A/n – Oh man, this is painfully late. I should have had this posted days ago, after the US/England match, but I was in the middle of moving... but hey, better late than never! And it's in before the next round of Group C games! And it's my APH debut! Also, the title comes from the Dropkick Murphys song "Finnegan's Wake."
At any rate, this plot is based off the handball controversy that happened in the second match of the World Cup qualification playoff between France and Ireland. See my notes at the end of the epilogue for a more in-depth description of the events. In a nutshell, a French player made a handball – which was not called – that allowed the French team to score a goal and therefore tie the match, which allowed France to advance to the group stage of the World Cup. The Irish were not pleased.
If anyone is drifting in from the National Treasure fandom and is wondering what happened with that, please see my profile.
Disclaimer – I own NOTHING, except for a rather extensive collection of papercrafts and the characters of Ireland and Northern Ireland.
Warning – Ireland likes to swear. And HERE THAR BE OCS.
I FAIL ABYSMALLY AT IRISH SLANG/ACCENTS. I TRIED, DEAR READERS, I TRIED. It's been too long since I was last in Ireland…
(I really hope nobody is OOC. America is hard for me to do dialogue for...)
"Prepare to be defeated by the utter awesome that is the American National soccer team!" America crowed, striking a dramatic – dare he say heroic? – pose. He pointed dramatically at England, who had just happened to reenter the living room with a tray of tea and what could be politely referred to as "scones."
England scowled at America, though it was more a standard reaction to anything the younger nation did than in response to his proclamation. It was an unspoken fact that England's team would completely dominate America's. There could be no other possible outcome. England loved football, and America only cared once every four years, when the World Cup was once more up for grabs. There was no way England's boys would stand to be defeated by America's. Hell, a good percentage of America's team played in the Premiership when there wasn't an international championship up for grabs!
"One, it's called football," England remarked as he settled himself on the settee. "Two, get the hell off of my coffee table!" America looked down at the table, which he'd leapt on to emphasize his heroic pose, and smirked. He maintained the position a few additional seconds, just to annoy the Englishman further, before lightly leaping off. After all, there was something to be said for riling the enemy. An angry foe made mistakes.
America settled himself on the loveseat next to Canada, who was reading a newspaper and pointedly ignoring his brother's declarations and so-called heroics. Canada glanced over at America when he felt the shift of added weight on the furniture.
"You're going to be rooting for me, right?" America asked, pulling down the paper to get a good look at Canada's face. Canada rolled his eyes. Really, he didn't care much for the World Cup. His team had only qualified once, back in 1986 – and even then, he went out in the first round.
While he probably would have watched the England/America match anyway – they were still family, after all – he wouldn't have paid that close of attention to it. But America had showed up at his house yesterday and dragged him off to England so he could, as America put it, "cheer the hero to victory!" While Canada loved his brother, he really didn't appreciate America appearing at three o'clock in the morning and dragging him halfway across the world for a sport he really didn't care for.
"That's why I'm here, isn't it?" Canada remarked dryly, neatly folding up the newspaper. America smirked.
"England brought France over, so I had to have someone on my team!" America said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. The whispering wasn't necessary; England was already engrossed in the pregame show, sipping tea and ignoring the brothers. But to America, having Canada along would definitely raise his already awesome chances of defeating England's team. After all, Canada was a hero's brother, which made him part hero himself, and that meant there was a hero and a half rooting for America's team. And since heroes always won, a hero and a half would obviously get a particularly awesome win.
"What happened to France, anyway?" Canada asked. He had been too busy reading the newspaper he found and ignoring America that he had missed when the older nation left. America shrugged.
"He probably realized that there was no hope in rooting for England and went home," America rationalized. Canada just sighed and shook his head, a slight smile gracing his lips. Really, what other answer could he have expected from his brother?
"England," Canada asked, trying to catch the attention of his parent. It worked, but England was slightly surprised to see Canada there. Apparently he'd forgotten that America had invited his brother along. "Did you see where France went?"
