I do not own Hetalia, the characters, places, events, cooperation or anything that isn't mine. Hetalia is Hidekaz Humaryu's. Please review!

And to some people, when I say "football" I mean "soccer."

4. Football, Potatoes, and Flowers

You are Germany.

The scars you have been dealt are like wounds of a dying animal. Healing slowly, growing stronger. The wreckage a grotesque war had given you have slowed you down. You are not visibly as strong as you once were, you look deprived and starved. Yet you are still the same person. You still get annoyed when Italy decides to leave a mess for you to clean, you still eat Wurst sausages like cake. You are still strong, though not in the same way.

Your face is deathly serious as it stares back at itself in the mirror. You are thinner, not as built, not nearly as intimidating. But you feel the same. You are climbing, slowly, out of the hole the war had dug behind your back as you fought. Buried over, you have clawed yourself from the rubble.

But you are also exhausted. You had just finished a game of football with Switzerland, so you had showered, and dressed. You grab your tote bag with the sweaty gear inside and sling it over your shoulder, flipping your wet blonde hair over so it would stay slicked back.

"Good game, Germany," Switzerland bids you as you leave the locker room. You had played in his stadium, and had won, as usual. Switzerland wipes the sweat from his forehead, moving his golden bangs from his eyes.

"Yeah, you too," you say as you open the door to the stadium. Your accent had caught many of the players off-guard, the way some things were pronounced as "v's." It didn't confuse Switzerland because they knew each other, though it did confuse him at times. "I guess this means I'll be playing Austria, right?"

"I guess so," Switzerland mumbled. He was clearly not taking the loss well. "I'll be watching that," he said, and tucked something in his back pocket. You suppose it's a gun- probably carried around with the excuse of "just-in-case." Even you don't carry around a weapon anymore, but Switzerland had always come off to him as gun-obsessed, so you exit the locker room and step onto the rainy field.

Of the stands, there were only a few people left. You spot Liechtenstein sitting with a polka-dotted umbrella next to the person you are searching for, the red-headed Italy, who looked like he was melting under the rain.

"Germany, I really hate it here, it's so rainy and dark and not sunny, can we please go home and get some wine or something, I'm really thirsty and that match was really boring, but you did really good, and-"

"Yeah," You interrupt your companion, before he can complain any more. "Let's go home now."

Italy jumps up and runs down the slick steps, and you watch him carefully because the steps are smooth concrete and easy to slip on. Italy makes it out the doors and into the parking lot without stumbling, and the doors swing shut behind him.

"Congratulations, Mr. Germany," says a soft voice. You turn, and Liechtenstein is on her feet. "You did a good job."

Of course you could count on Switzerland's little sister to be gracious about the win. She was small and petite, wearing a jersey shirt that was probably Switzerland's at one point, so it didn't fit her at all, though it supported Switzerland's team, so that was all that really mattered. Her face was still young, and her mouth was small, and she clutched the umbrella above her head, completely dry.

"Oh," you say, catching your response for the comment that had came out of nowhere. "Thank you. Make sure there's no hard feelings between me and Switzerland, will you?"

"Sure," Liechtenstein says brightly, and then she skips down the steps as Switzerland calls out to her.

You walk down the steps as well, sighing, because when you open the door you see that Italy had pulled your car up to the curb to wait. In the process, he had taken out the three cars parked by the sidewalk. Your car is barely scathed, but you approach the smiling Italian from the driver's side.

"No," you say. "I'm driving."

"What?" Italy is clearly disappointed. "But Germany, your roads are so fun and it's a really long drive and you've got to be really tired and-"

"Italy," you say. You tone enters a dangerous air. "The thought is nice. But get out." It's often that you have to order Italy around, and he was used to it, so it goes without note.

Italy sulkily climbs out of the drivers side and walks around the black car to the passenger seat. You get in the car and put it in the correct gear- Italy had been driving with all four wheels on a completely flat surface. Once Italy is fully situated and comfortably keeping an entirely pointless dialog, you pull out of the parking lot and onto the highway that will take you and Italy home.

The hills are green, and the sky is blue, the air tastes a little wet. It takes you a few hours to get home, with Italy passing out almost a half hour into the drive, though you pull into the parking lot of the tidy apartment in Berlin, and tap him on the shoulder.

"We're home?" Italy yawns. "That was a really good drive, eh, Germany?" Italy climbs out of the car and grabs the overnight bag you had him pack. "Next time, you'll let me drive, right? On a shorter trip?"

"Maybe," you say. In your mind, you know you want to keep Italy as far away from a steering wheel as possible, so there were no promises. You join Italy as you enter the lobby, which was manned by a passed-out clerk, which really gets on your nerves to see someone slacking off at their job. As you pass to the stairs, you ring the bell, which wakes him immediately. You tiredly climb the three sets of stairs as Italy runs ahead with enthusiastic energy that fueled him, and opens the door with a key you were sure was in your back pocket just a second ago.

