Title: Scotland's Nursery
Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia... wish I owned Allistor. c;
Rating: T for language
Genre: Humor / Family
Characters: Scotland with the rest of UK plus Ireland
AN: Allistor Kirkland = Scotland, Patrick Kirkland = Northern Ireland
Abigail O'Kirkland = Republic of Ireland, Dylan Kirkland = Wales
If there are official names for these characters, don't hesitate to PM me. I just went off of what I found on the internet and names I like. c: And I wanted to use human names to help facilitate the close bond the British Isles have with each other...even if it's not the friendliest. Cx
.:V:.
Allistor has been kicking the same coke can (despite people being in the way, he'd just aim between their legs and continue on the other side) since he got back from the small store around the corner from his brother's house.
He didn't want to be in England. Didn't want to be anywhere near posh soil and would much rather be giving Nessie a fiddle tune. The only reason, other than to give is dear brother a checkup, he was stepping on all the cracks in the sidewalks of London was because the first games of the World Cup has begun. It has been a tradition for their entire, dysfunctional family to watch the first day's and last day's games together.
But football has no connection to why he was outside carrying a box of whiskey and hitting a man in the crotch with a punted coke can.
It was eleven o'clock this morning and the only thing Allistor wanted was some nice, cold alcohol. When he entered the kitchen and opened the fridge: no Guinness, gin, whiskey, beer, wine, vodka, rum, nor goddamn tequila. Safe to say, the fridge hinges died this morning.
So here comes Allistor with his own, personal box of whiskey that he is going to drink in front of his alcoholic brothers and sister, amusing himself with their disgruntled facial expressions and the possibility of a fight over the golden liquid. And perhaps that fight will be just as heated as the one between Abbey and Arthur when the former changed her name to a mocking difference of the latter's.
That was a good day for chaos, and today will be as well because England vs. Spain is the first game.
Once he trudged up the steps onto the grand porch of Arthur's Victorian-styled house, Allistor barely turned the knob all the way before ripping the heavy, ornate door open, leaving another set of scratch marks on the wooden doorframe paneling. He took one look into the foyer of the house and furrowed his large eyebrows.
Abbey, no bigger than a lamb, was pushing Patrick who then used the force of sitting back up to nudge the child-sized Irishwoman in retaliation. This process seemed to have been going on for awhile because their timing was almost mechanical as Abbey just knocked Patrick back on his ass. A few paces away, Dylan sat cross-legged with his grapefruit-sized eyes glaring at a wheat-blonde head, daring the other to make a faulty move he disliked. In the center of all this madness was Arthur; hunched over one of his dusty voodoo books that has seen better centuries. The ceramics containing hell knows what surrounding the studying Englishman could use a tune-up as well, both in the looks and smell department. Those purple fumes emitting from the cracks are not natural to a healthy bowl.
Northie, Southie, Dill-Pickle, and Fairy are sodding babies, Allistor thought.
Once four sets of varying shades of green looked his way, Allistor straitened his back, slammed the door shut, took out a fresh bottle of whiskey, and backtracked off the porch with nothing more but a: "Fuck that."