"That bloody frog?" England asked, frowning. "Damned if I know. He'd better be back in time for the game, if he knows what's good for him."
"You're worried that nobody's going to support your team," America teased. "Everyone knows that I'm going to win, because my team is awesome!" Canada rolled his eyes and tuned the pair out as England flushed and made some sort of snappy retort.
Really, he shouldn't be worried about France's whereabouts. In all likelihood he had gone off to find something more edible than whatever England had tried making. If any of England's brothers were visiting – especially young Northern Ireland – they would have been a little more suspicious of France's disappearance, but Northern Ireland was supposedly staying at Ireland's house for the next few days and the other brothers were at their various houses. Canada eyed the burnt objects on England's tray distastefully and hoped France would be back soon.
Almost as if on cue, a voice rang through the house shouting "je suis de retour!" It was accompanied by the front door slamming, and England's attention was drawn from bickering with America long enough to mutter something about annoying frogs slamming doors in his house and disrupting the peace.
France strode into the living room, arms laden with precariously-balanced boxes, all marked with the name of a local bakery. Canada immediately leapt up to help before the floor was littered with whatever-it-was that France had bought. After all, England probably wouldn't appreciate that sort of thing.
"What did you get? Hamburgers?" America asked excitedly, taking one of the boxes out of Canada's hands and opening it. His face fell slightly when he realized that it wasn't, in fact, his favorite food.
"Of course not," France sniffed. "Angleterre, mon cher, could you please take the rocks off your tray? I would like to use it for the croissants." England scowled darkly at France's characterization of his scones. He had worked hard on those! Instead, he stormed into the kitchen and returned with a second serving tray.
"You bought bread?" America asked, staring as France artistically arranged his purchases on the tray. "But hamburgers are the best food to watch soccer with! Either that or chips."
"You mean crisps," England corrected, almost offhandedly. "And for the last time, it's called football!"
"Football is one of our national sports," America retorted, "so I think I would know the difference between football and soccer." It was hard to tell if America was being serious or teasing England, Canada decided. He was at least fairly sure that his brother knew that most of the world referred to soccer as football and referred to America's sport as "American football."
"Angleterre, you really must learn how to make a proper croissant," France interrupted, before the renewed argument between England and America could really take off. France and Canada were spending most of their time playing mediator and pacifier for England and America, distracting one or the other before their bickering got out of hand. "This is… this is sad! C'est déprimant!" He was well aware that it could have been much, much worse. After all, England could have been the one trying to make croissants, or crêpes, or éclairs… but poking fun at England's cuisine was a good way to distract the nation from football by getting him riled up about cooking.
"Almost as depressing as the first few matches," America commented idly. "Not much of a score in those." England groaned, all argument with America forgotten. Canada chucked a pain au chocolat at America's head and hissed at him to shut up. France just looked stricken. It was practically a taboo to mention France's tie with Uruguay several days prior. France had dominated the game, and Uruguay had ended up down a man due to a red card, but his team hadn't managed to hit the back of the net – and it would have been a perfect opportunity to take top position in Group A, what with the tie between Mexico and South Africa. France was annoyed and disappointed with the game, and the others had resolved not to bring it up. Trust America to make an oblivious and seemingly innocuous comment on it.
France looked about ready to launch into a long, melodramatic, self-pitying speech on precisely how he was cheated out of a victory when England pointed at the TV and announced that the teams and lineups were being introduced. Nobody wanted to listen to France's rant about the game again. They had heard it all before – especially Canada, who was too polite to tell his Papa to shut up. All attention was immediately turned to the screen.
"Don't you see how awesome my lineup is?" America asked with a proud grin. His boys were going to wipe the field with England, and then they'd go on to beat Algeria and Slovenia, and then they would make it all the way to the finals and win it. There really was no other option – after all, America was the hero, and heroes never lose. Nor do their soccer teams.
