"If those damn people don't stop blowing those fucking vuvuzelas, I will kill someone," Romano growled angrily as the Italians made their way to their seats.

"But fratello, you brought your vuvuzela…and you were blowing it at the last few games we went to for big brother Spain…" Veneziano said.

Romano flushed a deep red. "Sh-shut up!" he shouted. "I was only blowing it to distract that potato bastard and his freak albino brother!"

Veneziano frowned deeply and shot his brother a disapproving glare. "Fratello, we talked about the last game," he said as threateningly as he could (which, to be honest, wasn't very much so at all), "and you promised that you wouldn't try to distract my Doitsu."

Romano looked a bit sheepish. "Well—I mean—you were using your vuvuzela too," he huffed. "That probably distracted Spain."

Veneziano was about to reply when someone bumped into Romano, who fell back against him and nearly knocked him over.

"HEY! YOU BASTARD! YOU DIDN'T EVEN APOLOGIZE, ASSHOLE!" Romano's face was turning dangerously red, and he was downright screaming at the man. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR?"

Veneziano tried to tug on his brother's sleeve and take him to their seats. "Ve~, fratello, I'm sure it was an accident…"

"I don't fucking care if it was an accident." He shot a murderous glare towards the back of the man's head. "He ran into me."

"Let's—let's just get to our seats, okay?"

"WHAT THE FUCK? A YELLOW CARD? THAT'S NOT FUCKING FAIR!" Romano screamed at the referee. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? PUYOL DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!"

Veneziano was on the edge of his seat. "Fratello, the referee's just doing his—"

He fell silent when Sneijder began his run to kick the ball. It flew towards the goal—was he going to score?

Both brothers jumped up and screamed when Casillas caught the ball dead-on. Their voices were nearly drowned out by the vuvuzelas and other screaming Spanish fans surrounding them.

"YEAH, BITCH!" Romano shouted, a giant smile on his face. "YOU AREN'T GONNA SCORE THAT EASILY!"

Veneziano's mouth fell open in disbelief when one of the Netherlands' players kicked Alonso in the chest. A quick glance towards his brother showed him that the hot-tempered Italian was in a rage, screaming along with the rest of the people around them.

Veneziano sighed and turned his eyes back to the game. He really wanted to know who had kicked Alonso, but the game had already resumed and the navy- and bright orange-clad men were running about again.

"ANOTHER FOUL?" Romano was practically foaming at the mouth. "COME ON, TOMATO BASTARD, GET YOUR PLAYERS UNDER CONTROL!"

Nearly forty minutes in and the scoreboard still read 0—0. Romano was excited about Bommel's foul, praying that Xavi and Puyol would make it in—

—but Heitinga beat Puyol to it and headed it well away from the goal.

"Dammit," Romano growled, his throat very sore from all the shouting he'd been doing. "Come on, Spain, you've got to score sometime."

Veneziano was now yelling along with his brother, caught up in the energy of the game. He waved his Spanish flag like crazy.

"ALONSO, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" he shouted. "You could've made it!"

Romano was screaming something obscene about fouls and Pedro; Veneziano gathered that he'd missed something important and shut up.

Halftime rolled around, but they were still playing. The ball was passed around the Spanish goal through a series of headers.

A Dutch player made a desperate kick towards the net, but Casillas managed to deflect it, eliciting several excited shouts and screams from the many people rooting for Spain.

Finally, the two extra minutes were up, and the Italian brothers sat down in their seats. Their face paint was smeared and messed up, and their throats (and, in Veneziano's case, arms) were sore.

Unfortunately for Romano's temper, no one had scored yet. He was starting to rant about how Spain's team was pathetic and the Dutch were the worst players in the world, and Veneziano tried to calm him down by offering him a tomato or two.

Another goal attempt by the Dutch went wide right after halftime ended. The ball bounced back and forth between navy and orange jerseys, nearly giving Veneziano a headache.

