Disclaimer: Don't own the rights to Beyblade and don't make a penny with this.
A/N: Hellooo!
Yes, you have read correctly, a Majestics fic! I've been wanting to write one forever and this World Cup was just perfect for this! Enjoy.
It's Coming Home…?
It was a Wednesday evening in early July. The sun had been shining all day and it was still pleasantly warm. A light breeze blew through the open windows and played with the curtains. It could have been an overall enjoyable summer evening – one to treasure, because such a lovely summer night was not a given in the always unpredictable German summer. And surely Robert would have been able to appreciate it… if it weren't for the noise level!
Robert sighed and took a big sip from his fresh cool beer. He sat his glass down and shot a glare at his Scottish friend. Johnny was sitting on the edge of the seat with his eyes were glued at the big TV screen in front of him.
"Come on, come on," he yelled. "Yes, that's it lads, that's it."
If he kept yelling like this, he'd have no voice left by the end of the night. Robert took another sip. Maybe that was something to look forward to.
"Come on now," Johnny yelled even louder. "Come-... YEEES! YES! Oh my fucking god, yes!"
Nothing was holding Johnny on his seat anymore. Cheering loudly (and pretty vulgar) he jumped up and down. Robert frowned at the noise and the amount of beer that ended up on the carpet.
"Fuck's sake," a voice to his right growled.
Enrique stared at the score that just switched to England 1 - Croatia 0 and Robert saw him grit his teeth. It was the 4th minute of the quarterfinal of the 2018 football World Cup and it appeared that history was about to be written.
"Oh, this cannot be happening," Enrique muttered.
"He's going to be insufferable if this score stands," Robert agreed.
They both sipped on their beers and glared at their Scottish friend who was now singing 'Football's coming home' at the top of his lungs. Johnny was a truly terribly singer, which made the entire scenario all the more unpleasant.
Robert wondered for a moment why he hadn't shut the door into Johnny's face when he'd shown up on his doorstep to watch the World Cup together. It was never a good idea to watch football with his teammates. He should have known better.
Well, as the Germans said, the child had already fallen into the fountain. Nothing he could do about it now.
"Sacrebleu, would you stop already with this terrible howling, Johnny," another voice complained.
It was none other than Oliver, who was sitting to Johnny's left. The French boy had elegantly crossed his legs and was casually swirling a glass of vodka-martini in his left hand. Soccer game or not, Oliver would not be caught dead with something as common as a pint of beer in his hand. If he had to suffer through this godforsaken game, he would at least do so in style.
"Ha, you're just scared that we'll kick your ass in the final," Johnny grinned.
"Ah, 'we' he says," Enrique said. "The line between English and Scottish has become very blurry since Scotland didn't qualify."
Johnny snorted.
"Look who's talking," he said.
"You wanna pick a fight with me, McGregor?"
"I don't know if you're qualified to go against me."
"Oh why don't you go toss a couple trees trunks, you Scottish pest," Enrique retorted.
"Oi!" Johnny jumped up and pointed his finger at Enrique "Watch your mouth or I'll stuff it with-…"
"Gentlemen," Oliver interrupted. "Do we really have to stoop so low - already?"
Johnny huffed and fell back into his chair. Then a smug grin appeared on his face.
"He's just jealous because these boys are kicking butt out there and his team lost against a bunch of Vikings."
"Look who's talking," it was now Roberts turn to mutter.
Johnny conveniently ignored the comment.
The smug grin still in place, Johnny turned to his German friend said, "We will kick some Croatian butt and then we will kick some French butts - we would've kicked yours too, if-..."
"Thank you, we managed doing that on our own just fine," Robert interrupted.
He tried not to show it, but the early defeat of his team still stung. A lot. But he'd be damned to show Johnny just how much!
"I hold, you punch," Enrique suggested.
Robert gave Enrique an amused glance, then focused his eyes back on their Scottish friend. Johnny's attention had already shifted back to the game, where the English team was attempting its second goal.
"Yes, that's it guys, that's it! Come on, pass, pass! Yes, yes-... NOOOOO!"
"Ah, grazie al cielo," Enrique murmured and took a big sip from his beer.
Johnny had either not heard him or decided to ignore Enrique. Robert guessed it was the first. Johnny never let an opportunity to quarrel with Enrique go by. To quarrel with anyone, really.
The redhead nodded encouragingly at the screen, clapped his hands and said, "Good attempt, good attempt. Keep it up lads!"
Robert rolled his eyes up to the sky in silent prayer for the strength to get through the evening and downed his beer. His butler provided him and Enrique with new drinks straight away, though right now Robert would not have minded a trip down to the kitchen; have a little break from this. He considered faking a telephone call but tossed that thought aside. It was beneath him.
The minutes dragged by, with way too many English chances to Robert's liking. Thankfully, the Croatians managed to save the 0-1 into halftime.
