A/N: It is 2:07 AM, and that means I've missed my deadline. Two days ago was Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras season in Louisiana, and I wanted to write something in relation to that. If you happen to celebrate Mardi Gras, I hope you enjoyed it and caught lots of beads. Haha.
Disclaimer: Himaruya Hidekaz owns Hetalia and all related purposes.
"Down in New Orleans where the Blues was born/It takes a cool cat to blow a horn/On LaSalle and Rampart Street/The Combo's there with a Mambo beat."
"Mardi Gras Mambo" Frankie Adams and Lou Welsch
He awoke to an unwilling start. The first thought to make its presence known inside his head was the aching pain that his head was enduring. Damn it. The rays of sunlight that shone from the white curtained windows did him no good. He instinctively retreated to the dimness of his blankets and bed. He kept his head low and hoped that the throbbing pain would eventually reside, but it didn't. He was curled on the mattress, and he attempted to return to the numbness that sleep provided him. Then he heard the door open, and the sound of gentle footsteps echoed in the room, making it impossible for him to return to his steady slumber. He mumbled incoherent obscenities, and for a moment, the approaching figure paused in its descent.
"You damn fool," she said and shook her head, "you patriotic fool." A sweet chuckle was all he heard before her hand came wailing down on his head, causing him to jump and scream in madness.
"Louisiana!" He cried as he jumped on the mattress in an angry hoot, clutching his head as the sharp pain throbbed on, "What the hell?"
The state known as Louisiana stood at his bedside with an expression of peace and anger mixed together, and he didn't to as how that was possible. In her hands she held a rolled up newspaper in a vice grip, and he noticed how her usually braided hair was released in manic curls. As he returned to his settings, the throbbing pain lessening somewhat, he saw that she was dressed unseeingly, or as she would call it. She wore a pink tank top and a pair of boxer shorts, and her eyes were ringed bloodshot with heavy bags. Her teeth gritted out, and were shone in lightly crooked pearly whites. He would've complimented them, to soothe her boiling anger, but it would do him no good there. He clutched a nearby pillow, and he used it as a shield against her unreasonable rage.
"What is your problem, dude!" He swatted away her newspaper blows, "What did I do?"
"You know what you did!" She hopped on the bed and continued her assault, "Just because you're the United States of America doesn't mean you can around startin' mess in my city. My pride and joy, on the most glorious day of the year!"
He grabbed one hand, but it wasn't the hand that held the newspaper, "Christmas?"
"Not Christmas you ass fart," she ticked wildly, "Mardi Gras!" She swung her arm high and went down to strike him down again, but he caught it halfway and struggled to keep them up on the bed without falling.
Right, he thought idly as he pressed her back against his naked chest and bared her up, kicking and screaming, Mardi Gras. At the sound of the celebrated holiday, he tried to return to the night before. He had decided, much to the state's dismay, to arrive for the festivities. It had been years, some odd years since Hurricane Katrina, since he'd visited one of his most volatile states, and he missed the chaos and fun of the boot shaped state. To her defense, Louisiana, the parts he could remember, was a commendable hostess at his arrival, but he tactlessly thought aloud why she wasn't in Baton Rouge.
"Because," she said with a roll of her eyes, "I've been to the Baton Rouge parades, and we're not going to the parades. You've missed the majority of them."
And then he, dumbfounded and more than heartbroken, "But! But! That can't be, I left really early this morning, eleven o'clock!" He pouted with simmering tears at his eyes.
She shrugged, "Yeah, but you should know that the relatives are comin' like a hurricane, and the parades can start as early as ten."
"But I didn't," he whined and began to tug on her turquoise dress like a distress child, "I wanna go to the parades!"
"Don't act like a baby!" She snapped but didn't slap his hand away, "You're not going to the parades, and that's final. Most of them are reaching their conclusions, and it would be pointless." At the sight of his wet eyes and trembling lips, she paused mid sentenced and lowered her head. She didn't want to go out to the parades, not with him that is, and she certainly didn't want to get into trouble, with him that is. Her boss would lose his balls of she got into another ruckus again, and she didn't have time with that with the all the new bills and his popularity going down the drain like a pot of bad gumbo.
"Fine!" She threw her hands up and frowned, "We'll go the French Quarter. I'm sure there'll be some treats and sweets and parades left for you."
