Arthur and his brothers had such a mean and violent streak was because they were an island race. Perhaps Francis was right; while Gilbert did not know Arthur from childhood like Francis did, he certainly knew that even though Arthur tried put an impression on others that he was a proper gentleman, the man still had one hell of a temper. Judging from the stories he had heard about Arthur's brothers when they were younger, as well as his limited exposure to them, the man's siblings were not all that different either. Gilbert thought that they all talked funny and were absolutely capable of some rather spectacular acts of bravery and violence. Both him and Ludwig certainly witnessed some of that in war.
Perhaps it was a good thing, Gilbert mused, that most of time the British Isles siblings were kept busy squabbling among themselves on their home turfs, instead of taking things across the ocean and putting all that violent enthusiasm against other nations. Well, only Arthur did quite a bit of that, but the man did it to such extremes that he just had to make a huge Empire out of it all. And from what Gilbert had gathered in some of Arthur's more inebriated moments, while his superiors' wish for better economy and prestige had something to do with the whole colonising business, Arthur did it mostly because he just got tired of his weather and wanted some sunshine to play some decent sports in.
What was the saying again? Something about mad dogs and Englishmen going out in the midday sun?
"Your brothers are like this all the time?"
Arthur nodded.
"No wonder you've got plenty of issues," he told Arthur.
The Englishman shrugged. "That's what most people tell me. Fancy going inside and have something to drink?"
"Sure."
--x--
"Let's play s'more rugby," Ireland suggested after their afternoon meal. Wales had done the cooking, his other two brothers had kept a very annoyed Arthur out of his own kitchen, while Gilbert had been sent to the shops to get some milk and vegetables. While the resulting food was certainly nothing like what Gilbert was used to, it at least did not kill him.
"Actually, his people's food aren't that bad. It's just that Arthur himself can't cook," Wales had explained earlier.
"Why is that?"
"I think one of his spells went wrong when he was younger. He was trying to set the plague on some of us and he forgot some stupid magic ingredient, so the whole thing backfired. Turned out that everything he tried to cook afterwards was just poison to everyone but him."
"It's raining," Gilbert pointed out in response to Ireland's suggestion.
"A wee bit of rain never 'urt anyone. Or let's play inside de gaff."
It was, admittedly, only one word, but it was the way it was said it that it had completely settled – to Gilbert at least – the question as to who among the British Isles siblings put the 'Great' in Great Britain.
"Inside?" the Englishman said, his teacup raised in mid-air. Under other circumstances Gilbert would have laughed at how ridiculous the man looked with his little finger sticking out as he daintily held his teacup, but that oh-so-vicious glare sent shivers down everyone's spine at a temperature so cold its measurement would be done in Kelvin, instead of bothering with wussy Celsius.
"Never mind," Ireland hastily withdrew his suggestion of playing indoors.
"Any bevvy? Other than tea?" Scotland complained.
Guessing correctly that 'bevvy' meant 'drink', Gilbert offered, "I brought some beer."
The man's eyes brightened. "Arthur," he ordered, "bring some of 'at."
"Get it yourself," snapped the younger brother.
"Be a sport," Wales placated. "Get me one too, please?"
Arthur harrumphed. "Oh, all right," he grumbled.
The Scotsman made a face at him. "Feckin' ned."
"Knuckle-dragging chav scum," Arthur retorted before he disappeared to get the beer.
Why do they all treat him like that? Gilbert wondered. When he realised that everyone else in the room was looking at him, he realised that he must have spoken his thought aloud.
"Ah, 'tis ter build character."
"Och aye, it's fer character-buildin'."
"Character-building?"
Ireland nodded furiously, a gesture copied by the rest. "Yer think our Arthur got all that courage on 'is own? We 'ad ter be mean when Arthur was younger, so the fella could learn ter stand up for 'imself."
"Too gentle for his own good when he was really little," Wales explained. "We decided that I'd be a bit nicer to him though."
"We did nae want Arthur to grow up tae be a coward."
Gilbert blinked. "So you bullied him when he was a kid so he could grow up to be a pirate and then make colonies wherever he went?"
Scotland nodded. "The pirate was an unexpected bonus, but aye."
"We're proud of him though. Can't believe that sniffly green-eyed thing would grow up to be one heck of a man."
"But if yer let Arthur know we said that, we'll kill yer."
