A/N: There's a lot of news about sectarian violence at football games right now. I can't imagine Scotland being too happy about it. The fic takes place in the morning of "Helicopter Sunday", the day when the last matches of the season are played for the Scottish Premier League title. It was pretty close this year and both Rangers and Celtic were playing for the title. I'd imagine that this, combined with all the sectarian violence that was prevalent before the day, would not only give Scotland a major headache, but probably send him a little bit loopy because he would honestly have no idea which team to support {the country is pretty damned divided over this}.
...
Scotland buried his head into his arms with a groan. His head was pounding and right now he was feeling sick to his stomach. England watched his oldest brother warily, it wasn't often that the northern country was laid low like this. He laid a mug of tea in front of the red-haired man,
"Everything alright?" he asked quietly, taking a seat opposite Scotland. Scotland lifted his head off the table,
"Nut, I'm nae." He slurred, "Fuckin'... bawbags the hale fuckin' lot o' them." The Scot sounded as though he'd been drinking, though England knew Scotland hadn't touched a drop of alcohol for the last week {something which was fairly unusual for the Celtic nation}. England frowned in concern,
"Who are we talking about exactly?" he asked, clearly very confused about why his brother was acting this way. Scotland shook his head as he took a gulp of his tea,
"Those fuckin' idiot fitba' hooligans." He explained, looking a little more awake now he'd had some tea down his throat. England rolled his eyes,
"What've they done now?" he asked, sighing heavily. Scotland groaned again,
"Ye dinnae want tae ken." He muttered, leaning his head in his arms again. England snorted,
"Don't tell me it's to do with those Glasweigan idiots." When Scotland didn't reply the blonde nation sighed heavily, "You really need to get that lot under some sort of control you know." He said. Scotland looked up again to scowl at his brother,
"Ye 'hink I dinnae ken tha'?" he asked, "Doesnae stop the fuckin' idiots sending letter bombs a' o'er the fuckin' place." He buried his head back in his arms again. England merely snorted again,
"You'd be better sleeping that off you know. Everyone's going to think you've been at the drink again." Scotland managed a sarcastic bark of laughter at that,
"They a' 'hink I'm a fuckin' alky as it is." He said into the table, "Whit's ane mair piece o' evidence fer it?" The Scottish man hummed something to himself, then changed his mind and started humming something else before changing back to the original tune. England rolled his eyes again, took a gulp of his tea and got up out of his seat,
"You're going back to bed to sleep this off." He said firmly, "This round the clock news malarkey about this whole sorry fiasco is sending you loopy." The British nation grabbed a hold of Scotland's arm and tugged the eldest brother up and out of his seat. Scotland scowled at his brother,
"I can manage masel'." He slurred, swaying dangerously as he pulled his arm out of England's grip, "'Sides s'no' like ye can tell me whit tae dae." England watched dismissively as Scotland somehow staggered to the kitchen door before leaning heavily against it,
"Right, so you can manage up a whole flight of stairs by yourself while there's two matches on and you can't decide which teams you're even rooting for? All while the fans of your two largest clubs are hell bent on killing each other?" he left the question hanging for a moment while Scotland tried to work out what his brother had just said. Eventually Scotland just shook his head, wincing as the motion caused the room to spin even more than it already was,
"I dinnae care whit ye're implyin' wi' a' that babble laddie, I'm gauin' up the stairs an' I'm gonnae shut the hale fuckin' world oot." And with that Scotland staggered out of the kitchen. England sighed, knowing better than to follow his brother out. Instead he went back to the kitchen table to look through the papers. The British nation sighed as he heard Scotland fall over a couple of times on his way to his old room to sleep whatever it was that had sent him round the bend this morning off. No doubt Scotland would be in a much better mood when he got back up.
...
Scotland tossed and turned irritably in his bed. He was trying very, very hard to shut out the constant chatter about the two football matches that were due to kick off that afternoon, but it seemed that it was all anyone wanted to talk about. The tense atmosphere surrounding both games certainly wasn't helping either. The last Auld Firm clash was still fresh in everyone's minds and the aftermath of the attack on the Celtic manager even fresher. Scotland just hoped that, whatever the outcome of the matches, nothing else was going to kick off. The last thing the northern nation wanted was to deal with yet another fight between the fans of the two clubs. Scotland shivered as he remembered the last really big clash between the two clubs; all that bloodshed and violence over a game of football? For once Scotland was glad that England had agreed to let him stay over for the weekend, because if anything did kick off, it was likely that the Scottish man would need someone to stop him from seriously hurting himself. It wasn't that the whole country turned against one another or anything stupid like that, but the very vocal minority had a tendency to rule the roost during these kinds of match days and they had a tendency to grab the attention of all the major Scottish news outlets.