"That's so awesome!" He grabbed her alarm figure into a bone-crushing hug, "Thank you!"
"And this is all your fault," she hissed as he swung her body precariously from left to right, "I knew I shouldn't have brought you to the French Quarter."
"Eh?" He was confused, "I don't remember anything, but this hella freakish headache."
"Yeah. I know I have one too." She struggled free, but his hold on her body was too much for her, "Can you let me down, please."
"You'll hit me again," he stated pointedly, "I don't know what you think, but you do have a crazy left hook."
She shook her head and sighed, "No, I won't hit you. I'm all out of fight, and ignoring this headache is too much for me. He should be downstairs fixin' breakfast."
He loosened his hold on her body, and she easily slipped through and jumped off the bed. She gracefully landed on the carpeted floor, but she stumbled just a bit. With a relieved sight at not falling on her behind, she shrugged it off and looked at him, "You hungry?"
It was easy to distract him. "Food! You mean your delicious food with powdered sweets and fried fish and fried chicken and baked chicken and smothered chicken and gravy and rice and corn and boiled crawfish and boiled shrimp and boiled crabs and smothered beans."
She stared at him, speechless. She calmed herself by pressing her fingers down on her temples, "Not everything is boiled or fried or baked or smothered."
"It's not?" He tilted his head to the side and stared at her curiously, "Because like dude, every time I visit I'm either like eating some wicked chit' lins or beignets." As an after thought, "We should totally have beignets right now!"
"Baked and smothered is pretty much the same thing, not much to it," she dropped the newspaper, "and besides, its breakfast, and we're not going to eat all that for breakfast, America."
"But I wanna." He whimpered.
It was impossible to make him agree with her at times, and she was finally feeling her adrenaline rush waste down the holes, "Just because Obama lets you eat as many as two hundred burgers a day doesn't mean you'll eat like that in this house."
"This isn't your house," he stated, "it's-"
"Shut your damn mouth!" She growled, "The point is you're not going to eat all that here." She nodded in affirmation and glared him down, daring him to protest what she had said. He sat miserably without his glasses on the bed, and his usually combed hair, she had noticed, was in a toppled mess. His glasses were somewhere, she believed, and she noted that she would have to find them to prevent him from walking into things. He didn't want anyone to know it, and it was limited to her brothers and sisters and Uncle Matt, but he was beginning to lose his perfect and freakin' awesome eyesight as he aged. She blamed it on the wretched economy, and she knew it was a shared sentiment among the states, but they didn't think it would be wise to voice their unsettled concerns to their "father."
"Hey, Louisiana," he said slumped on the bed, "you okay?"
"Hm." She came out of her thoughts "Yeah, I'm fine." She saw that his eyes were too looking, "What's your problem?"
"Uh?" He flushed and look away, "Nothing."
"Hey!" She put her hands on her hips, "No lyin' to me, you here? No lyin' in the house of the Lord."
He hated when she went to that. "I don't wanna lie," he eyes the dresser with much interest, "but it's just that…,"
"That what?"
"I can see your nipples."
"Get the hell out of my bed." She pulled his ear, "Now."
"See!" He fought the iron grip that latched onto his innocent ear, "This is why I didn't want to tell you!"
He had taken a hot shower. For some reason he had the distinct smell of perfume on his body, and when he asked Louisiana about it, she scowled at him and said that she didn't know. He had to the get the feminine smell off his body, and his mouth tasted strange too. It wasn't that sleep wasn't there, it was, but there was another presence, a more gummy texture that he couldn't detect. He decided to brush his teeth, floss, and use the long awaited Listerine too. Red blemishes were on his neck, spotted and pink, and he winced at the thought of what was done the night before. Louisianans know how to throw crazy parties, he brushed out the knots in his hair, What did I do?
Women. Beer Pong. Silver Painted man in a Speedo with a guitar concealing his abs.
He couldn't remember! He wanted to remember, and he clutched his head. Too much drinking, and the pain of his hangover still lingered. He needed some coffee, black and strong.
"Good morning," a voice called when he made it downstairs, "glad to see yer up too. I head the commotion upstairs, but thought better to stay down here. Hope you didn't have too much fun. I lost yer in the big shin dig last night."