Gilbert could only force a grin and then nod at the combined killing glares.
--x--
"How drunk is he?" Wales asked when Gilbert went into the kitchen to get another beer. It was easy to guess to whom the man was referring – the Englishman seemed to be the only brother who could not hold his drink.
"Not much. Arthur hasn't started crying over that stupid Alfred yet."
"No, he doesn't sob like a stupid little girl over that idiot Yank if any of us are around. Strange, but true."
Probably because all of them would be busy fighting each other or insulting France, but Gilbert kept that thought to himself.
"What are the rest doing anyway?"
"Yelling at Francis for putting the 'e' in Concorde. What does it matter anyway? The stupid plane's not flying any more."
"It matters because it's that frog's fault."
--x--
The next few days were spent in relative calm, as Arthur's siblings had gone back to their respective homes, while his guest kept himself entertained with the video game systems in the spare bedroom that Peter used whenever the micronation came to visit. Little did Arthur know that Gilbert had also somehow stumbled upon his porn collection and had nicked a few things.
The phone rang, and Arthur promptly took the call. "Hello?"
"Is he there?"
"Oh, Ludwig. How are–"
"Is. Gilbert. There," Ludwig growled. For some reason Arthur was reminded of that one time he went to a circus and saw a hungry tiger being taunted by its trainer with a fat slab of raw meat.
Arthur pondered between telling the truth, or fibbing to save Gilbert from fraternal wrath. On one hand, a gentlemanly host is supposed to ensure that his guests would be protected from harm as long as they were under his roof. On the other hand, hell hath no fury like an angry German who just found out his elder brother had single-handedly increased the national deficit.
Oh hell, Gilbert's three days were up anyway. "Yes, your brother's here. Do you want to speak to him?"
"No, I do not want to speak to him. What I actually want to do to him," the man replied, and Arthur distinctly heard the unpleasant sound of Ludwig cracking his knuckles, "does not require any speaking on my behalf."
What did happen to that tiger anyway? Oh yes, if Arthur recalled correctly, the feline broke free of its chain and mauled its trainer. Lovely.
"Oh my," Arthur said, feigning innocence, "is he in trouble?"
Ludwig's laugh sounded vaguely psychotic. "In a manner of speaking. I'll be right there," the German replied before he hung up.
Arthur wondered if he should warn Gilbert that his very angry younger brother was on the way. Oh well, why not. It was the least he could do.
Unable to find his guest in the house, he set outside into the garden and with little difficulty, located the man. Gilbert was asleep in one of the deck-chairs, his little pet bird dozing on his head. For some inexplicable reason, there was a little rabbit nudging his leg. The man seemed to attract them whenever he went into the garden.
Arthur had been amused at Gilbert's reaction when one of his brothers had suggested having rabbit for dinner, considering how the Prussian was a walking magnet for the fluffy critters. Gilbert's response was to that had been to pick up the poor confused animal and running away, shrieking something about what evil freaks they all were and how cute things should not be eaten. It had taken some coaxing and promises of Not Consuming Cute Animals before he would return to the house.
"Hey, wake up," he said, shaking Gilbert by the shoulder.
"Grhhhhmmpph."
Arthur sighed. "Your brother's on his way here."
Gilbert promptly awakened. "Oh shit!" he swore, nearly falling out of the chair.
"Actually, he's already here."
Both of them turned to find Ludwig standing right behind them, looking incredibly, incredibly angry. He would make a rival for Lovino, with that red face.
"Now, West–" Gilbert hastily began, getting up and then slowly backing away, laughing nervously.
"I can't believe you used my credit card! And–"
Ludwig never got to finish his tirade, for Gilbert had wisely turned and fled. The tall blond gave a stiff nod to Arthur before he ran in pursuit, yelling rude things in German.
"Mind my roses!" Arthur shouted after them, but it was unlikely that they heard him, not with all the threats Ludwig was yelling and the sorry excuses Gilbert was shouting in reply.
Oh well, brothers will be brothers, Arthur thought, regardless of where they came from. They annoyed the hell out of you, but they were still family. And being a family meant sticking together in times of need, and the fact that they gave you headaches in other times was just a small price to pay. His brothers certainly did that. Most of the time, he hastily amended.
"Stupid Krauts," he muttered, and then went in search of some tea.