This is a high school alternative universe story. I really wanted to write something involving a Prussia who was completely in denial about his feelings for cute l'il Matthew. So here's my attempt. Sorry if there's any grammar/spelling mistakes, or errors involving hockey (I know as much about the sport as Gilbert does). Please review, and I hope you enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
Matthew's eyes were trained on the puck. He darted in front of the other team's centre forward and shot a look at Berwald, who nodded almost imperceptibly back. Then in one swift movement, Matthew knocked the puck away from the other team's defence, straight to his Swedish friend. Berwald hesitated, taking a slow step forward as Matthew sped towards the goal, lining himself up for the perfect shot.
One glance was all it took for Berwald to send the puck straight to Matthew's hockey stick. Now it was just between him and the defender. Matthew feinted to the left, and to his delight the keeper followed, leaving the right hand side of the goal free. Free for Matthew to whack the puck straight into the back of the net.
And that, Gilbert thought, leaning back into his seat in the stands, is why they made him Captain. He had shifted forwards, watching with wide eyes, as Matthew lined up the shot to score, but now he relaxed again. Most of the (admittedly tiny: the game coincided with a soccer match, and the soccer stadium was much warmer than the hockey one) crowd was watching the other team's keeper attempt to destroy the goal.
Apparently, he thought that a combination of swearwords and furious swipes with his stick would make it fall apart before him. Gilbert, however, had his eyes firmly fixed on Matthew. As (though he would never admit it) they had been for the entirety of the match.
The home team had engulfed their captain in a massive group hug, and due to the sheer size of some of the players Gilbert couldn't see Matthew's blonde head any more. But he was happy enough to remember the boy's expression after he'd scored, the triumph and pride evident on his fine-featured face, his violet eyes burning with emotion.
Gilbert smiled to himself, took another sip of his coke, and winced at the iciness of the drink against his teeth. For a person who spent so much of his time in an ice hockey stadium, Gilbert really wasn't good with the cold.
The team had finally released their crushed captain, and was now dragging him towards the changing rooms. As they skated away, Matthew glanced up at the stands and caught Gilbert's eye. He grinned, looking happier than the German boy had ever seen him, and turned back to his team-mates. Gilbert sighed, cursing the warm feeling that had bloomed inside of him when Matthew's eyes had locked onto his own, and pushed himself out of his seat.
No matter how many times he told himself that he came to these matches because he liked the tension, or the skill the players showed, or even the crappy drinks they sold, there was really no denying it. Gilbert came to these games because he liked the captain. And that meant that he was royally screwed.
As he pushed his way through the rows of seats towards the exit, Gilbert's mobile vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, ignoring the large, "No phones," sign directly above him, and pressed the device to his ear. "Yo," he said tiredly, "What's up?" There was a coughing noise that was obviously supposed to indicate disapproval (even though in Gilbert's opinion, it sounded more like a dying rabbit) and Ludwig's voice said snootily, "I really do wish you wouldn't use those vulgar Americanisms."
Gilbert rolled his eyes, almost at the door out of the stadium now, and threw his half-empty drink at a nearby trash can. It missed and hit the floor, leaking brown liquid onto the worn grey carpet. "What is it, Lud?" he called down the phone to his brother. "Where are you?" Ludwig replied.
Gilbert shoved open the door and walked out into the grey drizzle of a rainy Tuesday afternoon. "Hockey match," he muttered, yanking his hood up to cover his distinctive white hair. There was a pause, in which Gilbert found half a packet of gum in his pocket, then Ludwig said pointedly, "Again?"
Gilbert kicked moodily at a can on the floor and trudged on through the rain towards the parking lot. "Yes," he snapped at his brother, "What's it to you, anyway?" Gilbert hated that Ludwig was so uptight and judgmental. He also hated that his younger brother knew him so well and could read him like a particularly easy book.
"I was just thinking," Ludwig continued, his voice sharp and clipped, "You've been spending an awful lot of time at hockey matches. For someone who doesn't know anything about hockey."
Finally, Gilbert arrived at his car, a horrendously bashed up yellow thing with one red door (it's a long story). He rummaged in his pocket for his keys, fumbled for the lock and threw himself down onto the blissfully warm, dry front seat. "Hockey's awesome," he snapped down the phone.
Ludwig didn't seem convinced. "Right," he said, "Anyway, Gil, I just wanted to know what time you'll be home." Now it was Gilbert's turn to smirk as he ran a hand through his damp white hair. "Why?" he asked snidely, "Are you having company?"
