Wow, I actually updated in a reasonable amount of time. Thank you to the people who followed and favorited the story! I really appreciate the support! For this chapter, I just thought it would be funny to note the difference between European football and American football, and then the plot bunny just morphed into something else entirely. I wrote this chapter just as a brotherly day with America and England, because despite their differences, they're still brothers to some degree (at least, that's how I picture it in my head-canon).

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Hetalia.

"Hey, England! I'm totally…why are you dressed like that?"

England turned around and stared at America with horror, "You idiot, I said we were going to play…"

Oh…right…that…

America had on his red, white, and blue tackle gear and cleats. A broad '50' was stamped on both the front and back of his white jersey, and he held his blue and red spangled helmet under one arm while the other held a pointed football.

"Dude, you said we were going to play football," America stated when England's silence stretched on, "Why aren't you dressed right? You're totally going to be murdered, bro."

England face-palmed, "America…if I wanted to play that, I would have said rugby, even though they really aren't the same. When I said football, I meant…what do you call it again?"

"That's a soccer ball. You meant that we were playing something as boring as soccer? I would've been more excited if you said you wanted me to sample a new muffin recipe! And your muffins suck!"

America effortlessly dodged the soccer ball that England kicked at his face, "They're called scones, you wanker!" He half-yelled at him, "And I distinctly remember you not being able to get enough of them when you were still wetting—"

England barely whipped his head to the side in time to avoid the pointy ball that whistled past his ear. At that point, he had the good sense to start running. After all, he had seen the man tow his Rolls Royce with one hand, and he wasn't ready to start a fight with that.

"Come on! Face me like a man!" America shouted after him in fast pursuit, "Or at least as manly as you can be!"

"Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks!" England chanted over and over in his head as if it were a desperate prayer. Or maybe a warding spell.

Neither of them worked, since only seconds later a solid mass smashed into England's torso. America's tackle would have hurt regardless, but the thick, plastic padding made it worse. A cloud of dirt rose upon their impact with the ground, and England made a somewhat undignified noise that sounded somewhere between a cough and a yelp. It was in vain that he tried to fight his way out from under the younger, more powerful nation, but he couldn't resist trying.

"Get…off…fat-arse." England wheezed out; the combination of the tackle and America's weight making it somewhat difficult to draw in a proper breath.

America put a hand between his shoulder blades and easily pushed down; effectively putting an end to his already useless struggles, "Not until you say your scones suck and that I'm the bestest, most awesome superhero there is!"

"No!"

"Last chance!"

"Before what, you squash me to death?"

England craned his neck enough to just barely see the stumped look on America's face. Of course—typical America. He would chase something from heaven to hell with astonishing single-minded determination, but he wouldn't know what to do with it once he got it. The smaller nation tried clawing his way out from under him, but America just put more weight on the hand pinning him. Now in a legitimate struggle to breathe, England stopped moving and put his incredibly vast ocean of intellect to find a way to escape. He was England, after all. No one else could match him with escapes.

Thankfully, with the pause in movement, America lightened the pressure on his back, and England was able to breathe properly again. He cast a quick glance back, which was why he was able to see the horrifying moment of inspiration dawn on America's face. The nation's blue eyes sparkled with mischief behind his half-rimmed spectacles, and did not bode well at all for England.

With his free left hand, America poked England in the side, eliciting a squirm and a sharp, quiet noise of protest from within his chest, "For real: last chance, Iggy. Say that your scones suck and that I'm the bestest, most awesome superhero there is!"

"Even if you correct your grammar, the answer is still no." England stubbornly declared.

America immediately dug his fingers into England's side and danced them up and down his torso. England remembered the one time he had tickled colonial America until the little country had begged—absolutely begged—for mercy. He wasn't sure if America remembered that and was getting revenge, or if this was just payback for the near slip of those few embarrassing moments as a child. Either way, England couldn't stop laughing, and he couldn't escape the ridiculous torture.

"Sto-op!" The one syllable word was broken in two from his laughter, "America!"

"Not until you say it!" America sang out as his right hand started to tickle the other side.