"Looks like the luck left you, Johnny," Enrique said with a triumphant smile.
He just had to rub it in, didn't he? Two peas in a pod, those two.
"Luck!"
The redhead snorted.
And of course, Johnny had to take the bait. Robert sighed.
"We don't need luck - our boys got talent!"
Oliver chuckled.
Seriously, Oliver too? Why was everyone so determined to have the night end in a fistfight? It was beyond Robert.
Johnny's head shot around.
"You got something to say?"
Oliver elegantly raised a brow.
"Moi? Non. I could never destroy those frail illusions you so determinedly cling too."
Before a beer could find its way into Oliver's face and thus unavoidable onto the carpet, Robert said, "Should I call for some snacks?"
"Do you even have to ask?" Enrique replied.
While this situation was successfully de-escalated, another was not far.
The second half began and was not at all to Johnny's liking. It was now Enrique's turn to look smug, and increasingly so. In the 68th minute it finally happened: the goal against.
England was now drawn with Croatia at 1-1.
"Yes! Woohoo," Enrique cheered. "Ha, not so smug now, are you, Johnny?"
Johnny glared at him.
"A little set-back, nothing serious. You just watch, it's coming home!"
Another half hour later Johnny was close to tears. The game was in overtime and England more and more on the defensive - and not a solid defensive, at that.
Robert couldn't say he was surprised. He'd thought all along that Johnny was being extremely optimistic. Ever since the English victory against Panama, the redhead had been talking about nothing but the fact that 'it's coming home'.
"Come on boys, you can win this," Johnny muttered.
Then it happened.
"Oh no! No, no, watch out for-..."
Johnny's "Noooo!" was drowned by Enrique's and Oliver's "Yes, yes, YES!". While Jonny sunk to the floor, Enrique bounced up and down – much to Robert's annoyance, because he, too, splattered beer all over the carpet. He guessed he'd just have to have it cleaned after the game.
Oliver gave Johnny a superior smile.
"It appears it is your team that is coming home, mon ami!"
Enrique's cackle sent Johnny over the edge. Before Robert could intervene a half-full pint of beer flew, under extensive swearing, out the window.
Robert instinctively grabbed the hem of Johnny's shirt to keep him from launching at Oliver and sent the Frenchman a stern look. Oliver just blinked innocently and gave his martini another swirl. His eyes wandered to his Scottish friend. The fury had evaporated and made room for pure desperation. The redhead was, unintentionally Robert guessed, gnawing on his fingernails while he was rocking his body back and forth.
In between biting his nails Robert heard him mutter, "Come on, come one, come on!"
On his other side Enrique was cheering for the Croatian team at the top of his lungs.
Robert took a deep breath. They were killing him. They were simply killing him! As if this World Cup wasn't a pain as it was, even without his friends at each other's throats.
He looked at the screen and counted down the seconds until the inevitable mayhem.
Three… two… one…
The referee blew his whistle. And just like that, Johnny's hopes were crushed. Enrique immediately began to sing 'They're coming home' and Oliver hummed along.
Johnny was caught somewhere between tears and fury. Robert thought he'd better seize his chance and lead Johnny from the room while he was still too shocked to decide on whether to cry or throw another glass out of the window.
"Let's go for a walk," he said and, without waiting for a reply, began to shove the Scotsman out of the room.
Unfortunately, Johnny just then decided he'd go with rage. He spun around. His face was about as red as his hair, which Robert thought to be quite impressive. It was also quite annoying.
As Johnny launched himself at the singing Enrique with a battle cry, Robert let out a deep sigh. Why did he even bother? He took one look at his friends – Enrique's head, still singing, locked under Johnny's chokehold, Oliver cheering Enrique on – and made his decision. Nothing in this room was valuable enough for Robert to risk his sanity. As thus he turned around and went for a walk. Far away from the chaos, on this lovely summer night.
It was a Sunday evening in mid-July. The sun had been shining all day and it was still pleasantly warm. A light breeze was blowing, and some crickets were chirruping.
It was a truly idyllic evening, until-
"NOOOO!"
In between three voices screaming "No!", a single voice yelling "Oui! Oui!" was audible.
A very smug Oliver sunk back into his chair and straightened his hat.
"Gentlemen," he puured. "It has been a great pleasure watching this World Cup with you."
"Shut up," Johnny gnarled, who was still trying to digest England's second defeat in the small final.
"Just lucky," Enrique growled. "That referee didn't know shit."
Robert, for the sake of his recently cleaned carpet, said nothing. He was just glad it was finally over. Robert wanted nothing more than to forget this inglorious tournament. And with their own world championships approaching, he hoped he would be allowed to so very soon.
The End
A/N: And finally some peace and quiet for Robert - until the Euros, at least ;) Let me know what you thought of this?
Have a good night guys! ~Bird