"Have you ever won a World Cup?" England countered. "I think not. We'll show you how the pros play football." His entire team played for the venerable Premiership. Players from other countries dreamed of being signed onto a Premier League team. America's boys would be completely and utterly trounced. England was going to take Group C and go on to win the World Cup. It had been entirely too long since he last held the trophy.
France and Canada wisely chose to stay out of the argument as America made another wild claim about the prowess of his soccer team, with England's jaw tightening in retaliation. Though they had been able to play moderators earlier, now that the game was started it would be impossible to draw either nation's attention.
The broadcast was just getting around to the national anthems, with America prepared to belt out a rousing rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner," when the front door flew open. There was a chatter of voices; one was younger and significantly more excited than the other, and both were heavily accented.
"Oh bugger," England swore, a slightly panicked look appearing on his face. The upcoming game was completely forgotten as he turned his attention to a perplexed France.
"What's wrong?" Canada asked, frowning in concern. It would take a lot to draw England's attention from the important soccer game. Even America, who was still singing his anthem, lowered his voice enough to catch whatever it was that England was going to say.
"You need to hide," England urged France. France noted the panicked tone in England's voice, but didn't quite understand why the other nation was so scared. What did anything have to do with him? It was obvious that the visitors were England's brothers – the accents proved that well enough. But France hadn't groped any of England's brothers recently (if he had, it wasn't likely that England would have let him into the house anyway), so there was no reason for any of them to be angry with him.
"Pourquoi?" France asked, frowning at England quizzically.
"Because that's Ireland!" England hissed. France frowned, wondering for a moment why England would be so worried about Ireland being there. But then Ireland's face floated into France's memory – the last time France had seen England's younger brother, France had just won the second playoff match for World Cup qualification, and Ireland had been furious… and Ireland had a tendency to hit things (or rather, people)when he was angry…
France's eyes widened and he scrambled off of the couch, leaping for the nearest closet. He managed to cram himself in just as a young nation bounded into the room with a bright grin on his freckled face. He looked to be several years older than Sealand, England's youngest brother. He was dressed in an English national football jersey, and his blue eyes snapped with excitement. His hair was several shades darker than England's, but he did have the thick eyebrows typical of England's family.
"I didn't miss anything, did I?" he asked, throwing himself onto the couch next to England, where France had been sitting. He reached for a scone before realizing getting a good look at them and opting instead for one of the pastries France brought.
England didn't respond. He was too busy shooting panicky glances at the living room doorway and France's hiding place.
"No, Northern Ireland," Canada replied, when it became apparent that England wasn't going to answer. And America was apparently struggling to remember the name of the young nation (province? What was Northern Ireland, anyway?) seated on England's couch. "You're just in time; they're just finishing up the national anthems."
Northern Ireland looked mildly spooked when Canada spoke to him, but he relaxed as he recognized the North American nation.
"Hi, Canada!" Northern Ireland greeted with a smile. It always took England's brothers a moment to see or recognize Canada, but they always managed it in the end. Northern Ireland was no different. In fact, what with Canada's involvement in the Northern Ireland peace process, Northern Ireland was pretty good at noticing and remembering Canada. "What are you doing here?"
"It is my brother and father playing against each other, isn't it?" Canada said with a wry smile.
"And he's cheering for the hero!" America suddenly leapt into the conversation. "You're going to root for the hero, right?" Northern Ireland giggled.
"I don't think England would like that," he retorted. "I am part of the UK, right?"
"Where's Ireland?" England asked. He had overheard America's plea for support, and was secretly proud of his little brother for sticking with him. For a moment, England wondered who Scotland was rooting for in the match. "I thought you were staying at his house for the next few days."
"I wanted to watch the match here," Northern Ireland said with a shrug. "You're playing, so I thought it'd be more fun to be at your house. And Ireland said he might as well come with. I don't know where the bastard is."
"What?" England nearly shouted, completely ignoring Northern Ireland's swearing in his shock. Sure, relations between their two countries were amicable, but Ireland usually wanted nothing to do with him! The only time they really interacted was at world conferences and when Northern Ireland was concerned! Why would Ireland choose to stay and watch the match with him?
