Mercy Rule
Summary: Two rival football teams battle it out to get to the Nationals. But what happens when opposing players become star-crossed lovers? Mainly Spamano, USUSK, GerIta with side pairings.
Rating: T
Pairing(s): SpaMano, USUK, GerIta, PruCan, hints of FrancexEveryone
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Notes: None.
There wasn't a second that passed that didn't cause the younger Vargas' heart to seize in fear.
The sun had set, the streetlights were lit, and he was only a block away from his house. He had taken to walking ridiculously slow, the way he had when trying to waste time in the halls or was just too terrified to face the inevitable reality of his brother's fist in his face. His legs were shaky and his fingers were jittery as he ascended down the sidewalk. Glancing up at the house, Feliciano caught sight of a shadow lurking in the window of his room.
And with it was a wave of anxiety washing over him.
He hesitated as he neared it, nearly at a complete stop by the time he passed the mailbox. His mind screamed to run the other direction and never look back, but he knew that it would only further irritate Lovino.
Outside the window, he halted.
He swallowed thickly, fighting his instant desire to bawl his eyes out. With a deep breath, he slid open the window and climbed through.
The first thing he noticed was how strangely calm the atmosphere was. There didn't seem to be anyone waiting for him. After a quick minute of assessment, he recognized the new level of tension break through the air.
There wasn't anyone home.
He turned around to the window and peeked out to the drive-way: empty. He quickly tugged the closet door open, eyes frantic as they searched the area. The room was exactly as he had left it.
The brunette walked out of the room, scanning through the halls and popping his head into every room he could find. Desperately, he had even searched through every closet and bathroom, wondering to himself whether they had just gone out for a moment or if something had happened while he was gone.
Tears welled up in his eyes. He shook his head as he continued the search, chanting a simple 'no, no, no' under his breath as he rummaged through drawers and racks of clothing only to come up empty-handed.
First came a soft whimper of disbelief, followed by a sudden wailing. His breathing became labored as he choked on his sobs, slumping against a wall as he let out a shriek of misery. In his mind played a reel of the last moment he had seen his brother: a scene coated in betrayal and dishonesty. The guilt ate up his tears, egging him on as his screeching became more constant with the sharp slap of emotions written on his face.
He whimpered loudly as he perched before the front door, hopes oozing down from their places in the sky. He tried to calm his breathing, but as soon as he started, the feeling of guilt would hammer itself into his head. He would then shake his head, kicking and punching at the air in frustration. He didn't know what to do; what to say to the silence of the house.
So, he pulled out his phone with every intention to do what he did best: cry to Ludwig. However, he paused in his actions once he noticed an alert decorating his screen.
He hit the call button without thinking, listening as the automated woman assured that he 'had one unheard message, first unheard message...'
"Feli, you're dead."
In that moment, his heart both sped up and clenched in his chest. He stared at the ground as he tried to get his thoughts together. The only problem being that he honestly didn't think he was processing anything at the moment.
He didn't hear the woman's insistent orders of what numbers to press, nor did he even see the table that stood in front of him. He didn't notice that his knees began to shake, he didn't feel the pathetic whimpers that slid out between his lips, he didn't register the background noises of cars zipping down the road or the faint barking of a neighbor's dog.
But most of all, he didn't notice the cracking open of the front door or the loud groan that came with it. He barely even noticed the clamor of shoes being kicked off or the mumblings of the two entering the house.
He did, however, notice the sudden tackle-hug that knocked him straight to the ground.
"Feli~! Oh, Feli! You're alive~!"
At the sound of his grandfather's voice, the young Italian threw out his arms and clung onto the man. He buried his head in a broad shoulder and let the tears escape his eyes. In return, he was also being held onto with a very firm - and otherwise terrifying- death-grip.
"Nonno! Oh, Nonno, I thought it was your time! I-I thought.."
The boy's tears grew louder as his attempt to stay calm flew directly out the window. He was just as loud as before, screaming in both desperation and pure joy as the reality of it all struck him down.
