Hetalia One-Shots

_____ You, Jones

Burp.

"Dude, nice one!"

"Wicked."

Comments such as those flowed from the "Jock Table" as the boys had their annual burp off. It usually occurred around the time the school let soda become part of their lunch menu. They didn't do it often though, for this reason.

Burp.

"Aw, (Name)! Way to show Gilbert up!"

Oh yeah. The boys, and you. No, no, no. Don't get the wrong idea. You're not on the football team, or any guy team, in fact- you know the way that goes. Even though, people already assumed you to be one anyway. Hey, it's not your fault that you were just head over heels in love with sports and not shopping. Guys seemed to understand that, unlike the girls. Sure, there are still a few field hockey players that you can hang out with, but even then, always at one point they will bring up the hot Spaniard from the soccer team's sweet behind, or even a few guys from the football team. They're your best friends- no way can you think of them that way! So, you decide to just stick with them. Hey, you've even slept over some of their houses before. However, there was one football player who seemed to despise you: number 50.

Or, in non sports terms, Alfred F. Jones.

Every time you would try to crack a joke at him he would just give you a look- one that made you feel as if you did something wrong- and then walk away. Sometimes he would just look flat out furious. At first, you thought he was just too immature to have a friendship with a girl, but then he started flirting with girls and dating Amelia, so, there went your assumptions. Now you just think that he just hates having a girl impose with him and his friends. With that in mind, you match his glares and flip him the birdie* when he pushes you in a game of anything. Then you proceed to push him back with the same amount- if not more- force. Screw you, Jones.

"Idiota, stop staring into space! Are-a you coming or not?" Lovi, or Lovino, as preferred, snapped at you, gaining your attention.

"Sorry, Lovi. Just got caught up... Where are we going?" You ask, confused.

The said Italian sighed, annoyed, but answered. "We're-a going to play some-a basketball in the gym."

You nod and follow Lovi out of the lunchroom and towards the gym. Lovi has been your best friend ever since you guys were in fifth when they had just moved from Italy and his mom had accidentally signed him and his twin brother, Feliciano, up for the local girls rec soccer league. At first, Lovino was p.oed about the situation, while his brother couldn't care less. Now you know the angry boy was happy the whole thing had happened- though he wouldn't ever admit it. Deciding to start a conversation with him, you press, "Who's idea was it to play basketball? And why do you want to play it? I thought, and I quote, you said that 'I (Lovino) hate any sport that isn't soccer!'"

Lovino huffed, cheeks red from embarrassment or anger, you didn't care. You're used to it. "It was-a hamburger-breath's idea." You laugh. That was another thing you loved about Lovi: he hated Alfred too. "I also never said that, ragazza**. Don't put words into my mouth."

"Toni, over here!" You call out. Nobody was breathing down your neck at the moment, so you knew you were a good person to pass to at the moment. Antonio obliges and sends the ball towards you, which you receive with grace and start running to the opposite end of the court, eyes trained on the hoop in front of you. So far, nobody was by you, but you wouldn't press your luck. Reaching the other end of the court, you use your extra time to set up and-

"Ouch..." You were now laying on the hard floor of the gym. You sit up, gripping your wrist which you had pushed out to break your fall. Not liking to look weak for long, you stand up, eyes spewing fires. "Who the hell did that?" Everyone had started to flock toward you and looked to one person. The person who was- from their position in the game- closest to you. Your glare intensifies. Everyone knows about yours and Alfred's life time battle of hatred, so they all took a notable step back, not wanting to be caught in the cross fire. You storm up to Alfred and- with your now only good hand- slam it into his chest* "What the fuck, Alfred? There is a thing of playing to hard, you know." Spinning on your heel, you run out of the gym and start crying. Why? Maybe it was because your wrist hurt like crazy. Or maybe, it was because you were shocked that Alfred would go that far to hurt you.