The door to the apartment is opened, and you enter the one-room residence you uphold with Italy. The couch against the wall has a coffee table in front of it, and a small but expensive-looking telivision across form that. The shelves on the walls are mostly filled with Italy's pictures, photos of him and the many allies he had made over the years. The bunk bed against the wall is already occupied with Italy sitting cross-legged on the top bunk. You let your bag fall on your bottom bunk, and you flop on it easily.

Italy's head is soon invading your vision when you open your eyes a second later.

"What?" You ask, a little annoyed.

"You want some pasta, Germany?" Italy asks him with a wispy air in his voice. His accent is atrocious. "I can make you some nice gnocchi or maybe some pizza, if you'd like."

"Sure," you say, and roll over. "I'm just going to take a rest while you make it."

"That's all right," Italy said, and you hear the thump as he skips the ladder and merely jumps onto the rug. You hear him enter the small kitchen and turn on the heat for the meal.

You don't know why Italy insists on living with you any more, but you've come not to mind. Once you had got past the mess he makes over time, you had come to be thankful for his prescience. It makes up for the silence- and the loneliness. His constant ramble reminds you slightly of your brother.

Prussia. Your face no longer contorts in pain over the disappearance of your brother. Italy never was good reading you, so it was impossible for him to tell that you are honestly distressed about the memory. Where had Russia taken him? No one had seen Prussia for decades, not even his well-known enemy, Austria. But then again, Austria might've seen him. You'll have to ask him in the next match, before the game, you think.

"Germmmmmmmany?" Italy asks leeringly from the kitchen.

"What is it?" You decide it's no use trying to sleep until Italy did; it was almost impossible.

Italy was standing in the small living room portion of the apartment, holding an empty box. "We're out of pasta."

You groan and rub your temples because you know you'll have to drive him to the supermarket to get some.

Meanwhile…

"Switzerland, you did lovely," said Liechtenstein as Switzerland woke up from a rest. It was almost dinnertime, and her older brother had rested after the game. "You were so close."

"Yes, well," Switzerland didn't really want to think about it. He rubbed his eyes from sleep. "I guess this means I don't get to kick Austria's butt anymore…" he mumbled. He had hoped to win to put Austria in his place, but that hadn't happened. "Thank you. And I'm glad to see that good display of manners to Germany on the field. It was very nice of you to congratulate him."

"He did well too," said Liechtenstein. "And I think you'll be rooting for him in the next match?"

"Of course I will," Switzerland said crossly. He went into the kitchen. "There's no way I'll be rooting for that rich prick of a man…" He mumbled as he turned on the stove.

"Okay," said Liechtenstein. Switzerland went ridged as he realized that she had heard him.

Switzerland and Liechtenstein lived in a small house in the middle of a country town. Around their house was little thatched cottages that burst with color and flowers, and their house was not unlike the others, but only slightly larger. Switzerland's room was well furnished and next to the kitchen with a bathroom down the hall, right across his room was the door to Liechtenstein's room. They both had the same tidy and well-furnished rooms, with a small bed pushed against the wall, a dresser and a bedside table. The only difference was Liechtenstein had more feminine curtains. Their windows were clean and the floor was swept, it was so tidy because Liechtenstein often occupied herself on the days Switzerland was away with cleaning. Switzerland often wondered why that was, but he figured it was because she had lived with Germany when she was young, and didn't question it.

Every since styles of homes had been changing, almost all countries had been on the move with the decade. America's house was surprisingly futuristic and well kept, Germany and Italy's was tidy and modern, and France, of course, had the most stylish flat with the best view of the Eiffel Tower in all of Paris. However, Switzerland and Liechtenstein hadn't moved since the war. They had to at first because of the wreckage it had created, but once they had settled after that, they hadn't moved. The furniture inside the house had to be replaced once in a while, though Switzerland was too caught up in the homey-ness of the little cottage, and Liechtenstein liked anything Switzerland did. They changed their fashion as France pumped out new styles, but they both kept it relatively simple. Switzerland had changed out of his dirty football jersey and into just a pair of worn jeans and a button-up long-sleeved shirt, though Liechtenstein still wore hers over second-hand jeans that Switzerland had got her at a thrift store.

Actually, Switzerland thought, as he wiped the counters down in preparation for some potatoes and cheese, most of our clothes are from thrift stores.

"What are we having, brother?" Liechtenstein asked softly. She pulled out two plates from the little cabinets on the wall and set them on the table.

"I just thought we could do with something simple," Switzerland said. "Will you grate some cheese for me?"

"Sure," his sister offered as she set down glasses and silverware. She went into the cooling basement, the entrance was next to the shelves with the plates, and came back up with a little black of cheese. She grabbed the grater off the wall and started to move the cheese up and down the rough surface.

Once the potatoes were boiling and the cheese was in a small lump on the cutting board, Switzerland leaned against the counter and Liechtenstein sat down at the table patiently. "So did you like the match?" He asked her, filling the peaceful silence.

"Yes," she said. "But I was worried someone was going to get hurt in the fourth quarter. You were really fighting there."