He was a lighter shade than Louisiana, but his eyes were the same medium brown as hers. His hair was curly and pretty, and he was dressed in baggy blue jeans with an unbuttoned white shirt. He was at the stove, and he was finishing, from what America could see, stirring a pot of hot grits and scrambled eggs. He didn't hear the grumbling of his hungry stomach, but the man did. He laughed lightly at the light drops of drool sliding down on the side of his mouth.
"Hungry, aren't ye?" His undeniable Cajun accent was thick and heavy, "Go on and take a seat, yer food will be up in a minute!"
The kitchen was massive, something he'd forgotten since his last visit, and he took a seat at one of the stools at the kitchen bar. The food smelled so good, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the growing pile of bacon and sausages. Must not take before told to, he steeled himself, Must not touch food. Don't touch food. Practice self-restraint America! His hands twitched, and he tried with great progress to ignore the aroma of delicious food. But yet, yet, his stomach was hungry, and he wanted to eat. The food, the sausage and bacon, was that French toast, he couldn't stop his taste buds from screaming out in agony. He couldn't stop his body, his hands, from reaching down the counter, feeling the white and cool tiles, to the hot and steaming plate of nutritious meat goods.
"Mon cher," the man turned and laughed at the display, "America, don't go be touching my hot food. Big Sis wouldn't like that at all."
"But Jack!" He called out, "I'm hungry, and she knows how I get when I'm hungry."
"Don't we all." The golden yellow of butter was placed in the middle of the three plates of grits, salt applied, "She was real upset when she woke up this morning. All messed up and such, didn't remember what happened the night before, ragin' and ranting. Lafayette would be darn shamed and pleased to see all that, y' know."
"I know how she wants to be the pristine picture of Southern respectability and stuff, but she didn't have to beat me with the newspaper and go all crazy black woman on me." He rubbed the back of his head, "Can I have some coffee? Strong and black."
"Sure, sir!" He used his chin to point to the coffee brewer, "Go on right ahead. It'll get your mind off the food."
America moved from the kitchen counter and to the other, lower, where the coffee machine was placed.
"You know Georgia is gonna have a field day with this," he put the scrambled eggs on the plates, "after those pictures that albino guy took." He waves his spatula dramatically in the air, "I never seen him in my life, but I know he looked familiar, I know it. Maybe Shreveport would know, y'think?"
The mug was at his lips, and he stared wordlessly at the city known as New Orleans with wide eyes. He didn't say what he thought he said. He didn't.
"What?" His headache as growing stronger now, and all he wanted to do, much more than before, was bury himself into his bed sheets once more,
"Albino kid?" From his knowledge albinos were not distinguished in the state of Louisiana, and America wasn't all sure that the albino the city spoke of was a mere citizen.
"Eh?" He dropped a towel while placing two plates on the counter, "Oh, yeah, some albino boy. Red eyes and a yellow bird; I know I've seen him somewhere. He looks a lot like…
"Pennsylvania." His heart dropped.
"Yeah!" He nodded, "Just like her, except being a boy." And the realization hit him and his eyes widened to the size of saucers, "That ain't Penn's Ma is it?"
America slid down the wall with his mug of coffee still in his hand, "How the hell did Prussia make it to New Orleans?" Not good. Not good.
"That was Penn's Ma wasn't it?" He grabbed a glass of orange juice and sat one of the stools with a cheeky smile on his face, "They do act alike. Hm. Too bad for him, he and Big Sis got into last night."
"What?"
"Oh yeah," he chuckled uneasily, "forgot about that. I don't know all the details, I was breaking up some other fight on the other side of the French Quarter. But what I gathered that some albino man came up and started taking pictures of you and Sis doing some naughty things with…other people, drunk out y'all minds I guess, and she got angry."
"My head," he groaned, "why does this keep happening to me?"
"That albino was Prussia, Penn's Ma," he chewed his bacon, grits, and eggs together, "and he took some pictures of you and Louisiana, more you than her, and scuttled off after she punched him."
Right hook danger. "Don't let him show France or Britain. They are going to freak."
"I think that'll be Britain who'll freak out more. Isn't Ma a bit strange anyways," he used his fingers for emphasis, "it shouldn't a surprise. Alcohol makes ya' do the craziest things." He saw the questioning look America gave him, "Don't ask, but if you must know, it was all Alabama's doing."