"Don't sound so fuckin' excited," a voice answered, and everyone looked to the nation leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe. Like Northern Ireland, he had bright blue eyes and a truly impressive number of freckles. However, he did not have the thick eyebrows, and his hair was a mop of bright red curls. It was Ireland, the only one of England's brothers that was a sovereign nation – unless, of course, one counted Sealand, which nobody did.
With attention finally drawn to him, he walked into the room and settled himself on the far end of the couch, next to Northern Ireland. "The lad insisted on watching the match at yer house, and I don't have time to get back to mine. After all, I have to watch mo deartháir beag kick the shite out of America."
"Hey!" America protested. England twitched, his eyes darting to the closet. He wondered how long France would be able to stay in there – probably not for the whole game. He had to figure out some way to get Ireland to leave just long enough for France to sneak away. England wasn't entirely sure what Ireland would do if he saw France, but England was sure it wouldn't be pretty. After all, he'd been the one to listen to Ireland's loud, explanative-filled diatribes about that playoff match…
"Shut up, the game's starting!" Northern Ireland said, tugging on Ireland's shirt. Ireland ruffled his hair in retaliation.
"Don't get yer knicks in a twist, Ulster. It's not that hard to figure out what the fuck's going on," Ireland replied with a roll of his eyes. Northern Ireland straightened his hair and glared at Ireland.
"My name is Northern Ireland!" he protested.
"Sure it is, Ulster."
This set Ireland and Northern Ireland off into good-natured bickering, which always made England sweat. Once upon a time, the two had been hell-bent on killing each other; it was only in recent years that their relationship had become amicable.
It was only a few moments later that Ireland and Northern Ireland were interrupted by both England and America leaping out of their chairs, one cheering madly and the other protesting loudly.
"I told you!" England crowed, pointing his finger at the TV as his players celebrated their goal. "This is real football!"
"We'll get it back!" America retorted. "There's plenty of time left to win!"
"It's the fourth minute!" England said smugly. "Scoring so early in the game… we're going to destroy you, America!"
"No you won't! We'll win, right, Canada?" America asked. Canada looked surprised to have been included in the conversation, and he gave a quick nod to appease his brother.
"Oi, Canada!" Ireland greeted. "Didn't see ye there."
"Nice to see you too, Ireland," Canada said with a small smile. Even if Ireland hadn't noticed his presence, it was nice to be recognized right off the bat every once in a while. "How are the country championships going?" Ireland was gearing up for his biggest national sporting events, the All-Ireland Senior Football and Hurling competitions. The playoff qualifiers were just starting, and since Ireland didn't make the World Cup he was deeply engrossed in his national sports instead.
"Brilliant," Ireland replied. "They'll be sound games this year. Not like this shite. Oi, England, why haven't ye kicked America's arse yet? One-nil isn't reassuring, y'know." England shot Ireland a poisonous glare. He would score more, of course. There was no reason to get all the points at once. The game was ninety minutes long, after all.
"Hey, do you hear something?" Northern Ireland asked a few minutes later, a small frown marring his features. The game had resumed and England and America had settled down, with America periodically glancing at his opponent and muttering about how heroes always win.
The room went silent, aside from the game commentators. Indeed, there was a fairly muffled voice coming from somewhere nearby. It sounded as if it was swearing angrily… in French.
"Aw, England, you know better than to fuckin' hide someone from me," Ireland said. "What, you don't want me to tell the lads that you have a new ride?"
"There's nobody here!" England protested, forcing himself not to glance at the closet. Ireland wasn't stupid; he would notice something like that.
"Away with ye!" Ireland said, waving a hand dismissively. "I can fuckin' hear someone else here! That's why ye didn't want me to stay for the fuckin' game, yeah?" To England's horror, Ireland stood up and made his way towards France's hiding spot. The others were watching him in interest (and concern, in Canada's case).
