A/N: slow update! wow sorry
i've been busy as heck lately and i've got a lot of schooling going on and some personal problems
anyway the historical notes are down below! i hope you guys enjoy it c:
and reviews and what not are always enjoyed u v u

Antonio was on his way home, a weak breeze rolling through the warm air and making his curly hair shift and ruffle ever so lightly in the weak wind. His arms held a two or three grocery bags, thick auburn colored paper sacks that were stuffed with sweet fruits, bread, and spices all mixed into his bags. He was walking home down a long street lined with many colorful building and beautiful architecture that was custom to his homeland. A light smile was printed over his features, watching and letting his eyes wonder to see a group of children shouting and calling to one another in dulled voices so the Spaniard could not hear them clearly. He watched and saw that they were kicking a thick black and white ball back and forth in between two netted goals and the Iberian nation found himself staring fondly at the site.

He remembered learning about that wonderful sport he had become so passionately enthralled with. Excited, the Spanish people had grown to developed a reputation for being being brilliant players at the sport. It was all thanks to the development of the country and the growing tourism and rise in trade with the British Isles. He still remembered watching the first game, seeing the British miners and engineers grinning as they taught it to the Spanish locals. Of course, he had his own found memories of it.

Arthur Arthur, please!

Antonio, no. I told you, I have work to do.

But Arthur! You are almost done, please! I want to learn more about that game!

The pair of them were being what they were, one of them pestering the other. Antonio had become fascinated with the sport he d seen the Brits playing when they stopped on Saturday mornings to play. Arthur of course, was being his usual stubborn self and didn t wish to play *[1] "un juego de pelota" with Antonio. The Spaniard huffed, letting his head rest itself on the blond s shoulder as he began to curiously skim the printed words on the pages of the book, though he knew that reading over Arthur s shoulder was something that bugged him horribly.

Oh for goodness sake If you want to play to badly, go ask to join one of the men s teams! I m sure they will let you play. The island nation frowned and pulled his book close, sending an annoyed glare to the Spanish man and trying to ignore his obvious attempt at begging him to play what the people had named The English game .

Antonio sighed and shook his head, turning to see the men starting to play and kick and jump as the civilians of the Bilbao port gather to watch in their curiosity. But Arthur! They are already playing! And besides, I want you to teach me. Please, just one game! he pleaded, managing to tug the book from Arthur s fingers and send a bright smile up in his direction.

A groan from the Brit followed, rubbing his temples with his forefingers as he finally pulled them down and folded them over his chest, his lips pursed and brows furrowed as he stared down at the Spanish nation. Do you really, really want to play? he asked, an immediate nod following his question with any hesitation. You re so bloody needy. he finally murmured, taking his book back from the other country personification and tucking the item into his pockets as he stood up and ushered for the tanner man to follow. Come on then, let s change into something comfortable and we ll have a go. But only for a bit, I have work to do.

Antonio found himself grinning fondly at the memory, chuckling as he remembered the many times he had persuaded the Englishman to play a game with him. And a slight longing took hold of him and the man found himself longing for those carefree Saturdays when watching *[2]the miners on the Riotinto mines running back and forth with the leather ball. He could even recall the exciting morning in *[3]May (May 4th, to be exact) in Lamiaco when the Spaniards challenged a group of English sailors nicknamed the Robinsones to a game. Oh, it was such a great memory, and exciting one even if the home team had lost the match.

The Spanish nation was almost home now, lost in his nostalgic thoughts as he welcomed himself inside his home and unloaded his groceries in the kitchen. His hands were moving in a robotic motion then, putting away the items while Antonio continued thinking of the afternoons he spent with Arthur and casually kicking a leather ball too and fro. They were nice memories. They were not sweet nor sad, they were just nice. Casual times he had spent with the Anglo nation that held weak smiles and laughter along with teasing taunts. The many thoughts brought a sad smile onto the Spaniard s lips, sighing as he slowly let his hands rest on the table.

Oh, how silly he had become over the years. Nostalgic and running from everything. He longed for those same simple times with Arthur, but they were impossible. They were rare in their history. Until the last century or two the pair of them had not truly known one another. Sure, they met from time to time and in their time of empire nationhood they had exchanged bitter words. But they had not known each other the way lovers ought to. Hell, it was hard to even call them lovers. They were too loose, they bickered so much, and they only had fleeting moments with one another that drove their senses wild. Antonio longed for the moments to become plenty in his head, and his eyes began to loom over to the phone that sat on his counter and his teeth began to gnaw on the soft flesh of his cheek.

Another thing that was horribly difficult for the two of them was that they were proud men. They would not admit defeat until one of them could no longer stand it. They could not stand the teasing glances, the soft touches, the old and rare memories of simple happiness that were gently spent. The peninsular nation felt himself wanting to call to Arthur, to ask for his company, to submit to the damned game they seemed to play. But he felt that he could not. His eyes bore into the electronic device while he began to slide into his seat and let a finger tap against the wooden top of his kitchen table. Quietly, a sigh escaped him and he shook his head, deciding to let himself slip into the want for the man that he called a lover. Perhaps, these games, the silly chases of hide and seek that they spent their history playing, the circles they ran in, perhaps it was time to put a stop them.

Perhaps he ought to call Arthur, ask to come over for dinner, to ask for another game of football. Or maybe, just to hear his voice. In any case, he missed his silly little island. His silly little rainy island, that s who he wanted and that was what he wanted.

The entire chapter is based on how the British (mostly Englishman) taught football to the Spanish in the 1870s.

*[1]: Un juego de pelota was what the Spanish called football at the time. It didn t enter the Spanish language as f tbol until later on.

*[2]: There were small villages in Spain that were around the Riotinto mines. On Saturday mornings, the engineers would encourage the British miners to play football in a field and to create two teams.

*[3]: May 4th, 1894 was the first real game in Spain. It was in Lamiaco and the game consisted of a home team of Spaniard that challenged a group of English sailors nicknamed Robinsones . The Robinsones were nicknamed after Daniel Defoe s famous castaway Robinso n Crusoe. The game was lost by the home team with a score of five to six, but it obviously didn t dim the Spanish passion for the game.