With the pressure off his back, England tried to push himself up and out. However, that exposed more skin to be tickled, and America's fingers raced over his tight stomach muscles, "You know, this wouldn't be a problem if you played real football." He teased over the laughter, "Too much padding to bypass!"

England twisted, writhed, and thrashed about in a complete instinctual way to escape, but America wasn't about to budge. Finally, when he was gasping for air, his face was red, and tears of laughter were forced from his hazel eyes, he gave in.

"M-my scones are t-terrible," England gasped, "And you're a he-hero!"

America paused, but his fingers lingered on his sides, "Hmm…that's awfully close, Iggy, but not quite. I'll let you go on the scones, but you need to fix that last part. I'm not just a hero…" He trailed off in a tone that prompted England to finish.

Damn. Well, he almost got away with it.

"You're the most awesome superhero there is." England grudgingly mumbled into the lush grass.

"I think you need to work on your enunciation and volume, but I'll take it!" America happily proclaimed, and finally removed his gargantuan body.

England rolled over to his back to catch his breath for a moment, but America grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet, "Bloody—"

"Come on," America interrupted; slipping out of his star-spangled jersey in order to shed his thick tackle gear underneath, "Let's play some football." Once out of the heavy padding, America trotted over to retrieve England's football as he tugged his jersey back on.

England stood in place with a puzzled smile on his face. America was…well, plenty of insults that all the languages in the world couldn't cover, never mind just the English ones, but he had his redeeming qualities. Granted, he couldn't match the list of insults with them, but nonetheless, they were there. In this case, his ability to forgive and concede to play a game he didn't much care for was pretty amazing.

America alternated bouncing the black and white ball between his knees and his feet as he walked back towards England, "Ready to get your ass kicked?"

England smiled in return, in part because America's attitude could at time be infectious, but also because he was about to get revenge for the tickle torture. As fit as America was, England was outright better at the sport than him. An hour later found the pair sprawled on their backs in opposite directions; the football resting gently in the back of America's goal.

"Next week we're playing my football," America groused, "Then we'll see whose ass gets kicked."

"Your football is harder to play one-on-one." England pointed out absentmindedly; thinking that one of the clouds above them looked like a tea kettle.

"Huh…good point…hey! What if we get France, Germany, Italy, and a bunch of others to play?! We could do Allies vs Axis all over again, only with a fun game instead of war!"

England rolled his eyes, "You know how sensitive Germany is about that time. Besides, Italy would run the second the whistle blew, France would fake an injury after the first few tackles, Japan would be confused about everything—since it is bloody confusing—and Russia would switch sides in the middle of the game depending on who was winning or losing."

"…but you and I would stay on the same side, right bro?"

England gave a good-natured sigh, "Yes, we would."

After a few seconds, America slapped him on the shoulder, "Hey! Don't you dare leave me hanging, or I'll sit on you again."

England realized that America had held his hand out for a high-five, and he lazily slapped it, "No need to pull out the big guns for something like that. Happy now?"

"We should go get some burgers or something. I'm hungry."

With another sigh, England smacked America's shoulder and pushed himself upright, "Fine, we'll find a burger place for you and a café for me."

"A café? That's boring."

"The only other alternative is that I cook for you."

America was up and running in the blink of an eye, "No way, dude! Burgers are on me today!"

England knew it was useless to shout after him, or even to give chase. America would order burgers for him, he would refuse (he'd be fine with his tea and crumpets), and America would wind up inhaling the extra burgers anyway. Pushing himself to his feet, England began a light jog in the direction of his favorite café. Maybe if he was lucky, he would be almost finished with his meal by the time America found him.

So yeah, I had a lot of fun writing this. I'm not exactly sure which one-shot I'm going to write next (since I have multiple plot bunnies jumping around here), but it will probably be a more serious one. Also, I have realized that most of my plot bunnies have America in them. I know being an American and all makes me biased, but I really think he's a complex character (like most of the countries). I guess to get to my point already, I apologize in advance for having a lot of chapters with annoying America. Thank you for reading, and please drop a review if you have time!