Lovino watched patiently for the idiots' blubbering to cease.
At first, he tapped his foot to the beat of his slowly-growing irritation. As the tempo picked up, his eyebrows went down: narrowed and in full glare-mode after the first five minutes. He rolled his eyes as he listened to their sloppy confessions, trading stories about how one 'thought pieces of the sky would start raining down' and how the other 'looked in every room, in every drawer and every closet but still couldn't find anyone.'
He was still fairly upset with his brother, after all. This was no time for celebration.
"So, where were you, Feli?" He budded into the conversation.
Romulus looked eagerly to his grandson, a finger brushing over his cheek as he waited for the answer.
"I-I...got a phone call from a friend. They really needed me," he replied in psuedo-sadness. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to practice."
Their grandfather- ever the gullible type - doted over Feliciano, smiling and noting how 'brave and courageous' it was of him to help out a friend. The boy nodded, acting nonchalant about the situation.
Lovino wasn't convinced.
"So..at what point during this situation did you get attacked by a vampire?" He asked sarcastically.
Romulus gave him a quizzical glance, wondering just where he was going with a remark like that. Feliciano offered an equally confused frown; complete with a raised eyebrow and clueless eyes.
"Uh..I didn't-"
"Oh, well, you must've gotten that mark somehow, right?"
He had walked straight into that hook, line and sinker. His jaw dropped; cheeks lit up in an instant with his right hand subconsciously flying up to cover his neck. His eyes went wide as they pooled with both embarrassment and fury.
Romulus gently pulled his hand off of his neck, gasping as the barely-there mark became noticeable. He hummed and let go of his hand, a prominent frown on his lips.
"Feliciano...," he warned, "Did you really have an emergency to take care of?"
His honey eyes darted around the room in a panic, struggling to piece together enough honesty to respond. He bit his lip before shaking his head.
"Feli!" The man scolded immediately. "You know better than to skip practice when we're so close to the finals!"
The younger Vargas - known for being rather unstable when under pressure - whined before pointing a finger to his brother.
"Well Lovi snuck out to see Toni!"
The room fell silent, save for the quickly boiling rage that burned in the elder's eyes. He shook his head, denying the claim the second it came out, and pointed back at his brother.
"He stayed up all night on the phone!"
Romulus stood up and held up a hand, ordering them to stop the childish game.
"Well at least I didn't sleep with someone from the other team!"
Pause.
The entire room seemed to freeze. The sound of a storm brewing outside the door should have shaken the room, along with the few flashes of lightning that lit up the streets.
Lovino was the first to move.
He lunged forward, going for the collar of his brother's shirt and shaking it aggressively. Feliciano submitted at first, allowing himself to be thrown around for a second or two before shoving the boy away. The first shove had set off an attack-mode in the elder's head; supplying him with the immediate instinct to tackle and smack his brother with all his might.
Surprisingly, he wasn't the only one going all-out. The younger boy even went so far as to punch his brother as he flailed about in self-defense: shoving and pushing, kicking and slamming.
Romulus took a moment to absorb the moment. Never in his life had he seen such a rush of adrenaline, nor had he witnessed his hopes die so instantly with something as simple as a shove. He sighed and grabbed the back of Lovino's shirt.
"Lovi, stop," he said tiredly.
The boy didn't pay him an ounce of attention as he continued slamming his brother's body against the floor with his fists.
"Lovi, really! Stop!"
Feliciano kicked him away, aiming for the chest and the shoulders as he twisted the boy's arm to keep his fists away from him.
"Feli, no! Don't do that!"
The elder cried out in a mix of anger and pain, fighting the tears in his eyes as he jerked his arm away. He recoiled as he got his arm back, cringing as the younger managed to knock him over and gain the upper-hand.
"Boys, that's enough!"
Romulus took hold of Feliciano - pulling him back from under his arms and holding him out of Lovino's reach. The boy flailed in protest, yelling nonsense as he attempted to escape the man's hold on him. He knew it was useless, but the raw adrenaline that kept his fighting spirit running pushed him to try anyway.
