A/N: I do not own hetalia
/On the field I remember you were incredible
Hey shut up, hey shut up, yeah
On the field I remember you were incredible
Hey shut up, hey shut up, yeah
On the match with the boys, you think you're all alone
With the pain that you drain from love
In a car with a girl, promise me she's not your world
Cause Andy, you're a star/ -Andy you're a star, The killers
Arthur Kirkland was possibly the sanest person to ever work at Lambeau Stadium. At least, that's what he thought to himself nearly every day as he pulled in for work. Paying off college loans, he would promise himself as the thousands of Wisconsinites flooded this madhouse. Need to pay off the loans, he would mumble under his breath when his audacious French boss would flirt with him. I'm in debt, he would say as he would clean up after the drunk American idiots. But of course he knew this wasn't the only reason he stayed. He stayed because, while the rest of those sweaty rugby players left the stadium straight after the game, one of them always stayed behind. One of them, Alfred F. Jones, came to Arthur's little pub inside the stadium after every game. He had a drink or two. And then he left. And that was easily the best part of Arthur's day.
It was nearing that time, Arthur realized. He dumped the rest of the empty soda cups into the rubbish can, brushed his apron off, and tried to look nonchalant as he wiped down an already clean glass.
"Hey." A cocky smile and mussed blond hair entered Arthur's line of vision. "One Budweiser, please."
This was it. Arthur was going to do it. He was going to talk to him. He set the beer on the counter and cleared his throat nervously.
"You did well out there today."
"You're British." said the other, cocking his head and furrowing his eyebrows.
"So?" Arthur snapped, turning away.
"Hey," Alfred reached over the counter and very slightly tapped his shoulder. "No need ta get all angry. I just never heard ya talk before."
"Thank you for coming, leave the money on the counter."
Arthur could sense that the American hesitated for almost five minutes before sighing, placing something on the bar, and walking away. His shoes clicked all the way to the door, paused, then continued to echo down the hallway. Bollocks, Arthur thought as he scooped up the money and sighed. He always did this, he always pushed people away. The towheaded Englishman looked forlornly at the bills scrunched in his fist and accepted the fact that this very well may be the last time he ever saw Alfred F. Jones, star rookie quarterback...up close, that is.