The blaring sun shone mercilessly down on the exhausted football players. They were tired, they were dehydrated, they were fed up with all of this, but they were determined. There was no way they would let the other team win without a fight. After all, this was the Fifa World Cup. Whoever won this would go on to the final round. On one side, you had the Spanish. They were fiery but graceful players. Then you had the German's. They were relentless attackers who never let up the pressure on their opponents. Both teams were amazing, but only one would win.

"SCORE DAMMIT SCORE! COME ON YOU IDIOTS YOU CALL YOURSELF FOOTBALL PLAYERS? BRUDER YOU'D BETTER WIN THIS FOR ME! YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING! GET IT IN THE NET YOU STUPID LITTLE BRAINLESS-". Gilbert hadn't stopped screaming at the German football players since the match started. Francis sighed. He was making a complete fool out of himself. It's not like his brother could hear him through the television.

On the other side of Europe, the scene was very similar, except it was Romano trying to shout through the screen. "ANTONIO YOU IDIOT YOU COULD'VE SCORED RIGHT THERE! POUND THAT STUPID POTATO BASTARD INTO THE DUST! COME ON COME ON COME ON! SOMEONE'S GOTTA BEAT HIM! NO! KICK IT TO HIM! HE'S OPEN YOU STUPID LITTLE TOMATO BASTARD!" Feliciano was a bit frightened by his brother's roaring, but it was nice that he wasn't hiding in his room as usual, so he didn't complain. Actually, he just sat there eating pasta the whole time, smiling happily.

And then we have the actual soccer players. Ludwig and Antonio were both completely wiped. They had been playing for seventy minutes straight, and neither had got a goal.

"Hola Ludwig."

"Hey Spain," Germany half grunted.

Antonio smiled his usual smile. "You're one tough opponent, I'll give you that. But you're going down mi amigo."

Ludwig smirked. "Whatever you say Spain."

They were in the seventy fourth minute. The heat really started to set in now. Everyone was panting, absolutely drenched in sweat. But then something happened. The Spanish got the ball down to the German end. From one to another, then it went up and- GOAL! They had managed a header that had went right past the German goalie.

And boy Antonio can't remember the last time he had felt so ecstatic.

"NO NO NO NO NO NO! HOW THE HELL DIDN'T YOU BLOCK THAT YOU COMPLETE RETARD! YOU COULD'VE STOPPED THAT! NO! NOOOOO!" Gilbert half shouted, half sobbed. "How could you? You stupid… little… brat." Now he was just full out sobbing.

Francis smiled a bit at how much his friend got into the game, and then passed him a beer.

" 'Ere. It 'ill help."

"YES YES YES! THANK YOU SO MUCH ANTONIO! NOW HE'S GOING DOWN! THANK YOU SO MUCH! I COULD KI- No, no no no no! I didn't say that… FUCK."

Feliciano laughed as his brother. He was so strange sometimes.

Back in Africa, the game ended. The Germans walked off the field, sorely disappointed. This was just another year they were headed to the third place game again.

The Spanish on the other hand were dancing and screaming and god knows what else.

However, neither team noticed that two of there players were missing. Antonio sat beside Ludwig; smile brighter than the sun that shone down on them earlier. "I told you I would win."

Ludwig grunted, and then let his head fall down into his hands. His bruder was going to murder him.

Antonio laughed. "Lighten up! It's just a little game of football."

Ludwig stood up and glared at Antonio a bit, then turned to leave.

"Mi amigo, aren't you forgetting something?"

Ludwig looked back, puzzled. "What could I be forgetting?"

Antonio half smirked then strode over to Ludwig and then sat him down on the bench. Ludwig looked at him, thoroughly confused. "Wha-?"

He was interrupted when a set of lips met his own. Antonio smiled, then whispered, "The post-game party."