They could only watch as Ireland pulled open the closet door and was met with France, who was rubbing his head and glaring at a heavy-looking box.
"Angleterre, what is it you keep in these boxes?" France asked. He looked up and realized that it was Ireland holding the door open. He paled. "Um. Bonjour, Irlande! Je suis désolé?"
"The fuck!" Ireland shouted, recovering from the shock of finding France, of all nations, in England's closet. Any other time he would have made a bawdy comment on it. But not after their last match. "What the fuck is this gobshite doing here?"
Without waiting for an answer, he swung his fist in France's general direction. With the agility of someone who was used to dodging the hits (and frying pans) of unsuspecting prey and their jealous lovers, France ducked under the attack and sprinted out of the closet, clipping Ireland as he went past.
France wasted no time in scrambling through the living room and disappearing through the door. Ireland, to his credit, recovered quickly and followed in hot pursuit, screaming curses and swears the whole way.
England put his head in his hands and sighed. He knew it would happen sooner or later. France spent entirely too much time at his house to not run into Ireland sooner or later. He had hoped it would be after Ireland's fury over that playoff had cooled a bit, but who was he kidding? Likely Ireland would only feel better after beating France up himself.
At least Ireland would have to catch France first, and that was no easy feat. The bastard was good at retreating.
"Should we rescue him?" Canada asked with a worried frown. Ireland could be excessively violent when he wanted to be, and France likely wouldn't stand much of a chance against him. It had been a while since France was a conquering hero, after all. And speaking of heroes, they probably could get America to go rescue France if he needed it. America's strength would certainly come in handy against Ireland's rage-fueled brawling.
"It's probably a better idea to stay and watch the match," England said. He heaved another sigh. "Believe me, you do not want to get caught up in that."
"Ireland's been talking about beating France up for days," Northern Ireland added, completely accustomed to his older brother's occasional bouts of fury. "You should've heard him after the playoff match ended."
"I did," England groused. "I thought the entire world heard his shouting."
France came tearing through the living room again, screaming apologies and pleas for help as he scrambled around the couch. He cowered near England, likely hoping that England would be able to prevent Ireland from killing him.
Ireland wasn't far behind, swinging a shillelagh. England scoffed. Of course Ireland had found a shillelagh somewhere. He wouldn't have been terribly surprised if Ireland had brought the damn thing himself.
"You fuckin' langer!" Ireland shouted, advancing on France. "That was a handball, and ye know it! That should've been my game, and I should be in the World Cup right now instead of ye!"
"Je suis désolé!" France wailed. "I'm sorry! It wasn't my call!"
"And to top it off, ye didn't even win yer fuckin' game with Uruguay!" Ireland accused. "Ye think ye'd do better after stealing me fuckin' spot!"
All attention was now on the warring nations rather than the game. Nobody particularly wanted to see the two nations come to blows, especially since it was obvious that Ireland would annihilate France, no contest. But at this point, it was hard to focus on the game, what with all of the shouting.
"Can't we all just sit down and watch the match like gentlemen!" England said, finally deciding to intervene. After all, Ireland was his younger brother and France was his… ally, and it really wouldn't do for one of them to kill the other. Besides, there was a very important football game going on, and he couldn't focus on the match if he had to worry about Ireland killing France, not to mention all of the noise the pair was making.
"I'm not in the fuckin' World Cup because of this gobshite!" Ireland accused, pointing the shillelagh at France.
"There is no murder in my house!" England argued back. America opened his mouth to say something – likely about the many wars fought on English soil – but Canada hushed him with a look. The North American twins were not going to get involved in the occasionally violent family matters of England and his brothers, even if they were technically England's sons.
"I'm not going to murder him," Ireland protested. "Just bloody him up a bit." France squeaked his protest, still keeping the couch between him and Ireland.
"There will be none of that, either," England said, folding his arms and glaring at Ireland. "If you want to beat up France, you'll do it at your own place and on your own time, not when I'm busy kicking America's arse."
