England VS America FIFA Match
There were many places Canada wanted to be on Saturday June 12th and here wasn't one of them.
"You bloody wanker! What's the meaning of your team's uniforms?" England demanded angrily to the man on the other side of Canada.
America grinned. "Don't they look cool?" he asked eagerly, blissfully unaware of how furious England was getting. Canada sighed. Where the hell was France when you needed him? Sure he'll come whenever you about to change or go to sleep or take a shower or start cooking – but when Canada actually needed him? No, he was somewhere else that nobody knew of. Gosh dammit when Canada finally found France he'd -
Give him a shy [but stern] warning. Canada sighed. Sometimes he was too passive for his own good. Even Kumakiku [was that his name? why the hell did he give his polar bear such a Japanese sounding name for anyways?] thought so – whenever he remembered Canada that is.
"Hey isn't that France?" America said, pointing to the flamboyant blonde standing where the British team's coach was.
England yelped, jumping out of his seat. "If that bloody wine bastard is trying to hit on my team while they're trying to demolish your team I swear I will rip his innards out and -"
"He's not talking to the team," Canada remarked suddenly. England turned to him.
"Excuse me?" England demanded.
"He's not talking to the team," Canada repeated.
"Then who is he talking to?" England demanded.
"Hey cool! France is talking to David Beckham!" America said excitedly, pointing. Canada resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands as England let out a roar of fury.
"So David," France purred at the Englishman, who was steadily staring out onto the field, determined not to acknowledge the other man [nation? Pervert? Mix of the three?]. "How is your beautiful wife? Ah, if I could spend the night with the two of you I would be such a happy man…" France glanced at David hopefully, only to see David had a rather unpleasant frown on his face. Something told France that his expression would not budge either way and decided to sit nearby the coach [that way whenever a player was called in for a sub, he'd be the first person to sink his claws into said player. Oh did I say sink his claws? I really meant congratulate – silly me!].
"Bloody Frenchman always trying to fuck every thing he sees," England muttered in his seat.
"Shhh! The game's about to start!" Alfred exclaimed.
Of course, first came the national anthems. As the three men stood, Canada watched as America started chattering amicably to a random fellow American as England stood tall and proud for his national anthem. Canada could see England was getting very furious, the vein on his forehead looked like it was going to pop!
When the American national anthem began to play, America made a big show of standing on his chair and pressing his right hand to his heart, singing as loudly as he could. England was giving America death glares and Canada, standing between the two men, was calming humming his own national anthem, as though this were a common occurrence to him.
And then, the game began. As much as Canada liked soccer… he wished he were watching a hockey match. Much more fun to watch. More manly too – you don't see soccer players beating the crap out of each other now do you? Canada sighed. Maybe he was just a little jealous that he didn't have a team for FIFA.
Canada grinned when England's team scored first, the fastest goal made so far in the entire tournament. When glancing at his brother for his reaction, he noticed that America was unfazed, practically inhaling the three hotdogs that were in his hands.
"Aren't you nervous?" England taunted quite some time later. Canada mentally groaned – he wished England would stop taunting America. Their verbal fights always gave Canada an epic headache.
America did not reply, watching as one of his players [what was his name again? Canada couldn't remember. John? Drew? Robert? Patrick? Patrick Dempsey? No… that was an actor on a TV show. Then why was the name Dempsey refusing to leave Canada's mind… OH. Clint Dempsey – that's the name! Canada grinned. He was getting better at this soccer player name stuff] getting closer to the British goalie, ball at his feet.
"Are you scared he's going to miss?" England taunted further, ego practically in the stratosphere due to England's early goal.
The three watched in awe as [Clint, not Patrick] Dempsey kicked and the English goalie caught it.
"HA!" England said triumphantly. "I knew it was going to -" his words were cut short by the sudden gasp of the crowd.
What was this? The goalie seemed to fumble with the ball, letting it slip out of his fingers. As he desperately crawled backward to catch the ball, it easily rolled into the goal.
"YESSSSS. THE PATRIOTS DEFEAT THE RED COATS ONCE MORE!" America howled, standing on his chair and ripping off his shirt, swinging it in the air in triumph. Canada rolled his eyes. So Cuba was right – America did base his uniform after the uniform he wore in the Revolutionary war. He now owed Cuba fifty bucks. Canada scowled.
Beside Canada, England had sunk down into his seat, mouth open in utter horror. "But… but he caught it… how did it…?" he said quietly. Glancing at the area where the British coach was, hoping to see the expression on Fabio Capello's face, England soon found the reason as to why Robert Green had fumbled the ball.
"That wine bastard," he growled, gripping either side of his seat tightly. Canada and America turned in interest to see France blowing kisses at a very pink-faced British goalie that was desperately trying to ignore the Frenchman and failing. "When I get my hands on him…" England growled, making rather graphic gestures with his hands. Canada attempted to inch away from England, not wanting to be caught up in England's wrath.
The game continued on, thankfully neither team scoring but both coming close. At this point America and England were tightly gripping onto Canada's arms [which he could no longer feel], both anxious for their team to score another goal and win them the game.
But they didn't and Canada thanked God wherever he was for making the game a tie. He had a feeling that if either man won, he'd still get severely injured in the process of escaping the other man's wrath. And Canada didn't want that happening, no not again.
At the end of the game as the referee blew his whistle to end the match, America stood up and extended a hand out to England, imitating the players down on the field. "Good game," he said amicably. England glared at the hand.
"For you," England muttered, reluctantly shaking America's hand. A glimmer of hope fluttered in Canada's chest. Could it be…? Could, for once in Canada's entire life, America and England actually be getting along with each other?
"Wasn't it cool how we ended up defeating you anyways like in the Revolutionary War?" Damn, spoke too soon.
"So you did base your team's uniforms on the Revolutionary one!" England exclaimed. "You son of a bitch!" he exclaimed, lunging at the taller [yet younger, always remember that unless you want England's wrath to be upon you] man. Canada leapt onto his chair and climbed over the other spectators as everyone began to watch the two men fight. There was no way he was going to get involved with this. Queen Lizzie and Obama were going to have a bitch of a time dealing with this once it got in the papers. Canada didn't want Stephen getting pissed at him too.
Canada hightailed it out of there, running towards his car to drive back to his hotel room.
As Canada got into his car, he smiled slightly. Even though the game ended off pretty badly, Canada was surprised to find he actually enjoyed watching the game. Maybe he ought to give soccer [or football if you're not a crazy North American like me, Mattie and Alfie] a try.
A/N: This is what happens when it's 1 AM and instead of going to sleep like a good girl, you stay up writing Fan Fiction. So bare [bear? biar? biwahtahior?] for any mistakes. I'm half asleep so my author notes may or may not make sense.
Yes, France hits of David Beckham. Oh hot dawg wouldn't they make just the hottest couple ever!
Poor Canada. Heh. I like harassing him sometimes... especially when I'm half-asleep.
Heh while watching the game myself I was probably like an angrier version of England. I was pissed as a motherfucking bitch when England let that goal in [pardon my language, another after effect of being sleep deprived]
*yawns* Reviews will... eh, I'm too exhausted to think of anything creative. Just review and remind me to sleep k?