Gilbert could almost hear Ludwig blushing, even through the phone. He snickered to himself. It was just too easy to wind his brother up. "No!" the younger boy insisted, "Well, I mean, um, just some friends." Gilbert rolled his ruby red eyes. "Friends" translated as "Feliciano", Ludwig's hyperactive, enthusiastic, incredibly annoying buddy, who his brother had been crushing on for years. "Whatever," Gilbert said, "I'll be home in half an hour. Alright?"
Ludwig let out a long sigh that his brother was sure he must have practised beforehand. "Yes, bruder," he replied, and Gilbert hung up with a flourish. Why, he thought to himself as he pulled out of the parking space, couldn't his parents have stopped after one child?
As Gilbert waited (impatiently) in the queue to get out of the parking lot, there was a knock on his passenger door. The albino boy whipped his head around, eyes narrowed, but relaxed when he saw that it was just Matthew, hockey stick in one hand and dripping wet, smiling nervously at him. Then Gilbert became just as agitated as before, but for an entirely different reason.
He leaned over, thanking whatever god was up there that he didn't blush easily, and pushed open the passengers door.
Matthew leant down and looked inside the small car, biting his lip. Oh, Gilbert thought before he could stop himself, how cute. Then he mentally slapped himself, and reminded his brain that he didn't think things like that. That he was a perfectly normal (yet awesome) teenage boy, who most certainly did not think that their friend was the cutest thing since Bambi.
"Hi," Matthew was saying, "Um… I know this is a bit rude, but do you think you could give me a lift home?" Gilbert sighed to himself as he nodded resignedly. With the fact that Matthew lived on the same road as he did, and the adorable hopeful eyes that the younger boy was aiming at him, he really didn't have a choice.
Matthew smiled gratefully and climbed into the car, throwing his hockey stick and kit bag onto the back seat. Gilbert pulled out onto the road and glanced at his companion. The boy was soaking wet, his blonde hair dripping onto Gilbert's passenger seat, rain glinting off his pale forehead. He was also possibly the most beautiful thing that the albino boy had ever seen.
"So," Gilbert drawled after a few minutes of silence, "Good game. That last goal was awesome." Matthew blushed a delicate pink and smiled, embarrassed. "Thanks," he said in his quiet voice, "I think we've got a good chance of winning the Johnson cup this year." There was a pause, in which Gilbert racked his brains for any knowledge at all about the Johnson cup.
"It's the state championship prize," Matthew explained, putting his friend out of his misery. Gilbert nodded slightly too enthusiastically. "I knew that," he lied. Matthew laughed, a wonderful tinkling sound that seemed to fill Gilbert's head. And the German boy did the one thing that he never did: he blushed.
As they drove down the highway, the boys conversed with the easiness of two friends who'd known each other since before they could remember. There weren't many kids in their neighbourhood, and when they were young Gilbert and Matthew had been shoved together on many occasions, a result of their parent's desperation for their children to have friends.
Gilbert scared off most potential playmates, and Matthew refused to talk to all of the children his mother arranged playdates with. Putting them together had been a last resort, a crazy risk that both families were reluctant to take. But somehow, it had worked. They had formed an impossible, unlikely friendship. And somehow, it had lasted twelve years.
As they turned off the highway, Matthew asked Gilbert if he could put some music on, gently mocked the albino boy's CD choices, then pulled out a Killers disk. "I wasn't expecting you to like them," he told the older boy as the crashing introduction to the first track started to reverberate through the car. "I'm full of surprises," Gilbert joked, and turned onto their street. He pulled up outside Matthew's house and there was an odd, strained silence.
"Well, here we are," Gilbert gently prompted. Matthew fidgeted slightly, twisting a strand of damp hair through his fingertips. There was a bead of rain water on the end of his nose, and Gilbert was seized by a sudden desire to wipe it away. No, he told himself sternly, you'll scare him. There was another pause, during which Matthew wouldn't meet Gilbert's eyes.
"Is something up?" Gilbert asked curiously. The younger boy's mouth opened, then closed again, making him look like some kind of extremely adorable fish. "It's just," he admitted, "I was wondering…. Why do you come to all the hockey games? I mean, it's nice to have an audience, but… you, I mean, you don't really know much about hockey, so I was wondering…." He trailed off.
Gilbert sighed, closed his eyes briefly, then reached back to pass Matthew his bag and case. "Thanks," the Canadian boy said softly, and climbed out of the car. But his eyes were curious and searching. "Honestly," Gilbert admitted, "I go to see you."
Before Matthew could respond, Gilbert had yanked the door closed and roared off down the road, his cheeks burning. Why, why, he screamed at himself, had he done that? He didn't look back down the street as he stormed out of the car and into his house, but if he had he would have seen a certain Canadian boy still standing there, blushing furiously but smiling.