Romano was on the edge of his seat, clutching his vuvuzela as if his life depended on it. He refused to actually blow it, insisting that "all these other horns are annoying enough, and I'm fucking sick of feeling like there's a swarm of bees in my ears."

Sometimes, Veneziano didn't understand his fratello at all.

"Come on, Spain, you bastard," Romano muttered. "What the fuck are you training your players to do? Score already!"

Veneziano glanced at the clock: 51 minutes in. "Fratello, when did we score first last time?"

"I don't even remember, now shut up and let me watch the damn match."

"XAVI! DAMMIT, LEARN HOW TO KICK!" Romano screamed after his free kick went wide. "IF YOU CAN'T FUCKING KICK THEN WHY ARE YOU ON THE NATIONAL TEAM?"

The brothers were tense; the elder was shouting profanities as Robben traveled down the field with the ball, and the younger was just waiting in silence.

Robben ran past a Spaniard to make the kick that could very well bring Netherlands into the lead. Romano bit his lip in anticipation.

And just as he was about to prepare himself to deal with being behind, Casillas barely deflected it away from the net.

Pure relief flooded through the Italian as he screamed in joy, pumping his fists and high-fiveing his brother.

Veneziano felt like crying in frustration after the goal attempt by Villa failed. They were so close to being in the lead! It was almost painful, seeing a chance to score slip right through their fingers.

Exactly fifteen minutes left.

Seventy-five minutes had passed without a single goal.

Romano was furious.

"SPAIN, YOU'D BETTER FUCKING WIN!"

"COME ON, RAMOS! YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT!"

Romano looked at his younger brother in shock. He hadn't quite realized that Veneziano was as into this game as he was (except when he was whacked in the back of the head with his flag).

But at the moment, Veneziano looked quite angry. It was a face that very few people ever saw.

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? YOU CAN AIM, CAN'T YOU?" he screamed, not noticing his older brother's gaze locked on him.

Romano shook his head slightly. He hadn't seen his fratello this riled up over a calcio match since their game against France in the last World Cup final.

Silence fell over the Italians as Robben neared the Spanish goal again.

"Mio Dio—" Veneziano gasped as the Dutchman evaded two Spanish players. Romano held his breath, praying that Casillas would make another save.

His prayers were answered; Casillas dove for the ball, capturing it and getting trampled by Robben.

"YES!" both brothers yelled.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?"

"COME ON, SPAIN, YOU CAN SCORE!"

"DAMMIT YOU BASTARD, I'M GOING TO KILL YOU IF YOU LOSE!"

All eyes were glued to the scoreboard. A "+3" was shows next to the timer.

Veneziano prayed that the Spanish team would score sometime. He really didn't want to have to deal with a depressed Spain, a mocking Prussia, and an enraged older brother tonight.

The first of the two 15-minute periods began, and everyone was extraordinarily tense. Several people around them stopped blowing their vuvuzelas to pay more attention to the field.

There was no sound escaping Romano's lips. He would be damned if he missed any second of action.

"GOD FUCKING DAMMIT."

"Fratello, please, calm down…"

"I'M NOT GOING TO FUCKING CALM DOWN. THAT'S TWO FUCKING SHOTS WE COULD HAVE MADE, AND THEY HAD TO FUCKING RUIN IT. FUCK THIS!"

Veneziano didn't even know why he bothered to open his mouth.

"HEITINGA'S OUT!" Veneziano screamed, jumping up and down. "HEITINGA'S OUT!"

Romano wasn't even saying any particular words. He was just screaming in joy, and praying that Antonio's team would pull themselves together and somehow score in the last 8 minutes of extra time.

"INIESTAAAAA!"

"FUCK YES, FINALLY! GRAZIE A DIO, WE SCORED!"

The brothers hugged each other roughly and screamed until their throats went raw. The stands around them exploded with noise. There were several people crying in relief, Veneziano being one of them.

Now, if only they could keep Netherlands from scoring.

