Author's Note: Hope you're enjoying this so far.

Of Family, Friends and Football

Part Four: Les Blues

Say what you like about Arthur Kirkland, but the man was almost always impeccably dressed. Even though he only had a very short notice of the meeting at Francis' today, he made sure that he would reach the venue on time, stepping off the Eurostar train properly attired like the English gentleman in his neat, conservative ensemble.

Bespoke dark grey suit by Savile Row tailors, Gieves & Hawkes? Check.

Classic light blue shirt with three-button barrel cuff, together with a navy and blue houndstooth silk tie from Turnbull & Asser of Jermyn Street? Check.

Pair of bespoke black capped Oxfords courtesy of John Lobb of St James' Street? Check.

Utterly pissed off expression with an aura of rage spanning a fifty-kilometre radius, courtesy of the man himself? Check.

The last item was due to Gilbert's text message at two in the morning (why must that man do everything at that unholy hour?). It had stated:

Meeting at Francis', 9 AM; bastards probably want to cancel the game.

Like hell they were going to cancel.

He readjusted his watch to account for the one-hour time difference, then walked out of the Gare du Nord station and hailed for a taxi.

--x--

Gilbert was only slightly sulking. His brother must have read his blog before going to bed, since this morning Gilbert was practically dragged out of bed, forced to shower and dress himself and later literally kicked out of the house, on the excuse that his brother did not want him to be late for 'that important meeting you blogged about'.

Hah.

Ludwig more likely wanted to get Gilbert back for dragging him off to play football yesterday. Pounding on the door and swearing at his brother to let him back in brought no results, so Gilbert stomped off to Francis', vowing revenge when he returned home.

Francis nearly had a heart attack when he had arrived a good ten minutes before the meeting. The idiot even had the nerve to check Gilbert's forehead to see if he had a fever, since showing up early – or even on time – was just not Gilbert. A quick smack to the head assured Francis that yes, he was fine.

"So where's your teammate?" Francis asked mischievously, leading Gilbert into the kitchen.

"He'll be here," Gilbert grumbled as he sat down on a chair and helped himself to a slice of the orange and chocolate cake on the table. "Hey, someone's at the door."

Francis went to get it; he soon returned with Antonio and a scowling Lovino in tow.

"Gilbert!" Antonio greeted warmly, pulling his friend up from the chair and into a hug. Lovino merely mumbled something inaudible before he sat down, glaring at pretty much everything in the room.

"Hey," Gilbert replied. "What's the kid doing here?" he asked, pointing at the Italian.

"Lovi? Oh, he's part of the reason why we want to have this meeting," Antonio explained, releasing Gilbert from his embrace. "But let's wait until everyone gets here," he added, absently seating himself right between Lovino and Francis and effectively shielded the former from the latter, who was trying to sneak in a quick grope or two.

Since Lovino was now out of his reach, Francis sighed and settled for groping Antonio instead, who was so used to this by now that he barely blinked. This did not sit well with Lovino either, who glared at the Frenchman.

The doorbell rang again.

"Now that must be my teammate," Gilbert said as he went to get the door.

--x--

Arthur rang the doorbell and prepared himself for Francis' usual groping-as-a-greeting routine, clenching one fist as he prepared to deliver an uppercut to the man's jaw, which was his usual form of the return greeting. He was more than just a bit surprised when it was Gilbert who opened the door.

"Oh my god, you're actually on time for the meeting," Arthur blurted.

Gilbert snorted. "Not you too. Now get your ass in the kitchen and let's see what those idiots want."

When both of them entered the kitchen, they were surprised at the reaction from the other three men. Antonio was pointing at Arthur, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly; Lovino looked as if he could not decide if he should be confused or annoyed, while Francis was just plain horrified.

"What are you doing here?" Francis asked.

"Why shouldn't I be? We're meeting about the footy match this Saturday, aren't we?" Arthur replied, equally confused.

"Well, yes, but what are you doing here?"

"I'm playing in the match, so of course I ought to be here! And I'm not going to let you call it off!"

"Wait, you're playing?" Francis gasped. He looked at Gilbert, who nodded in confirmation. "With Gilbert?"

"No, with Saint George – of course I'm playing footy with Gilbert you ponce!"

"I thought you were going to play with your brother!" Antonio said to Gilbert, surprised.

"Huh? West? Who said I was playing with West?" Even Gilbert was confused.

"What, you mean that potato bastard isn't playing after all?" Lovino shrieked. "Antonio you idiot, you said he was going to play!"

"But Lovi–"

"Hey, don't call West a potato bastard!"

"Antonio! When I get back I swear I'm going to torch your house down!"