Lovino slid himself over to the wall and watched as he caught his breath. He roughly wiped away the tears and examined his body for the damage that had been dealt. He held his arm protectively, paranoid that it might fall out of it's socket if he dared to let go.
"Feliciano, go to your room," Romulus ordered once he managed to calm the boy down. "You need to rest."
The boy sniffed and nodded, throwing a glance at his brother before making his way down the hall and to his shared room.
Romulus waited for the sound of a door clicking shut before taking a seat beside his grandson.
He didn't speak or so much as glance at the boy, waiting for him to start the conversation instead.
"You'd like him, Nonno," he spoke up in a whisper, "You really would."
The man sighed and shook his head, a somewhat-forced smile on his lips.
"I'm sure I would, Lovi," he answered honestly. "Anyone that could put up with you should be likable."
The boy shrugged and stared down at the floor. He thought of his grandfather's own interests, trying to tie a link between him and Antonio. He recalled the man once starting his own tomato garden, complete with rows upon rows of the home-grown fruit sitting in the back of his yard. He could have smiled; the memory of going out to the tomato field when he was upset or bored warming his heart.
"He loves tomatoes," he mumbled lovingly. Romulus shook his head, probably thinking back to the same field that held so many of his younger years.
"Lovino, you know I'm wary about this," he stated obviously. The younger nodded knowingly, if not a bid sadly.
"And you know I'm going to interrogate him the second I meet him," he continued.
Lovino nodded once more.
"And I don't believe for a second that someone like you would throw away your virginity so quickly," Romulus admitted. "Though I could be wrong."
The boy resisted the urge to glare, opting to scoff instead. The man smiled and nodded, ruffling his grandson's hair as if to say 'I knew it.'
"So, I have only one thing left to ask of you," he wrapped it up. Lovino sighed and leaned into his touch, resting his head on the man's shoulder with a frown on his lips.
"Nonno, it's not as easy as you think," he pleaded. The man let out a breath and looked down to the boy, eyes begging him to go along with it. The younger groaned before getting up, mumbling about the man 'owing him one.'
"Io ti do tanto amore, Lovino. Tanto amore."
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered in response. "Just don't be surprised when it's something stupid that's bothering him."
Feliciano stared longingly at the window.
He wondered what things would have been like if he hadn't even come home. Sure, the problem wouldn't have been solved, but at least he wouldn't have fought with his brother.
He frowned. He never liked fighting.
If anything, he wished that he hadn't let his emotions get the better of him and tell him that a few punches here and there couldn't possibly hurt his big, strong brother. If anything, Lovino was the stronger of the two and could have easily snapped the boy in half.
But he didn't. In fact, he had gotten a good share of the blows dealt in their fight; taking the hits left and right while he himself had only begun to lose his self-control when he received a punch to the lip.
He wondered why his brother would go to such trouble. It wasn't like he hadn't hit the younger every now and then. But why did he hold back when it came to an actual fight?
"Nonno's pretty out of it," he heard the boy greet him. "He let me off the hook for now."
The younger brunette shrugged. He wasn't sure whether talking was allowed, nor could he determine the tone of voice Lovino was using. He sounded worn down and drained; a mere shell of his usually high-strung self that surely would have been lecturing him by now.
He plopped down on his bed: exhausted.
"I'm not sorry," Feliciano confessed. His brother shrugged and made a sound of agreement.
"Yeah, I'm not either," he confirmed.
The two fell into a comfortable silence, both tired from the stress that engulfed them earlier that day.
Lovino fell onto his back, curling up in the blankets that decorated his bed and yawning as he did so.
"We went looking for you for over an hour," he mumbled sleepily, "That's why he was so freaked out."
The younger nodded, peeking at the other's reflection in the window.
"You kinda freaked too, though," he added as an afterthought.
