Author's Note: So someone wanted something that had Gilbert, Francis, Antonio and Arthur and 'the most inane footy game in history'. Here we go then.

Of Family, Friends and Football

Part One: Die Mannschaft

It was ten when Ludwig returned home. He made his way up the stairs and into the hallway, and then peered at the light slipping through the crack of the door to Gilbert's room. Was Gilbert home?

Ludwig knocked on the door. "Gilbert?" he said, but there was no answer.

That meant Gilbert was either already asleep (unlikely, since it was too early), or he was just listening to some metal band with his headphones on as he updated his blog. If it were indeed the latter, he was thankful that at least his brother was not singing along. His brother's usual vocal antics were horribly off-key, Ludwig opined, despite Gilbert's claims otherwise.

Ludwig knocked a second time, and again there was no answer. He opened the door and stepped inside his brother's room.

Gilbert's room was an enigma by itself; nowhere else would anyone find a place that somehow managed to (successfully, Gilbert insisted) incorporate the unholy cabal of contemporary furniture, Hieronymus Bosch and fluffy yellow chicks in its interior design.

Then again, no one else probably wanted to even think of such a thing.

The bed was unoccupied, and so was the chair at Gilbert's desk. His brother must have gone out and simply forgot to turn off the lights again. He switched them off, shut the door and went back downstairs.

The empty room meant Gilbert was probably out drinking with Francis or Antonio, or both. And since it was a Friday night, that meant Gilbert was on his usual crusade of drinking every single German under the table and getting himself completely intoxicated in the process. Getting Gilbert to take a taxi back home was out of the question, since no taxi driver in his right mind would want a drunk Gilbert as a fare.

Fortunately, most of the time his brother's friends – well, actually just Antonio – would have the sense and not to mention be somewhat sober enough to haul an inebriated (though triumphant) Gilbert home, or at least would let Gilbert stay over at his place for the night. Antonio would then call Ludwig early in the morning to pick his brother up, since 'Lovino would throw a fit when he comes over for lunch and sees Gilbert sprawled on the sofa!' Antonio would say.

Telling himself to quit worrying for his brother (or rather, of what his brother was capable of doing), Ludwig switched on the porch light for Gilbert before he went to bed.

--x--

Gilbert was indeed at one of his favourite pubs, and both Francis and Antonio were with him. Francis had brought a bottle of wine for all of them to sample, an activity Gilbert participated in rather enthusiastically before he went back to his usual dose of beer. Then it was the usual exchange of (horribly exaggerated) stories and teasing. At least, until they somehow started arguing.

"I don't know, Gilbert," Antonio commented, "I guess Francis is right on this one."

"That – that's always how it is!" Gilbert protested, slamming down his beer mug on the table.

"What is?" Antonio asked, confused.

"Every time we try to decide on something – or even do something, you always end up taking his side!"

"Ah, and where is the harm in that? I thought you liked being all by your awesome self," Francis baited.

"Of course I do! I'm much more awesome than both of you put together!"

"So what's upsetting you then?" Antonio asked. He frowned in concern. "Gilbert, are you feeling all right?"

Actually, Gilbert thought that perhaps Antonio had something there. Maybe there was some element of truth in that 'Bier auf Wein, das lasse sein, Wein auf Bier, das rat' ich dir!' rhyme Ludwig firmly believed in after all. Gilbert certainly felt a little less awesome than usual, and it was not like him to get annoyed so easily. But admitting it? Of course not.

"I'm fine!" he insisted.

"Actually, Gilbert," Francis observed, "I think Antonio's right–"

"See? You're doing it again. It's always Francis and Antonio, or Antonio and Francis. Not Gilbert and Francis, and not Gilbert and Antonio!"

Antonio was now genuinely confused, while Francis had some trouble deciding whether he should be worried or irritated at his friend's outburst. He settled for the latter.

"So what are you going to do about it, mon ami? Challenge us to a duel? No, don't bother." Francis waved his hand in a haughty gesture. "Duels are so... old-fashioned."

"A fistfight is starting to sound like a good idea right now," Gilbert growled.

"Your brother would throw a fit if you start another brawl in the streets again," Antonio pointed out.

"West throws a fit if I do anything," Gilbert grumbled. "Fine! We'll settle this in another way! I challenge the both of you to...." He looked frantically around the pub, trying to find a quick inspiration when his gaze landed on the TV in the far corner.