Arthur sighed. It was times like these, when everything around him was just falling apart and none of it was his fault, that he wished he brought his embroidery. Even if he could not get a few decent stitches done, he could at least jab these idiots with a sharp needle.

--x--

It took them all ten minutes to calm down before they could actually sit down and discuss the match on Saturday in a less noisy, and not to mention less violent manner.

"So," Arthur repeated, "basically either Lovino there gets to play in the game, or else the whole thing gets called off?"

Both Francis and Antonio nodded.

"And you want West on our team?" Gilbert added.

Both Francis and Antonio looked at each other before they nodded again.

"Could you hold on for a bit? We need to discuss this," Arthur said before dragging Gilbert off to a far corner.

"Well? Are we gonna accept their proposal?" Gilbert asked.

"Of course we are! I'm not letting this game get called off! Not when I'm this close to kicking Francis' teeth in!" Arthur hissed. He took a deep breath before he continued in a much calmer voice, "Besides, theoretically, it's a sound suggestion. With three people, we'd have forward, midfield and defence – or maybe a goalkeeper."

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem is convincing your brother, you daft bastard!"

Gilbert ignored the insult. At least those two idiots had insisted that his brother had to play on Saturday; that had spared him from hours of indecision and going through that map of Europe again. Also, he still needed to get revenge on Ludwig for throwing him out of the house this morning.

He could (figuratively, of course) kill two birds with one stone. Perfect.

"West is a decent enough 'keeper. It'll be good to have him on the team."

His little brother played goalie for a while at yesterday's practice and had managed to save quite a number of Gilbert's penalty kicks. Of course, Gilbert had gone a little easy on him. There was no way he would have saved those shots otherwise, since after all, Gilbert was awesome at football. Why, if it had been anyone else but Ludwig, the poor bastard would not have had a chance at saving any of those scoring attempts even if Gilbert decided to take it easy–

Arthur's voice interrupted his little mental monologue. "Well, getting Ludwig would make Lovino happy and Antonio would probably get to keep his house intact. And more importantly, I still get to kick Francis' ass. But what makes you so sure he'll agree to play for us?"

"You just leave West to me," Gilbert assured him. "I'll get my little brother to play this Saturday."

"How?"

"I have my methods," Gilbert said, smirking. Maybe he should threaten Ludwig with his photos of the stash of BDSM porn hidden under his little brother's bed? No, that one was pure awesome and he should save that blackmail material for another time when he really wanted something. He mentally went through his (shockingly long) list of Things I Can Use To Blackmail My Kid Brother, evaluated a few possibilities and picked the most suitable option.

Arthur eyed Gilbert's evilly contemplating expression with a fair bit of apprehension. "This is probably one of those things where I am better off not knowing, isn't it."

"You're so boring. Oh, try and cackle a bit."

"What on earth for?"

"Psychological warfare, of course. We've got those three idiots worried enough already, so we should press on our advantage and terrify them into wetting themselves."

"I do not cackle."

"Fine, don't cackle then. Smirk. Laugh. Snigger. Just make it really awesome and evil!"

Arthur huffed. "I'm going through this ridiculousness purely to demoralise them, mind you."

"Of course you are."

--x--

"Mon dieu, they are cackling! Both of them!"

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

"That's what you said right before Arthur sank your armada."

"Ssh! They're heading over here."

"Will you two idiots just shut up?" Lovino hissed.

"Well?" Antonio asked once the other two men returned to the kitchen-cum-negotiation table.

Gilbert and Arthur looked at each other, grinned and then said in unison, "Yes."

Antonio breathed a huge sigh of relief. "See Lovi? I told you things would work out. Now you get to play on Saturday after all!"

"This whole mess wouldn't have happened if you actually bothered to read the whole blog first, you fuckin' moron!"

"Come on, Lovino–" Arthur said, taking pity on poor Antonio and tried to placate the Italian, but Lovino would have none of it.

"Shut up, you burnt scone bastard–"

"What did you call me?" snapped Arthur, shooting a look of pure venom at Lovino.

Lovino cringed, instantly forgetting whatever he had wanted to say. Belatedly, he remembered that he was not the only one who was capable of a total mood change in seconds. Belatedly, he also remembered how touchy Arthur was about his cooking. Add the extra aggravating factor of having Francis around him and the man was just downright vicious. And the correct medical term for that, to quote Gilbert, is 'a total fuckin' psycho'.

Lovino looked at Antonio for some assistance, but the man was just blinking in confusion; obviously the direness of the situation had not quite made it into his thought processes just yet. Francis was of no help either, while Gilbert was merely grinning in amusement, obviously enjoying the show. So it was all up to him then. He tried to make a snappy comeback to save his dignity, which had not only reached rock bottom, but was also currently attempting to dig a very deep hole. Alas, the only thing that came out of his mouth was a pathetic-sounding, "Eep."