Feliciano smiled sheepishly, realizing how silly it had been for him to jump to conclusions. He had been persuaded by the guilt that came with ditching, he supposed.
The elder boy shifted in his bed, letting his head sink into the pillow and letting his eyelids slowly droop down.
"I want you to meet someone, Lovi," the younger piped up after a moment.
The brunette grunted, mumbling incoherently.
"Lovi, I'm serious," he tried again.
The boy whined and opened his eyes ever-so slightly, peering up at his brother's back.
"I said 'whatever', " he repeated irritably.
Feliciano smiled to himself.
Their fight had let off the lasting tension between them, allowing the two to finally settle back into the equal balance of brotherhood. He watched his brother quietly doze off, noting that he looked rather sweet curled up in a blanket and finally quiet for once.
His eyes traced down the boy's face: stopping when he spotted the ghost of a scratch or the clearly visible cuts and bruises that tainted his skin. He didn't even think about what he himself may have looked like after the fight. He decided that he could wait until the morning to find out and stripped off his shirt and shorts.
He chuckled in the back of his mind. Sleeping nude was almost an inside-joke among the Vargas family. He was sure that other people did it and had no shame what-so-ever when his time to retire came. Lovino, however, was never one to agree. He had fallen asleep with clothing on and at the very least was always equipped with a nice pair of boxers to cover his nether regions.
The younger didn't do it all the time, however, only when he truly needed a good night's sleep. With the drained state he was in, he supposed it was a good reason to lay off the unnecessary baggage that would add a few degrees of body heat.
Feliciano had concluded that it was merely a comfort thing that he had somewhat inherited from his grandfather, but that didn't explain the stories he had heard from Romulus about his own father sleeping in the nude.
He smiled simply, lying down as quietly as possible.
He looked up to the ceiling with a new shine in his eyes. His mind trailed back to the time before the confrontation; when he had been genuinely happy and smiling. The face of the blond breezed through his thoughts, blowing everything else out his ears and into the mild climate of his bedroom.
His eyes fluttered closed as his mind went back to the afternoon and back to the warm, fluttery feeling that strung his stomach in a knot.
Alfred sighed.
So maybe allowing Arthur a day to rest hadn't been his best judgment.
According to his calendar, the days until the big match were numbered; and the number wasn't exactly a high one. It was barely managing its two-digit status as of this morning and was slowly washing away as time ticked on.
He marked off another day of the week with his trusty Superman pen, somewhat reluctant to look over the remaining time he had.
"Well, there's at least a week left," he commented. His finger traced over crossed out days, reveling in the memories of sweaty afternoons spent training and running in hopes of maybe - just maybe - getting a little more recognition for his contribution to the team.
Without a doubt, Arthur had improved tremendously. The American often wondered why he hadn't tried to get back in the game if he loved it so much. Maybe it was his self-confidence or maybe the shadow he was trapped in.
Either way, that was sure to change.
With a lazy smile, Alfred turned back to face his bed and stretched out his arms. He had slept well and was ready to sock yet another day in the face with some heroic combos of justice.
On cue, he threw a fist into the air, successfully knocking down a lamp in the process. He frowned.
"I should work on that," he muttered lowly. He lightly scratched his back as he made a beeline for the bathroom. His reflection caught him off guard once the light was switched on, making him stare in surprise at the boy staring back at him.
He quietly closed the door behind him - eyes never leaving the mirror.
He took a moment to turn to get a better view of his profile, running a hand down his stomach as he self-consciously examined his own figure. He wasn't large, nor was he small. He was simply average with a bit of pounds that he could or could not do without.
He laughed to himself as his hands reached his waist, fondling the smooth curve of love-handles sitting on both ends of his belly. He lifted his shirt to see a humble pack of abs forming on his torso.
He smirked with confidence.
"If I can't get a girl by the end of the summer, then there is no hope for humanity," he bragged to himself.
He spent a moment more admiring himself before stripping off the shirt and sliding off his boxers. He started the shower up and ran a hand under the water to test it. Deciding that it was considerably warm enough to grace his body, he hopped into the shower and rinsed off.