As if on cue, America leapt out of his chair and screamed in victory, pointing at the TV screen. "Did you see that?" he asked. Everyone turned back to the TV in time to see the replay, of England's goalie fumbling the ball, resulting in a point for the US team. England gaped.
"What the bloody hell was that?" he shrieked. That was not possible! How could America score? And how could his goalie miss a block like that? He had his hands on the ball, and it had still managed to cross the goal line! It was ridiculous! America smirked at him.
"I told you we'd score! How do you like them apples?" America asked, looking at England smugly. Canada rolled his eyes at the saying. "The hero always wins!"
"There's still a second half!" England growled, refusing to submit to the younger nation. America shouldn't have scored that goal; the goalie should have been able to stop it. No matter; there was still a second half, where England's boys would surely recoup their losses, and at the moment England had more important things to worry about. Namely, keeping Ireland from murdering France.
"Ye want to borrow this?" Ireland offered the shillelagh. England shook his head. He was not about to chase America around the house with a borrowed shillelagh just because America managed to get a point on him, even if it was an accidental goal. There was still 45 minutes left in the game, and of course England was going to pull ahead again. There really was no other option.
France relaxed a bit. Apparently Ireland was no longer quite as hell-bent on murdering him with a shillelagh, since he was offering to England. It was to be expected that Ireland would calm down sooner rather than later. Though Ireland had a quick temper and tended to get violent when he was angry, he never stayed angry for long. And he was usually repentant after he discovered the result of his fury.
"What about France?" Northern Ireland asked, turning around on the couch so he could get a good look at Ireland. France tensed again and looked up at Ireland fearfully. Trust Northern Ireland to not be tired of watching his older brother chase France around the house with intent to kill. England shot a glare at his younger brother. It was apparent that Ireland had calmed down, and England would very much appreciate it if he stayed that way.
Ireland shrugged and shouldered the shillelagh. "I think watching him lose to Mexico and South Africa will be enough for me." France opened his mouth to protest – the tie with Uruguay was simply unlucky, he'd recoup the lost points in his next two games – but another glare from England silenced him. Really, thought England, did France want to get in a fight with Ireland? Sure, Ireland's anger burned fast and hot, but it wouldn't take much to rekindle it.
"Now that that's settled, can we please just sit and watch the rest of the match?" England asked. The halftime period was ending, and the two teams were beginning to retake the field. "I still have to crush this little bugger." He gestured at America, who scoffed. No way was England going to score on his boys again.
"Never said we couldn't," Ireland replied, leaping over the back of the couch and settling himself in his previous seat, next to Northern Ireland. "Eh, scoot over, Ulster." France looked to the couch, which was now entirely occupied with England and his brothers. His eyes went to the other, smaller loveseat, which contained the twins. There weren't any seats left in the living room.
"I have to sit on the floor?" France asked, trying his hardest to pull a pathetic, puppy-dog face. He wasn't quite as good at it as some countries – Canada came to mind – but it was worth a try.
Ireland tapped the shillelagh, which was still resting on his shoulder. France gulped.
"The floor is fine. J'aime le plancher," France said, shifting to find a more comfortable position.
England was sorely tempted to put his head in his hands and groan. It was going to be a long forty-five minutes.
Translations:
Je suis de retour: I'm back (French)
Angleterre, mon cher: England, my dear (French)
C'est déprimant!: How depressing! (French)
Pourquoi?: Why? (French)
Mo deartháir beag: my little brother (Irish)
Bonjour, Irlande! Je suis désolé?: Hello, Ireland! I'm sorry? (French)
J'aime le plancher : I love the floor. (French)
Please let me know if any of my translations are wrong. I don't speak any French (or Irish). Really, I ought to do Russia-centered stories, since I actually know his language…
There will be an epilogue and notes about the countries, foreign relations, why Ireland calls Northern Ireland "Ulster," etc. I did an obscene amount of research for this. I haven't done that much research since my senior year of high school. This fandom is making me LEARN THINGS.
Anyway, thanks for reading!
Craic