"What's your problem anyhow, you surly tosser? Piles? Want me to kick them back up the jacksie for you?" Arthur snarled.

Lovino let out a terrified squeak and immediately hid behind Antonio, who finally registered what was going on. "Now, Arthur," Antonio said soothingly, but there was steel in that calm voice. "You know how Lovi is. Just let it go."

Strangely enough, it was Francis who actually defused the potentially explosive situation, simply by opening his mouth and being his usual self. "Come now Lovi, let big brother Francis protect you from that mean English football hooligan–"

There were several loud thuds as Arthur punched Francis in the gut, and then kicked him in the head a few times for good measure. "Sorry, Lovino," Arthur said in an almost sweet tone, as if he had utterly forgotten what Lovino had said to him, "what were you saying?"

"I want to wear my kit," Lovino mumbled from behind Antonio.

Arthur blinked. Of course they were all going to wear football kits; it was a football match after all, not the opera. "Oh, you mean you want to wear your national squad kit?"

"Yeah, and I want to wear my home kit, not my away kit," Lovino clarified, poking his head slightly into view.

"But you won't be playing in Italy, Lovi," Antonio pointed out.

"I don't care! I'm representing the Azzurri, so I want to wear my blue home kit!" Lovino insisted rather indignantly, a fair achievement for someone hiding behind someone else's back.

"What the hell? I'm gonna be wearing my home kit too then!" Gilbert protested rather needlessly, and was only doing so because he was starting to feel left out. Awesome people like him were not supposed to be left out.

Arthur groaned. "Gilbert, we'll be playing in Germany, so of course you'd be wearing your home kit!"

"Well, Lovi does have a point. I'm supposed to be La Furia Roja. I wouldn't be much of a Red Fury if I had to wear my yellow away kit...."

"In that case, I want to wear my superior and not to mention much more stylish home kit as well," Francis demanded.

"Fine! We'll all wear our home kits! That way the six of us won't have problems telling who is on which team, because all three of us on this side will be wearing white and all three of us over here are blond!" Arthur said in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air.

"I'm blond," Francis said from the floor, but everyone ignored him.

--x--

The issue of attire settled, the next items on the agenda was to pick an actual time and venue for the football match, as well as to lay out some additional regulations (Gilbert had insisted on calling them rules of engagement because 'it sounds more awesome' and everyone had agreed just to shut him up) since their match this Saturday was no ordinary match.

First they agreed that since there would only be six of them, playing on a regular-sized pitch was a bit pushing it, so they settled for a smaller pitch to play on. Gilbert insisted on taking care of it and the rest only agreed to that after Arthur promised that he would personally check up on things, because the last thing they needed on the pitch were things that clearly did not belong there such as land mines. (Gilbert sulked a bit, but only because he had not considered land mines and had merely thought of glue traps.) Then the meeting discussed other more interesting and creative rules.

No groping, touching, leering or anything that could be remotely considered as sexual harassment. (Lovino had insisted on this one, eyeing Francis all the while. Arthur seconded the Italian.)

No streaking. No, it still counts as streaking even with that bloody rose there.

No touching of a certain hair curl. (Lovino threw a spectacular fit when it was Antonio who objected.)

No use of black magic or hexes or cursed chairs or anything supernatural to curse the other side. (Everyone was looking at Arthur when this came up.)

No angel transformations or related magic. (Arthur almost sulked at this one.)

No tomatoes, scones or any food will be allowed during play. ("So beer is okay?" "NO!")

No unicorns, fairies and other similar creatures on the pitch. Oh, same goes for other non-magical animals, including that bird. ("What bird?" "The one on your head, pillock.")

No invading vital regions. (Gilbert complained loudly about this until Arthur shoved a huge piece of cake in his mouth.)

"By the way, just who is going to enforce all these regulations – oh, sorry Gilbert – these rules of engagement? I don't trust you lot enough to actually follow them," Arthur grumbled.

"Like we should trust the English football hooligan there!"

Again, there was another scuffle between Arthur and Francis, with Arthur reintroducing the other man to his own kitchen floor. It took them all another ten minutes to calm down before Antonio suggested, "Why don't we just get a referee?"

Everyone stared at him until Arthur broke the silence. "Bloody hell, did you just make a sensible suggestion?"

Antonio would have frowned, but Lovino's look of reluctant approval made him smile instead. "So are we getting a referee or not?"

"We need someone neutral," Lovino pointed out. "And someone who isn't afraid to actually enforce all these additional regula– fine, other stupid potato bastard, rules of engagement."

There was a long moment of silence, but everyone knew that they were thinking of the very same thing. Or rather, person.

Arthur coughed. "So who wants to explain this to Vash?"

