Hi! This is my first attempt at a Hetalia fic.

Oh, and please forgive any inaccuracies about the match (I really don't know anything about soccer, and I was making a sandwich for a friend (long story) when Spain scored... so yeah.), but this idea wouldn't leave me alone XD

The Bet

Romano was scowling. Squeezed between his flag-waving, overly enthusiastic, stupid little brother and a moron of a Spaniard who was dripping red and yellow paint all over his seat, he watched the match intently, feeling more than a little anxious. Neither team had scored yet, even though the second half was almost over. He chewed at his lower lip, frown deepening. Usually, he would have been cheering as loudly as Feliciano (his pride be damned, this was football!), but he could only try to still his erratic heartbeat as the ball was once more into Netherland's territory.

Spain.

Must.

Not.

Win.

It was a matter of life or death... Well, almost. Because Lovino pretty damn seriously considered killing himself before he did... that. Spain wasn't supposed to be this good, damn it! The second half ended and it was over time, and why did no one score? The overwhelming noises did nothing for his irritation, and choking the guy sitting in front of him with his vu...zu... the thing that sounded like bees... was starting to sound like a good idea. He was about to do just that when there was a goal, and then he nearly burst into tears.

When the match ended, after a few more agonizingly slow minutes and the stadium exploded into cheers, his brother grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the field to "celebrate with Spain". Something that was currently just under giving up on tomatoes forever in his not-to-do list. So he managed to lose the idiot in the crowd and attempted to make a run for it, recalling just what had caused his current situation.

The first night in South Africa, jet-lagged and exhausted, he had sought shelter from a hyperactive Feliciano whose energy could have but a hummingbird to shame. And he had somehow or other wandered into Spain's room... which wasn't all that unusual. Nor were the couple of wine bottles they had shared, and the question that Antonio had asked was probably being uttered all over the world at the moment:

"Who do you think is going to win?"

"Italy" The answer had come immediately, confidently, as Lovino reached over the table to pour himself another glass of red wine.

"Aw, Lovi ~! Always so patriotic! But I think my team has a good chance this year!"

"Yeah, right. And I'll start speaking Spanish!"

"Ooh, you will?" Romano should have been wary of that wicked glint in the other nation's green eyes.

"Figure of speech, stupid Spain."

"But Lovii... You like gambling, don't you? How about we make a bet?" He'd nodded, because it was a rare occasion to humiliate to older country.

"If I win, you'll talk to me in my language whenever we see each other for the next four years..." That hadn't sounded so bad, though Romano's Spanish had never really been used for any other purpose than hitting on pretty girls or buying tomatoes. "... And you'll wear a dress whenever you visit me, which has to be at least once a month ~!" The bastard's smile had been fucking scary.

Lovino had choked on his wine, spitting it all over the ugly hotel carpet.

"What the hell? You pervert! Why the hell would I agree to...that...?" He'd trailed off, thinking of the possibilities. If only he won, it could finally be payback for being forced to dress as a girl when he was a child! (Not because the idea of a cross-dressing Antonio was somewhat appealing, or anything.) "Fine! But that stays between us. And if I win, you wear the dress to world meetings."

Spain had laughed.

Thinking back, it had been a stupid, stupid idea (and the alcohol might have had something to do with it. Lovino was no lightweight, but there had been so many bottles on the floor the next morning... And it wasn't like he'd wanted to spend the night there; he'd just forgotten his room number). At first, it had seemed like it would be fine: Spain had lost his first match to Switzerland, of all people, and the younger nation was still pretty confident (Italy was the previous World Champion, after all) despite the rather shaky first game. The second one had been a tie... Not good, but redeemable. And Lovino, despite his numerous self-esteem problems, had been confident in his football team's abilities. But it had become clear that it really wasn't the Italian team's year.

A couple of days later Italy lost again and was eliminated, and the Vargas brothers had drowned their sorrows in alcohol with France. The Wine bastard had arguably suffered even more than them, with the scandal and all (but then again, when wasn't he involved in some kind of scandal?). But all the sympathy (not much, he still hated the bastard) he could have had for the other nation had vanished when he'd caught his hand a little too close to his little brother's ass.

He'd watched Spain's team win again and again, and by the time of the semi-finals, he'd been so stressed out that his brother (who'd quickly recovered from their defeat and didn't understand why he wasn't happy that Spain was doing so well) was the only one who dared to be within ten feet of him. Even America, who was as dense as nationally possible, had been able to sense his rage. When the Germans had been defeated, he'd felt almost betrayed. He'd trusted them, for once! Potato Bastard Senior had said that their loss had been "totally not awesome". Understatement of the millennium.

What was he going to do?

His avoid-Spain-at-all-costs tactic failed rather spectacularly: Antonio found him before he was even out of the stadium. Damn the Tomato Bastard's Lovi-Radar ! How the hell had he found him, anyway? There were thousands people running around! And Spain being, well, Spain, had tackled his astonished self to the ground with a bone-crushing hug.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" He choked the words out, flushing red.

"Ah, Lovi! I was so worried!"

"Worried? What the hell were you worried for? You just won the freaking World Cup!" The younger nation shouted over the deafening sound made by the ecstatic crowd as he pushed the other back (or tried to, anyway) in a desperate attempt to breathe. "Get off! People are staring!" (Though that might just have been him being paranoid, since outrageous displays of affection were occurring pretty much everywhere around them)

"Feli told me that he'd lost you in the crowd" Damn his baby brother. "Something could've happened to you!" And Spain's overprotective streak. "And I can't really celebrate if you're not beside me!" And Antonio's ability to say such embarrassing things with a straight face. Well, with a huge grin.

Spain stole a kiss from a spluttering Romano before he released his former charge, helping him stand. Lovino huffed and insulted Spain a few times for good measure, but the other casually ignored him, looking around with a smile, watching the over-excited crowd of red and yellow-clad humans. Not that he wasn't always smiling, but at the moment he looked fucking ecstatic. Lovino would have commented, but he'd done, uh, questionable things after Italy's victory four years earlier.

Well, maybe he'd been worried for nothing. Spain was enough of an airhead to forget about their bet for a few days, maybe a week since he was probably going to be completely smashed most of the time. That should be enough for Lovino to find an excuse, or to get his contacts in the mafia to help him hide somewhere very, very far from Spain (both the guy and the country). The other nation was still holding his hand and Romano didn't protest for once, because he was maybe just a little happy for him. He felt himself relax for the first time in weeks as Antonio embraced him again, more lightly. He looked up at the other, frowning because the other nation was practically sparkling. Okay, he'd won, but why was he looking at him like… that.

Oh, no.

"I can't wait to see you in a dress again ~!"

Fuck.

Thanks for reading!

And please, please, please review?