When the referee blew his whistle to signal the end of the match, both of the brothers were positively sobbing. Romano wiped his tears away, smearing his face paint all over his hands and cheeks, and he would have been yelling had he not almost lost his voice. He wasn't fond of the idea of trying to sign to people for the rest of the night.

Veneziano waved his Spanish flag crazily. His voice was barely there, but he still insisted on half-whispering "Hooray for Spain!" as loudly as he could.

Quite some time later, when everyone was leaving the stadium, the two brothers stayed behind in their seats. Romano was scouring the field for any sign of Spain, who had been sitting on the sidelines and watching, but no sign of him was to be found.

Veneziano tugged on his arm. "Come on, fratello," he whispered, "big brother France mentioned a celebration party. We have to get back to the hotel before he starts."

Romano reluctantly stood up and followed his brother out of the stadium, but not before casting one last glance towards the field.

They were greeted with shouts and the smell of alcohol as they entered the hotel suite Veneziano was all smiles and quiet laughter; Romano was all scowls and glares. He still hadn't found Spain yet.

A familiar curly-haired head came into his view as Prussia moved out of his way, and he made a beeline for it. Romano's target turned around, and all he saw was a glint of green and a giant smile before they collided.

Romano let out a gust of air and glared at Spain. Spain didn't even seem to notice the venomous look. Instead, he picked Romano up by the waist, slung him over his shoulder, and spun him around, laughing and yelling "WE WON, LOVI! WE WON!" over and over again.

Romano really wanted to tell the Spaniard to put him down and stop calling him Lovi, but the air had been completely knocked out of him when his stomach hit Spain's bony shoulder, so he was reduced to repeatedly punching him in the hope that he would let him go.

Spain seemed to get the message and lowered him to his feet. "Lovi?" he asked. "Why aren't you talking?"

Romano rolled his eyes and glared impatiently at Spain while trying to regain his breath.

The taller man stood in silence for a moment but within a second his smile was back. "Oh well, it doesn't matter!" he chirped brightly. "Were you there for the match? Did you see my team win? It was amazing! You were there, right, Lovi? Where were you si—mmph!"

Romano had given up on trying to get Spain to shut up. He grabbed the man's shirt in the middle of his sentence and yanked him down, successfully (and forcefully) planting a kiss on his lips.

The kiss didn't last long. Romano quickly let go of Spain's shirt and turned away, somewhat embarrassed even though it had been his idea. Spain was standing still, not moving the slightest amount.

Romano was about to just walk away, walk out the door and into the nearest bar, when he felt arms wrap around his face and bring him around to face Spain. He caught a glimpse of emerald green eyes, sparkling like jewels, before Spain initiated another kiss.

This time they stood there for quite some time, with Spain's arms still around Romano's waist and Romano's arms around Spain's neck. They got a few surprised glances, a few shocked stares, and even huge beaming smiles (from Veneziano and France, of course), but they neither knew nor cared.

The kiss was broken only when they both needed air. They didn't make eye contact until Spain touched his forehead to Romano's, forcing him to look the taller man in the eyes. He was smiling teasingly—maybe even a bit suggestively.

"Come on, Lovi," he murmured, almost purring with satisfaction. "Let's go for a short walk. I'd love to go see what kind of pool this place has, wouldn't you?"

A/N: Ohoho, wouldn't YOU like to know what kind of pool that place has? /shot

Yeah...this was supposed to be up right after the match, but our neighbors invited us over for an impromptu party so I couldn't finish it and post it, and then driver's ed started yesterday (it's a serious bitch, I'm telling you) and I was so exhausted and out of inspiration for the ending. It's still not quite what I wanted, but it'll have to do.

And yes, I was typing this during the match. I owe this fic to the FIFA website's live MatchCast thingy. If not for that, then this wouldn't exist.

Reviews give me the motivation to actually do my driver's ed PowerPoint project before the night before it's due so I can work on more stuffs!