--x--

Surprisingly enough, Vash agreed to be referee for the game. He had objected very loudly at first, calling Gilbert a bunch of very impolite names on the phone until Gilbert muttered the magic words:

"All expenses paid."

There had been a short pause before Vash asked, "Can I bring my sister?"

"Sure. Both of you can even grab first-class seats. Actually, go ahead and grab first-class everything."

That had practically sealed the deal.

"So who's going to actually pay for all that?" Antonio asked after Gilbert ended the call.

Gilbert struck a pose as he showed them a platinum credit card. "All taken care of."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Wait, let me see that – this is your brother's credit card!"

"And your point is?"

Arthur twitched. He should put a stop to this; it was just plain thievery and Ludwig would undoubtedly be very angry when he finds out....

On the other hand, said a little voice in Arthur's head that sounded just like the one that had told him ages ago that it would be nice to get away from all the rain, so let's go and colonise other places for some decent sunshine, it was not his money. He shrugged. "Why the hell not?"

Gilbert grinned. "There's hope for you yet."

--x--

Done with the meeting, the new Anglo-Prussian alliance left to discuss battle plans over a few drinks, while a furious Lovino headed for home a few minutes later after a hysterical-sounding phone call from his brother, who had accidentally locked himself out of the house. Again.

That left only Antonio and Francis.

"Whatever happened to that cute little green-eyed boy who sniffled and would only let me leave if I promised to come back and play with him?" Francis half-groaned, half-whimpered dramatically as his friend helped him up into a chair.

"He grew up and kicked the Béarnaise sauce out of you?"

"Shut up Antonio, and get me some ice."

"Hey, you asked."

--x--

The main reason he had humoured Gilbert's football-related antics so far was because he was secretly pleased that his brother had something to focus on; something that did not have too much potential in starting an international crisis. If anything, Gilbert's little match on Saturday would at least keep him from causing too much trouble for a week.

But this?

"Come on, West! I need a goalie!"

"No! And that's final!"

Ludwig may be stubborn, but Gilbert had sheer bloody-mindedness in spades.

"West! You are going to play in this Saturday's football game or I swear I'll make you sorry you were born!"

The look on his brother's face was so savage that he inadvertently took a step back, surprised.

Ludwig possessed impressive height and bulk, but he knew that Gilbert's deceptively lithe frame hid the fact that his brother was just about as strong as he was. No one would expect less from someone who practically spent centuries growing up in chainmail and was waving a heavy steel blade around for most of his life. A serious brawl between them would be an extremely painful experience for both men, even though Ludwig was certain he would not be the loser.

Still, he doubted that his brother would resort to physical violence. The last thing Gilbert would do is injure his future goalkeeper; his brother may be crazy, but not that crazy. He relaxed a little.

No, the more likely outcome was that Gilbert would start sulking. Now, most people would dismiss sulking as a relatively harmless activity. However, most people did not know Gilbert as well as he did.

See, only Ludwig knew that Gilbert had not one, but two modes of sulking.

The first typical form of a sulking Gilbert, the one that most people knew about, involved him moping for hours in a corner of the house, or down at the local pub, muttering how nice it was to be alone with his awesome self and how he needed no company, albeit with a pouty lower lip.

The second was rare and occurred only in Ludwig's presence, and involved Gilbert ruthlessly embarking on a quest to be at least four times as annoying and destructive than usual for weeks, making life extremely miserable and migraine-inducing for Ludwig, and all of it done with – surprise, surprise – a pouty lower lip.

Judging from the determined look on Gilbert's face and his quivering lower lip, his brother's imminent period of sulking was of the second, and not to mention, extremely devastating kind. An hour and a half of football, or three weeks' worth of head-splitting migraines? It was not much of a decision, really. And both of them knew it.

Gilbert was good at fighting dirty, whether on a physical or a psychological level.

Damn him.

"Just the goalkeeper?"

"Yes West, just the goalkeeper."

Ludwig closed his eyes, sighed and relented. "Fine."

"Hell yes!" Gilbert cackled and threw his hands up in the air in triumph.

--x--

Visitors to Gilbert's blog later that night were somewhat puzzled at his latest entry:

Monday:

AHAHAHAHAHAHA

GOT HIM TO AGREE TO IT

AHAHAHAHAHAHA

I am so awesome.

Ludwig however, merely groaned and started to regret his decision.

Additional notes:

i. Les Blues - nickname of the French national football squad; literally 'The Blues', due to the colour of the home kit.

ii. Gieves & Hawkes, Turnbull & Asser and John Lobb, Bootmaker are firms in London specialising in traditional bespoke (custom-tailored) menswear.

iii. Azzurri - nickname of the Italian national football squad; literally 'Sky Blues'. The team's home kit is sky blue, hence the nickname.