Author's Note: This thing's getting longer and longer, isn't it?
Of Family, Friends and Football
Part Two: The Three Lions
"Morning," Ludwig greeted his brother, who had finally deigned to crawl out of bed and trudge downstairs and into the kitchen for breakfast. He checked his watch; it was ten-thirty, which was considered rather early for Gilbert. "Sleep well?" he asked as Gilbert took a seat.
"Grrhgggmphh," his brother replied, which was Gilbert-hangover-gruntspeak for, 'Shut up, West.'
Gilbert looked two shades paler than normal, his eyes were bloodshot, while his hair, which was already unruly to begin with, looked like a hedgehog that had dived into a vat of bleach for kicks and was now regretting its decision while clinging in agony to the Prussian's head. In short, he looked like a right proper mess, as per their usual Saturday morning routine dictated.
Ludwig placed the plate of rollmops in front of his brother, who eyed it for a few seconds before he started eating. It did not take long for the man to finish it all and to drink a large mug of coffee.
"Pggghrrmm?" Gilbert grunted. That meant, 'No pancakes?'
"They'll be done in a minute. Have some more coffee." Ludwig pondered if he should ask Gilbert about that football game he read on his brother's blog. He decided that he would do so after Gilbert has had his fill of pancakes, since his brother would be more coherent then.
"You're playing football next Saturday?" he asked about twenty minutes (and Gilbert's two helpings of pancakes and three large mugs of coffee) later. "I read your blog," he explained when Gilbert gave him a look.
"Oh, that." Fortunately, Gilbert had regained his usual vocal capabilities. There was only so much grunting Ludwig could understand. "Just something for the weekend."
"Will it involve anything illegal?"
Gilbert snorted. "Don't be such a respectable bastard, West. It's a football game. We're going to run around the field chasing and kicking a ball, not somebody's head." He brightened. "Hey, now that would be–"
"Don't even think about it," Ludwig interrupted.
"Spoilsport."
--x--
"Who the hell am I gonna team up with?" Gilbert muttered as he glared at the atlas in front of him, eyeing the countries, all printed in different colours on the page.
Feliciano? Nope – the kid was undeniably cute, but was too scatter-brained. The kid's foul-tempered brother was probably better at football, but it would take a lot of convincing to get Lovino to play in his team, and as awesome as he was, he did not have the time nor the patience to do so. Roderich? The very mental image of that aloof man in a football kit was enough to send Gilbert into hysterics.
He traced one finger over all the countries on the European continent, automatically dismissing this one and that one for some reason or other.
Can't play football.
Too damned scary.
Too damned scared to play football. Ivan would undoubtedly show up if he played anyway. Actually, scratch that whole lot over there for the same reason.
Would show up for the game in a skirt. Wait, this could be a good thing – NO.
Would sleep throughout the whole game.
Would just shoot everyone.
Too short.
On and on it went, until he ran out of countries and had to start over. Hours passed, and still he could not decide.
Maybe he should just close his eyes and randomly point at a country on the map?
No, he needed to find a teammate who had proven himself worthy to give Francis and Antonio a right proper beating. And preferably someone he had worked with, since there was not much time until the game.
But who?
He sighed, leaned back as he looked at the map again, and then realised that he had only concentrated on the Continent. Then he grinned.
"Perfect," he muttered.
--x--
Gilbert has always been a few slices short of a full loaf of Vollkornbrot, but he was not completely stark raving mad. But after observing his brother's antics in the living room, Ludwig was no longer sure.
Normally, every Saturday, after breakfast Gilbert would just laze around the house watching TV or playing video games, or if he were feeling a bit restless, would go out for a run in the park (or so he claimed). "Picking up chicks," he had answered in an atrocious imitation of Alfred's accent with his trademark smirk when Ludwig once asked what was he really doing there, and to this day Ludwig was not quite sure if Gilbert meant 'chicks' of the 'sexy thing' kind, or the actual 'chirp chirp, tweet tweet' avian kind. He had decided that it would be better for his mental health not to know.
But not this Saturday.
This Saturday, instead of his usual routine, Gilbert borrowed an atlas from Ludwig's study, made himself comfortable on the sofa in the living room, and stared at one of the maps. Just... stared.