Scotland sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He clearly wasn't going to be getting any sleep any time soon. That was the biggest problem of being a nation, when something big happened and the news spread and everyone started talking about it, it was very difficult to shut it out. At least in the days before high speed internet and 24 hour news broadcasts, news spread much more slowly, usually through word of mouth and the effect wasn't nearly as disorientating. Scotland snorted, this probably just showed his age compared to most of Europe, but then again the only other nations who could come close to sympathising were Ireland and Northern Ireland, and they had more than football matches to worry about.
"It's the fuckin' 21st Century, why the hell can't they just get the fuck o'er it?" he muttered, rubbing at his head in irritation. He looked over to his door as someone knocked on it,
"Who'se it?" he called. Northern Ireland poked his head around the doorway,
"England wanted me to check how you were doin'." He chirped, "Somethin' about a coupla football matches sendin' ye barmy." Scotland snorted as the youngest of his four brothers came into the room,
"I'm no' a complete bampot." He growled. Northern Ireland smirked a little,
"I know ye're not, ye eejit, but England's a little bit worried is all." Scotland sighed as he closed his eyes briefly,
"It's fuckin' Helicopter Sunday isn't it? The hale o' Glasgow is going roond the fuckin' bend and the fact that there's a' this stupid sectarianism still gauin' the fuck oan..." he trailed off with a sigh. Northern Ireland nodded in sympathy as he sat at the bottom corner of the bed,
"Aye, I'd heard about that." He sighed, "It's barmy it's still going on frankly." The teenaged nation looked to the door with a glower, "Wish Seamus would grow the hell out of it already." He muttered darkly. Scotland sent him a curious look,
"Wha's the ma'er like?" his already fairly thick Glasweigan accent getting even thicker as the two games prepared for kickoff. Northern Ireland snorted derisively,
"He's only had someone try to send a bomb on bus because the Queen's visitin' fer the first time since he became a Republic. The fuckin' idiot." Scotland smirked a little, he knew how strongly the youngest Briton felt about things like that,
"Ye're gauin' tae have tae let it go Padraig." He sighed, "Nane o' us hae ony control o'er any o' oor citizens like." Northern Ireland snorted in something like amusement,
"So says the bampot goin' loopy because of a coupla football matches." He quipped. Scotland smirked a little,
"At least it's only a coupla fitba' matches, things'll back tae normal the morn' an' I can concentrate oan ither 'hings aifterwards." Nothern Ireland laughed,
"Wish America was 'ere. Don't think he'd be able to make sense of that at all." He giggled. Scotland laughed along with his brother,
"Dinnae 'hink England'll make ony sense o' it either. Then again, ye tried tae understand him when he goes a' Scouser aifter a drink or twa?" Northern Ireland shook his head,
"You and Arthur are as bad as each other." He noted, "Then again, the whole world thinks we're all alcoholics these days." Scotland snorted,
"Nowt wrang wi' haein' a nicht oot oan the toon ance in a while." He retorted, "Tha' load o' stuck up eejits jus' dinnae ken how tae hae a decent time." He slurred. Patrick quirked an eyebrow at his brother,
"Ok, now I know one of the matches has kicked off. I only got half of that." He sighed as Scotland groaned and tried to bury his head into his pillow without much success. He patted Scotland's leg as he got up,
"I'll see if I can find some more paracetomol and Irn Bru for ye. Then I'll see about distractin' ye from these stupid games."
...
England didn't bother asking what the hell was going on when he heard Scotland screaming at the TV in the sitting room not fifteen minutes later. It was clear that the Celtic nation had somehow managed to come to the conclusion that, in order to feel even somewhat sane today, he would need to watch at least one of the matches. The only problem was that Scotland wanted to watch both of them, and even then couldn't decide on a team to support for either. He sent Northern Ireland a sarcastic smirk as the youngest brother put a broken mug into the bucket by the back door,
"Don't say I didn't warn you Patrick." He quipped happily as Scotland started yelling at the referee for some discretion or another. The freckled nation sighed heavily,
"I know you did Arthur, but at least this way he's screamin' at the TV and not us." He pointed out. England shrugged,
"Still better you than me. Best of luck with the second half." He gave his younger brother a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he sagged a little, "Hey, come on, at least he's not drinking and it's not an Old Firm match. Believe me I would never wish that upon anyone, not even the frog if the two were put together." Northern Ireland sent England a quizzical look, to which England merely replied with miming a slit to the throat. Frowning slightly, Northern Ireland's attention was brought back to his oldest brother when he tried to both cheer and boo at the television. Clearly there had been another goal scored. England gave the auburn haired nation another patronising pat on the shoulder and pushed him back through to the sitting room,
"Have fun." He called cheerily as he grabbed his keys and wallet and slid out of the door. Best to go down to the local for a few pints and leave them to it, he decided. He'd worry about the destruction of his sitting room and his brother's sanity later. Much later.