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and waited for his vision to re-adjust itself. He hadn't realized that his eyes had been naked until now; free from the constant movement of the glasses he donned.
His fingers ran through his hair in gentle circles, massaging the liquid into his scalp. He let out a content sigh; lifted corners of his mouth and all.
After stepping out of the shower, he securely wrapped a towel around his waist and made a beeline for his room. His steps were quick and paranoid, though amusing as he tripped over himself through the entrance to his bedroom. Hurriedly, he closed the door and rested against it - not even bothering to notice how how the cloth had fallen after all the commotion.
He smiled and dressed.
His adventures in the kitchen were short-lived as he noticed the sufficient lack of dairy in the household. He dug through the refrigerator - eyebrows raised in hope that he'd see that rectangular prism of milky goodness - but to no avail. The Williams-Jones family was simply out of milk.
Never one to furrow his brow, Alfred F. Jones sprung into action and out the door.
Then back inside after feeling the scorching hot cement under his delicate skin. He quickly slipped on his brother's Crocs shoes - or sandals or clogs, whatever they were they were he decided he didn't really care - and skidded out the door.
Once reaching the fresh air, his legs kicked into 'Super-Sonic' mode as he sped through across the sidewalk. He imagined rows upon rows of glimmering grass under his feet, crinkling lightly as it was trampled on. The sound of cheers were all around him, chanting and hollering his name as he ran. He crossed the field with a grin on his face, chasing after the ball that was just so close to being his. He pushed himself further, his smile widening as he slowly but surely caught up to his target. He slid forward, hooking the ball with his foot and spun around in one fluid motion.
Then introduced the ground to his face as he was struck down.
The American groaned as he lifted his head up from the ground, rubbing his forehead in pain.
"I-I'm so sorry!" He heard someone stutter out. He sat up without difficulty, wincing as he moved his head up to look at the one who had knocked him down.
In that moment, he could have sworn an angel was in his presence. The sun gleamed over golden locks that rested lightly over a pair of army-green orbs filled with concern and embarrassment.
He smiled.
"'s okay, Artie," he chuckled with empathy. The way the boy was fretting over him was simply adorable to the American as he had waved off the bump on his head seconds after it came to him.
"You really shouldn't be running around so recklessly," the Briton said in his defense. Alfred shrugged and extended a hand, taking the blond's as he helped him up.
"Yeah, well, I'm just excited. The big game's coming up and all," he explained. His enthusiasm was evident in his voice and posture: tone jumping up and down like the bounce in his toes.
Arthur shrugged and continued walking, not surprised in the least as the American followed.
"So, what's in the bag, Eyebrows?" He asked casually. The boy glared back at him half-halfheartedly, switching the bag handle to the hand farthest away from the other.
"Aww, come on," he whined, "Just a peek!"
Arthur huffed and kept the boy an arm's distance away. The American struggled against him, playfully trying to get past the pretend force-field.
"I don't have cooties, I promise," he swore, right hand poised in the air. The Briton laughed at the silliness and shook his head, muttering about how pathetic the other's attempts to get past had been.
"You'd be a terrible spy," he uttered honestly. Alfred scoffed and crossed his arms; bag long forgotten in his race to protect his tarnished ego.
"I beg to differ," he argued, "And I don't see you going all James Bond on me, English-man."
The American held his chin up with pride, as if he had already been crowned winner of the argument. Arthur rolled his eyes, stopping in his tracks to press a pedestrian push button.
"It's always James Bond with you Americans," the blond observed, "Never someone more interesting or...real for that matter."
Alfred shrugged and began walking once the coast was clear. Arthur trailed closely behind, never further than two feet from the boy. The American took a moment to think over his options, 'hmm'ing as he stroked his chin.
"Would you rather I said Austin Powers?"
He would never be able to recreate the look of pure bewilderment on the Briton's face for the rest of his lifetime.