Even lunch was a considerably muted, and thus, not the usual migraine-inducing affair. Gilbert had simply wolfed down everything on his plate, drank his usual glass of beer and went back to the living room and the atlas on the coffee table without a single word.
Gilbert had been staring at the atlas in front of him for a very long while now. The large book was opened up to a map of Europe, and his brother was staring – no, now it was glaring – at it with such a fury Ludwig wondered if Gilbert were making plans to go to war.
His gaze would be directed at one part of the map and he would either frown, look thoughtful, or on one occasion (Ludwig had caught Gilbert muttering something about Roderich at the time), laugh hysterically, pounding one fist on the coffee table. The routine would be repeated, again and again, and for the life of him Ludwig could not figure out just what on earth was his brother doing.
Whatever it was, Gilbert was at it for hours. Ludwig was amazed that his brother could actually concentrate on something – whatever inane thing it was – for that long. These days, the few things that had Gilbert's full attention for more than thirty minutes were limited to video games, drinking someone under the table, or annoying random nations.
Insane or not, Gilbert's unusual behaviour and the resulting calm atmosphere in the house made it easier for Ludwig just to sit down and read the newspaper, or even finish some of the paperwork he brought back home. Normally Gilbert would scowl and try to drag him away from 'that boring bureaucratic crap' and complain loudly on how his brother was turning into a paper-pusher, forcing Ludwig to either lock Gilbert out of the house or lock himself in his study. Usually it was the former; Gilbert would then sulk for a bit before he went to Roderich's to annoy the Austrian, but Ludwig knew that Roderich's ex-wife would be around to discipline his brother with her frying pan if he tried to do something stupid.
Ludwig told himself not to get used to this kind of peace and quiet, since this was surely a one-time thing. As he predicted, the blissful silence was broken at about five-thirty in the evening when Gilbert finally looked up from the atlas with a triumphant yell, one fist in the air.
Before Ludwig could ask what was going on, Gilbert had grabbed his jacket and ran for the door. "I'm going out! Don't wait up for me, West!" he yelled before the door shut.
--x--
It had taken him a while to get to his destination, since he just had to stop by and drink a few pints (at several different places) along the way, but he finally got there. Cackling softly to himself, he rang the doorbell, and kept on pressing the switch until he heard an angry yell from inside the house.
"Hey!" he greeted with his usual smirk when the door opened.
"Gilbert?" Arthur muttered, rubbing one eye sleepily. "What do you want?" he growled in a voice that would have sent lesser men - and nations - running for cover. Better yet, an underground nuclear shelter.
Of course, since Gilbert was no such lesser entity, he merely ignored Arthur's question and said, "Aren't you gonna let me in?"
"No."
Gilbert was genuinely surprised. Well, he admitted that perhaps Arthur was not exactly thrilled every time he dropped by – but Arthur was a gracious host most of the time, or at the very least, the man was civil towards his awesome self. But not this time. "Why not?"
"It's two in the morning, you blithering idiot!"
Well, that explained why Arthur was only in his pyjamas and dressing gown. But still. "So?"
"Oh for pity's sake." Arthur tried to close the door, but Gilbert pushed it open again, nearly driving it smack into Arthur's nose.
"Hey! Let me in so I can tell you about this awesome thing you need to take part in!"
"Oh god."
Gilbert took that as an indication to elaborate, so he continued, "I've got to play in a football game next week and I want you to join my side."
The pressure on the door eased somewhat. "You want me to what?"
"Join me in a football game."
"A football game? Whatever for?" Arthur actually sounded curious.
Gilbert scratched his head, trying to figure out the best way to explain the situation without Arthur blowing his top again. Finding none, he decided to settle for the truth. "I sort of got into an argument and the only way to settle it is by winning a football match."
"Good for you," Arthur said and tried to shut the door again. Gilbert prevented him from doing so by wedging one foot in the doorway, much to Arthur's protests, which soon turned into a series of furious threats and insults.
Okay, perhaps that was not the best way to go about it. Nevertheless, Gilbert knew what would make Arthur pay attention to him again – provided he could get a word in and interrupt Arthur's tirade.
"–and what makes you think that I'd participate in–"
"You'd get to play against Francis!"
"–one of your ridiculous – what did you say?"
Gilbert smirked and repeated, "I said, you'd get to play against Francis." He then added with as much innocence as he could muster – which was basically nil, "If you're interested in joining my team, that is."