"Well, I guess so," Switzerland said. "But I don't think Germany would've picked a fight with me. Do you?"

She shook her head, the purple bow nestled behind her ear moving with her short blonde locks. Switzerland had realized a while ago that Liechtenstein wasn't ever going to grow her hair back. Though he could admit that she was pretty either way, and he didn't stop her.

The phone rang, interrupting what Switzerland was about to say. "Hold on a second. Can you pour out the water for me?"

Liechtenstein nodded, and went to the stove as Switzerland stepped into their small den to get the phone. She heard him pick up and greet the person on the other line, but the sound of the water down the sink drowned out everything else. The mushy white potatoes were soft enough to mash, so she took one of the bigger forks from the little basket on the shelf and poked at them until they were a white mess at the bottom of the pan. Switzerland was still on the phone by this time, so she grabbed both of their plates and scooped a heap of potatoes onto his plate, and sprinkled on the cheese. She did the same for herself, and put the leftovers in a small container.

After she resurfaced from the cooling basement, Switzerland's voice was steadily rising. A moment later, she heard the phone click as it was set on the receiver, and Switzerland came back into the room. He sighed, then he saw the two plates set at the table. Liechtenstein hauled the big pot that had the potatoes in it over to the sink and set it there to be washed afterward, then sat down with him.

"Thanks, Lily," Switzerland mumbled. They said Grace, then Switzerland fit a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. He chewed, then said carefully, "That was Austria now. He wants me over there for a couple of days, something about political interests or something. Will you be okay here for a couple of days?"

Liechtenstein stopped eating for a second. "But, brother, I thought we were going to watch the match together in a few days…"

"I know we were." Switzerland had a bad habit of sounding rough, and this was one of those times. "But Liechtenstein, I was asked to be somewhere. Would it be polite to say no?"

Silently, she shook her head.

Switzerland fit another bite into his mouth. "I'll go tonight. I'll try to make it home before the match, alright?" He lifted his head, Liechtenstein was staring at her lap. "Aw, come on, Liechtenstein. I'll try to make it, okay?"

"Okay," a disheartened Liechtenstein nodded her head solemnly.

The two of them finished their meal in silence.

Meanwhile…

Hungary stood on her tiptoes and carefully placed the figurine back in it's place. It was a porcelain figure of a woman with rosy lips and a maid's outfit with a creamy white pale of milk. She had always thought it look a bit like herself, though she never made that thought known to Austria.

She walked out into the hallway where Austria suddenly stepped out in front of here.

"There you are," he said. His accent had a sort of snip to it. He was wearing a suit and a tie, his shoes glossy with shine that she had polished onto them. His brown hair, the color of chocolate, was styled with jell, and nevertheless, a single curl stuck out. Sometimes Hungary found herself wanting to put it back, though she never did.

"I had to call Switzerland," he said.

"What for?" Asked Hungary. She held onto the stool she had stood on in anticipation- Austria wouldn't often invite Switzerland over.

"Government issues," Austria said stately. "I just need his advice for a couple of days. Will you clean a room for him?"

"Of course," Hungary answered. She hardly needed to. The dozens of rooms that made up Austria's house were all usually clean, but most of them needed dusting.

"Thank you," Austria said. He started around her, but hesitated.

Hungary hardly knew what was going on as Austria pulled the flower out of her hair. To her horror, she saw an ugly brown daisy. She hadn't replaced it- and her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"Are you worried about something?" He asked her. He could always tell.

The fact that Hungary had worried about Austria for a long time now should've been obvious- though her general appearance was almost never unkempt. She was mostly a well-fed maid in Austria's household, and well cared for. They had been together a long time, fought together, laughed, cried even. Austria was clearly a friend, a close companion.

And yet she shook her head. She didn't like lying, but there were so many things she couldn't say to Austria. So many secrets. The time she had broken dishes and dared not tell him, all the nights she had woke and wished to be beside him. The secrete that she missed Prussia. A silent voice that whispered she wanted to learn to play the piano as well. Something to share with him. Anything.

"Alright," Austria said. He was easily fooled with a serious look. "Thank you, that's all." And he walked down the hall.

She didn't see him slip the dead flower into his pocket.

She couldn't hear his thoughts that were begging him to say something more.

They loved each other.

Wow.

I had to delete a lot of this chapter and start over after I had finished the Germany part- I decided I wanted to expand a bit with the world and not go straight into the conflict. Yes, there is going to be a plot with the other characters as well (and a bit of romance…?) though not all that you think. I have no idea what specific pairings I support (Belarus and America, obviously, but the thing with Hungary has me at a pause) so other than the one specified, be as confused as me.

If you were anticipating the things that happen after Russia got his pants in a not about the coat, sorry…that'll probably happen in the next chapter…maybe. Once the week starts again it might not be until next weekend that you get your next chapters.

That dish Liechtenstein and Switzerland were cooking had to be looked up- I give Wikepedia the credit for the Raclette…or whatever I took from there. So I don't take credit for that.

Without further boringness, goodbye! Please read and review!