After walking a few blocks more - and getting smacked on the back of the head with the mysterious bag Arthur had been lugging around - Alfred had reached the Kirkland residence. Out of curiosity, he had asked his English friend just how to act in the presence of foreigners: Should he also talk in an accent? Should he call elevators 'lifts'? Should he spell color with a 'u' if ever the situation popped up?
He had gotten another whack to the noggin for asking such useless questions.
He honestly had expected the house to be something extravagant and European-looking; something modern yet antique in its weird foreign way.
To his surprise, the Briton had actually lived in a crammed apartment sitting above a home with a patio decorated with cheap lawn chairs and a plastic flamingo. He briefly wondered if you could even sun-bathe when on the bottom story of an apartment complex before climbing a set of stairs to the boy's home.
The inside was predictably tidy with the walls painted solid baby shades: baby blue, butter and lavender. The two had strolled past a room that he presumed to be Arthur's judging by the soccer ball that sat near the door as if recently used.
The home was small but cozy with its simple beige carpet and chocolate couch. Alfred wondered why there seemed to be life in the room if only he and Arthur were the ones in it.
"Only child?"
The Briton laughed loudly, setting his bag down on the kitchen counter.
"Oh, that's a good one," he muttered more-so to himself than his guest.
The American stared expectantly at him, waiting for elaboration.
"Two older twin brothers that won't shut up, another older brother that won't shut up and one little brother that refuses to shut up," he explained.
Alfred quirked an eyebrow in curiosity, suddenly thankful for his own quiet brother.
"And you survive..how..?" He teased.
Arthur widened the opening to the bag and pulled out a jar of brightly-colored jam; its fresh scent breezing through the air and kissing the nostrils of his American friend.
"I cook," he answered simply, "I cook a lot."
He spun the jar to face Alfred before going off to the other side of the kitchen. He glanced over at the timer before nodding his head once. He effortlessly opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of over-mitts to cover his lightly-colored hands. He put them on and nearly slammed the over door open, pulling out a sheet of metal that held an array of sweet-smelling pastries.
The dirty-blond turned his attention to the new aroma that filled his nose and smiled as soon as he saw the treats waiting to meet his mouth. He swayed over to Arthur and reached for a pastry only to be smacked on the hand by a spatula.
"Ow! Hey!"
"Wait for them to cool," the Briton instructed him.
Regretfully, he listened.
In ten minutes' time, the constant tick-tick-tick of the timer had gone off - screaming out the status of the fresh scones. Arthur - the blond who didn't dash over to the tray like a rabid maniac - popped off the lid of the jar of jam and brought it over to the tray.
"It tastes better with this," he offered subtly, nudging the other with the jar. Alfred took it gratefully and set it down beside him as he collected a serving for himself on a plate.
The Briton was slow with getting his own helping of scone, watching anxiously as the American spread a small portion of the jam onto the pastry before taking a generous bite.
His expression froze for a moment before he began to chew and swallow. He smiled - albeit much more forced than natural - and gave the boy a thumbs- up. Arthur nodded and smiled to himself, nibbling on his own scone. As he chewed he stared at it; confused.
"You really like it?" He asked the other skeptically. Alfred nodded enthusiastically.
"You're the first person to ever appreciate my cooking..," he admitted meekly. His smile was a bit flustered judging by the light blush that crept onto his cheeks, but there was not an ounce of doubt visible.
Alfred smiled back and took another scone into his hand, smothering it with more and more jam whenever possible.
Translation:
"Io ti do tanto amore, Lovino. Tanto amore." - "I give you lots of love, Lovino. Lots of love."
Guys. This is the longest chapter I have ever written for any story ever. No joke.
So, there is definitely going to be a sequel. I promise you that one. I'll probably take a break from Hetalia after this story finishes just so I can catch up on my other stories. Anyway, hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.
Next: The real grandfather-grandson chat takes place, Feliciano preps Ludwig for his upcoming meet with his brother and Francis has a chat with Gilbert.