Arthur's expression changed, and Gilbert knew that look on his face. It was the look Arthur had before the man sank Antonio's armada. It was the look that was plastered on Arthur's face when he went on that massive colonising spree and forged his own Empire. It was the look Arthur had when they were both allies centuries ago – mostly just so Arthur could have a chance to bloody Francis' nose back then.
It was the same predatory look Gilbert had right before he plunged into battle – but of course, he admitted with a mental smirk, he looked more awesome.
There was a particularly evil smile on Arthur's face as the man opened the door. "Come inside for some tea and we'll talk."
Gilbert grinned.
Some time later found both men in Arthur's sitting room, Arthur now properly dressed and offering his guest a cup of tea. Gilbert would have preferred beer any day, but he did not mind tea all that much; after all, old Fritz drank it on occasion. At least Arthur made his tea really strong – builder's tea, Arthur called it – and he might as well humour Arthur's quirks for a bit until he was sure the man would join his side.
"When is this football game of yours anyway?"
"Next Saturday."
"So who else is on the team?"
"You, and the awesome me!"
"And?" Arthur prompted.
"And?" Gilbert echoed.
Arthur slowly put his cup of tea down on the table. "You do know that you need at least eleven players on a footy team, right?"
"Yeah, but we don't need eleven, because the other side has got only two players too! It's just Francis and Antonio!"
Arthur stared at him. "What kind of football are we playing then if it's only two men on a side?"
"I dunno, something like that new indoor football thing, I suppose. Except we're still playing outdoors."
Arthur kept on staring. "What, you mean like futsal? You still need five players on a team for that."
"So? Arthur, we're not going to play in the fuckin' UEFA championships with all the boring rules and qualifying rounds and all that shit! Like I said, it's just a quick way to settle this argument I have with Antonio and Francis."
Arthur sighed. "Then why did you pick, of all things, football? Can't you just have gone with something like tennis or poker or even snakes and ladders?"
"It seemed like an awesome idea at the time. And still is!"
Arthur certainly did not look convinced, for he was muttering something about suffering fools gladly.
Gilbert's patience was wearing thin. He decided to try another approach, "Look, forget it. I'll just ask someone else to join me in kicking Francis' ass - maybe I'll go ask Roderich!" he said and made a show of getting up, even though he was actually eyeing Arthur for the reaction he expected. Sure enough, at the very mention of causing physical harm to Francis' rear end, there was a dangerous glint in Arthur's eyes.
Gilbert smirked. Despite what others thought, he could be really manipulative if he wanted to.
"I didn't say I wouldn't play," Arthur told him, and Gilbert sat back down. "And you're not seriously considering asking Roderich to play football, are you?"
"It was just a thought."
"Can't imagine him playing decent footy."
"Absolutely not. He probably doesn't want to get his clothes dirty."
They both smirked.
"Gilbert, I do have one question though."
"What?"
"When was the last time you played a game of footy? Twenty years ago?"
"I've played lots of times since then!" Gilbert replied, rather too quickly.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Name one."
"Um."
"Oh for fuck's sake."
"You worry too much. Just leave everything to me, all right?"
"That's what I'm worried about. You can't even organise a piss-up in a brewery, which is one spectacular achievement considering all that beer you've got back home."
Gilbert blinked. "Huh?" Arthur's weird language was confusing sometimes.
"Never mind. I suppose a football game would be a nice break from the usual routine."
Gilbert smirked. "Of course."
Arthur hid a smile behind his teacup. "I'm glad that's settled."
"See you next Saturday?"
"You'll call me with all the details, I trust."
"Sure."
"Next Saturday then."
The wicked grins on the two men's faces as they shook hands were completely identical.
--x--
Ludwig checked his brother's blog that afternoon to find another new entry:
Sunday:
Starting off an awesome day courtesy of the awesome me! I found a teammate (who's not as awesome as I am, but he's all right) and we're gonna kick Francis' and Antonio's asses! Ha!
Where the hell are my football boots? West, I know you're at home reading this, so go find them! I want them ready when I get back home for lunch!
Ludwig sighed.
Additional Notes:
i. The Three Lions – nickname of England's national football team. Comes from the emblem of the team, which features three lions passant guardant
ii. Vollkornbrot – German wholemeal bread
iii. UEFA - Union of European Football Association; the administrative body for European football
