Quick quick drabble because WTF HABS why would you do this to me and also I write too much sad QCON when they're really just angry adorable dorks
The little things: Hockey
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Oliver likes Alex, he really does. The two of them are probably the closest of the states/provinces mix, and though some people (Jean) might say it's simply because they both have overly large egos, they really do get along. Of course they fight too, sometimes even physically, because they're a little bit too similar to not clash (Jean also blames this on the overly large egos), but they always make it up. So it's not an unusual occurrence that they hang out together once in a while, have a few drinks, chat a little, seemingly average friends to the normal observer. It is also not such an unusual occurrence that some of the states and provinces have joined them.
It is an unusual occurrence, however, that Oliver is gripping his glass tight enough to shatter it and contemplating murder.
Everything had started off well enough, with the two meeting and discussing the hockey. There'd been the usual jabs about the Leafs (they'd make it one day, ok!) and bets on the outcome, and then Al had started ranting about the Rangers. This was also nothing new: what with Price off ice and the previous two losses, the New Yorkers were having a field day, as Alex now pointed out. He'd been commenting loudly to reach Jean's ears, but the Québécois wasn't listening, too busy rapidly typing away on his laptop, brow furrowed.
It had been good fun at first- they were the Habs, after all, and Oliver himself had a magnificent collection of both insults and grudges regarding the Montréalais team. He'd laughed along and made witty comments and caused general amusement-and then Alex had veered into patronizing and for some unknown reason, his sense of humour had disappeared. This was the strange part: Oliver had no scruples whatsoever when it came to patronizing the Habs, having spent many hours with Jean's condescending comments about the Leafs and his own replies about the Habs, but as soon as Alex said something like "Well, it's the Habs, after all! What did you expect?", his laughter died on his lips.
Now the New Yorker was in a full-on uppity monologue about the Canadiens, having misinterpreted the silence from the Ontarian as encouragement. Oliver saw Ralph lean over to Jean, who waved him away with a "not now" as Alex exclaimed: "What, because anyone thought that terrible excuse for a team, strung together by stubbornness and stubbornness only, stood a chance?" But Oliver also remembered Jean paling as Carey Price keeled over, and Jean rushing out to the hospital as soon as he could, and was suddenly filled with boiling anger from head to toe.
It happened quite often, this patronizing; the states had picked it up from Alfred, who for all his cheerfulness could turn cold and sneering when needed. They'd seen it with Ivan, and even now he'd sometimes turn on Matthew, scoffing and taunting about "you might be nicer, Mattie, but you're meek and weak. You think you'd stand a chance on your own? Ha." It's funny, Oliver thinks sometimes, because all of them, and Matthew and his provinces and South Africa and Australia and Seychelles and every single one of them does that, to various degrees, because they got it from Arthur. Arthur, yes, whose "Pathetic." had been his deadliest weapon, who as a small island surrounded by bigger, stronger nations had decided to use his mind as his defence and offence, who'd initially needed it to recover from the scathing remarks of his older brothers, who'd in turn used it against the mockery of the Romans...
They all did it, carried down a line, the British colonies long turned independent but never really free of their old roots, the ones the most connected the most skilled at it. Alfred, of course.
"Oh, shut it, Alex. The only reason the Rangers are winning is because the Habs have been indisposed. There's no skill in thriving off other teams' problems." He snaps, cutting the other short. Alex turns to him, startled for a moment, before recovering with a: "Because you would know all about skill, wouldn't you?" Oliver had seen Matthew deal with this kind of thing, seen him find a weak spot and attack, see him laugh it off... "Oliver, you have to admit that the Canadiens haven't been an actual threat since, like, fifty years. They're not even a proper team, what with that-"Crack. Oliver had also seen Matthew break Alfred's nose.
Alex stumbles back, eyes wide, clutching his nose, as the others turn towards the fight in surprise. "What the-" Oliver bristles:"Shut the hell up, ok, just shut up. The Rangers won the cup, what, five times? I don't know, I don't care, either way it wasn't twenty four. You know who're some of our best players in our best team in the Olympics? The Canadiens de Montreal. Those guys have managed to come so far every year because they believe in it, because they're a really fucking good team! And yeah, you might win this year, but it won't be from any talent, and I sure as hell hope they beat your sorry excuse for a team!" There's dead silence, then Alex rolls his eyes and backs off, joining a smirking Washington and mumbling about "those Canucks are dangerous, I tell you", and Oliver is faced with thirteen wide-eyed provinces, staring at him in complete disbelief.
Realisation dawns: he stiffens, feels his ears turn red, and mutters: "Oh, vos yeules." before turning away. And then he realises what he just said, and now his cheeks are red too, and he groans and bangs his head on the bar as the others start to snicker. Jean is shaking with laughter, and everyone falls silent for a moment, unaccustomed to it- after all, with all his complaints and anger it's easy to forget he's capable of laughing. Oliver curses him under his breath as someone gets up and heads towards him. He looks up as they sit, then looks away again because oh, hey, it's Jean, who's still laughing. The Quebecois reaches out to ruffle his hair, and now Oliver is thankful for the bar because his entire face has turned scarlet (Is it some kind of tsundere disease? Do all of Arthur's colonies get it?). "J'savais ben que t'étais en denial de ta secret obsession avec les Habs, mais là..." Jean snorts, before adding: "Espere pas que j'vais devenir un fan des Maple Leafs quand même passque j'veux pas détruire tes rêves mais y sont pourris."
"Shut UP." Oliver says, lifting his head up to scowl at the brunet before freezing mid-scowl at Jean's grin. He hears a "oh my god, are you guys seeing this?" from BC, and then a "I don't know, what did you put in my drink?" from Manitoba, but can't bring himself to look away. "Bon, allez, boude pas, j't achète à boire et on parle hockey." Jean offers, rolling his eyes when Oliver huffs. "I don't like the Habs, ok, I just felt compelled to defend them in the face of patronizing Americans who're only losing because Price is off ice and-" At the other's wide smirk, he gives in: "Just buy the goddamn drink."
"One hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and marshmallows, please." the other says to the young waitress, who giggles at his charming accent. "Oh, and also..." He whispers the rest and she runs off, blushing. "Why a hot chocolate?" Oliver asks, looking unimpressed. "Why not?" Jean shrugs, and both of them don't mention that Jean knows exactly what kind of hot chocolate Oliver likes. They're half-way through arguing about PK's publicity when the drink arrives, sprinkled with red white and blue.
Oliver considers throwing the drink at Jean, but even that would be a waste of the wonderful drink, so instead he puffs his cheeks and takes a sip, kicking at Jean's leg when his lips start twitching. It's no use, though: in a moment they're both laughing silently, Jean's shoulders shaking as Oliver tries to avoid choking on his hot chocolate. Then he starts hiccuping, which sends Jean off on another bout of laughter. When he finally calms down, he's met by a glare that's too fond to really do anything. "I hate you." Oliver Stanley says, taking a last sip from his drink. "Sans blague." Jean Tremblay replies, bumping his shoulder against the blonde's, both of them happier than most ever are: it's the little things.