Perfect.

"A football match!" he announced, smirking.

Both Antonio and Francis blinked at their friend before they said in unison, "What?"

"You heard me! We'll have a match next Saturday!"

"But Gilbert," Antonio said, "football? And two against one? That doesn't sound fair. Especially since you're now angry and saying how it's always the two of us leaving you alone."

"And?"

"So maybe you should get someone else to play against us too, just to make it fair – and Francis, why are you kicking my leg?"

Francis made an exasperated sound. "Antonio, you can be horribly dense sometimes, you know that?" He had hoped for an easy win in this ridiculous football game Gilbert insisted on, but Antonio just had to open his mouth. His friend may have problems remembering just how vicious Gilbert could be, but he certainly did not.

"Dense?"

"Oh, never mind. It's not like Gilbert would be able to actually find someone to agree playing with him."

"If that's the way you want to do it, then fine! I'll find someone to come along, just because you insisted! He can be a witness to my awesomeness in kicking both your asses!" Gilbert announced, and then chugged down the remaining beer in his mug before thumping it down on the table. "See you next Saturday, losers!" he snarled and left the pub, slamming the door shut in what would have been a dramatic gesture, if he had not tripped and fell flat on his face soon right after. The pub's regulars were somewhat used to these displays, so the impressive amount of cursing and swearing that followed did not bother them one bit.

Francis made a show of rubbing his temples. "He's completely smashed, isn't he," he said wryly.

Antonio agreed. "Very much so."

They both looked at each other and sighed.

"Do you think he's serious?" Francis asked. "I thought he looked serious enough."

Antonio shrugged. "Probably. We might as well show up next Saturday." He brightened. "We still need to finish that bottle of wine you brought, though."

"Santé?"

"Salud."

--x--

After a few wrong turns, Gilbert reached home. Upon reaching his room, he kicked off his shoes and ungraciously plopped himself in his bed. So Antonio and Francis thought he could not find a teammate to play against them? He would show them otherwise.

But who would be his partner for the match? He certainly was not worried about losing, since he firmly believed there was no way he would lose, but it would be rather nice if he could find someone that knew him well enough to be a decent teammate.

His brother, maybe? No, boring, goody-two-shoes West would only give him a lecture instead of putting on a football kit and boots.

Maybe the whole thing was not a good idea after all. Gilbert knew he was awesome, but he admitted that he was also capable of making mistakes. Still, he consoled himself, at least they were awesome mistakes.

He frowned. Wait, that did not sound quite right.

"Ah, screw it," he grumbled. He would figure out something in the morning, when he was not groggy and would be back to his usual awesome self. Now he just needed to update his blog and go to sleep. He climbed out of bed and went to his laptop, typed for a bit and then climbed back in bed, cackling softly to himself.

--x--

Ludwig finished getting dressed, while thinking of what to prepare for breakfast for him and his brother. Eggs and ham for him, Katerfrühstück – a hangover breakfast of rollmops – for Gilbert, and maybe pancakes, if his brother was not too irritating when he woke up.

Speaking of his brother, Gilbert had returned home earlier than usual last night, much to Ludwig's surprise. He did however, sound just as intoxicated as usual though. Still, Ludwig was glad that at least he did not have to go anywhere early in the morning to haul Gilbert home.

He glanced at his watch. Seven; it was still much, much too early for Gilbert to be awake. Out of habit, Ludwig sat down at his computer desk and checked Gilbert's blog, just in case his brother had done something completely insane last night that might involve lawsuits which he needed to know about.

His brother had indeed blogged a new entry last night:

Friday:

I was so cool tonight! I'm going to kick Francis' and Antonio's not-awesome asses next Saturday at football!

Ludwig blinked, confused. "Football?"

It seemed relatively harmless enough, but then again, this was Gilbert.

Ludwig sighed. He would just find out the details later. Now he just needed to start on making breakfast.

Additional Notes:

i. Die Mannschaft - the nickname of the German national football team; literally 'The Team'

ii. 'Bier auf Wein, das lasse sein, Wein auf Bier, das rat' ich dir!' - German advice on drinking; basically means drinking beer before wine is fine, but drink wine before beer and you're screwed

iii. Katerfrühstück - literally, hangover breakfast