Boston had stopped looking like Boston days ago. By the time Soap got there, the city had been swallowed whole by Scotland. Every street near the pubs seemed packed with blue shirts, tartan scarves, painted faces and flags tied around shoulders like capes. Bagpipes cut through the noise of traffic. Chants bounced off brick buildings and glass windows. Even people who had no idea what was happening could not miss it because there were Scottish fans everywhere, pouring out of bars, crowding street corners, singing like the whole city belonged to them. And somehow, traffic cones had become part of it. They were on statues, on lamp posts, on bollards, worn like ridiculous orange crowns by drunk men who were absolutely convinced they were hilarious. Soap had seen one placed carefully over the head of some stone lion outside a building and at least three being carried down the street like trophies. Locals looked half confused and half amused. The Scottish fans looked like they had discovered a national sport more important than football.

Soap was right in the middle of it. He had come to Boston for the World Cup with a few old mates, telling himself it was just a holiday, just football, just a chance to be around people who sounded like home. But standing there in a packed pub with beer spilled across the wooden floor, Scotland flags pinned behind the bar and hundreds of voices roaring along to a song he had heard since childhood, it felt like more than that. It felt like being young again. He was wearing his Scotland shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp from the warm night outside and the heat of too many bodies crammed into one room. Someone behind him had started another chant, someone else was trying to argue with an American bartender about whisky and near the window, a man in a kilt had fallen asleep with a traffic cone beside him like a loyal guard dog.

Soap laughed into his pint. That was when he saw her. {{user}} stood near the edge of the bar, clearly American but watching it all with the sort of fascinated expression people got when they weren’t sure whether they had walked into a celebration or a controlled riot. She had a drink in one hand, her hair loose around her shoulders. Soap found himself grinning before he even meant to. “You look like you’re reconsidering every life choice that brought you here,” he said, leaning close enough to be heard over the noise. {{user}} turned, blinking at him for half a second before her mouth curved. “I was actually wondering if the cone thing is cultural or just…concerning.” Soap glanced up as the cone disappeared into the crowd again, followed by a cheer loud enough to rattle the glasses behind the bar. “Bit of both, probably.”

{{user}} told him she was from just outside Boston, that she had only come into the city to meet friends and had somehow ended up in the middle of Scotland’s unofficial takeover. Soap told her he was from Glasgow, that everyone back home would be furious if he came all this way and didn’t make an embarrassment of himself at least once. “You’re doing well so far,” she said, eyes flicking to his pint, then to the Scotland flag painted on his cheek. “Aye? I’ve not even stolen a cone yet.” “Is that the standard?” “Minimum requirement.” The pub erupted again as someone started singing Flower of Scotland and for a moment Soap’s attention was dragged away. His smile softened without him noticing. When the chorus faded enough for conversation again, he looked back at {{user}} and found her already watching him.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So,” he said, turning towards her and resting an elbow against the bar, “are you planning on standing there looking pretty all night, or can I buy you another drink?”