He decided not to ask. "I'm hungry," he moved dejectedly to the counter again, "do you have any French toast?"
"I'm sure Ma will be proud that his daughter was able to have fun. He's always complaining that she doesn't have enough fun and libido, whatever that means."
He devoured his food, and he was pleased, elated, that the food was as he remembered. Delicious. Breath taking. Exhilarating. He ate without remorse, and he gobbled several handfuls of combined sausages, bacon, eggs, and French toast. He made sandwiches out of them, and he ate them like he would eat his beloved hamburgers. As he pleased his stomach with fattening breakfast meals, his thoughts on what happened the night before, Mardi Gras night, began to vanish and were diluted with the delightful tastes of the food. Jacques, bro! You the best! He was so going to give him an epic bro hug after. He made an inward note of it.
Although he enjoyed his food, America couldn't knock away the fact that Prussia, Prussia, had been there. The former nation wasn't much trouble, not that he'd noticed anyway, but he was more than aware that his younger brother was greatly distressed by his older brother's antics. If his memory served him well, and it did-much better than his eyesight, Austria and Hungary shared the sentiments.
"I'm glad you're enjoying your food." At last she arrived to breakfast dressed in skinny black jeans and a plain, plaited shirt. She hadn't braided her hair, but she used a convenient hair piece to keep its massive and wild curls out of her face and food. She got a glass of milk, silently, and she took her seat on the stool that was on the opposite of him, silently. She began to eat, silently, slowly and carefully; she ate in a proper manner, and it unnerved the both of them that she ate with such dignified grace that wasn't necessary.
"Um, Sis," New Orleans said patiently, "you don't have to do all that."
"Oh please, Jacques," she used his name casually with a false smile on her face, "there's no excuse for not using proper table etiquette."
"Britain didn't over take you did he?" America asked, "I don't think he left that much of an impression on you, did he?"
He knew that wasn't the case. She had long ago prided herself in her ability to handle proper dinner table manners, and her southern siblings did so once upon a time. But he could only think of West Virginia and Georgia when it came to proper etiquette; he blamed Britain for the former.
"He didn't. It's the right thing to do, that's all." She sighed, "I supposed Jacques told you about Prussia. The bastard."
"Language!" He mumbled at the coarse language, and she skeptically looked at him. Her eyes narrowed, and she turned her attention away from his scolding.
"I can't believe he came here, insanity, and I've got hickies from people I don't know!" She shuddered at the idea, "When I woke up this morning there was permanent marker on my right tit. A number! Do you know anyone named Josie? I surely don't!" She threw her hands up in the air and didn't care that she spilled some of her food, "Lord have mercy on my soul for I have sinned. I didn't even say a prayer before eating." She dropped her head low but didn't let it bang on the counter.
"You're not a terrible person, Sis." Jacques patted her head sympathetically, "Crazy stuff just happens on Mardi Gras, and don't act like it's the first time."
On instinct she buried her face into his chest, and America saw that her shoulders shook but no wrecking sobs came.
"This is horrible, and it is not better that you were there to participate in it." She pointed her finger tiredly at him, "The French Quarter brings out the craziest in people. I knew we shouldn't have gone."
"This is downright horrible," she moaned, "and it is no better that you were there to see it." She pointed at him but not in an accusing way, more tired and resigned, "I knew we should've stayed from the French Quarter." She positioned her head on the city's shoulder and sighed.
"I'll tell Georgia to be nice to you," he mumbled and bit down on the last of his breakfast sandwich, "she'll listen to me."
She looked at him, and he noticed the tiredness in her eyes. When she smiled he saw that it was filled with gratitude, but it was a disbelieving gratitude that he couldn't shake out.
"Don't worry," she laughed lightly and returned to her meal, "I can handle Georgia."
He wiped his mouth clean, "Yeah, I know that you have some major sibling issues." She laughed at him and put his concerns to rest with her roaring laughter; it wasn't often that he heard her laugh heartily, and it was a good thing to see, he decided.
"Still angry?" He laughed softly, "Because you're really scary when you're angry."
"No." She stuffed her mouth with a piece of French toast, "Not completely. I'm still pissed, I don't want to know who this Josie person is, and I will have to send many donations and prayers to the Church for forgiveness."
She looked knowingly at him, "And you have more problems to worry about. Penn's Ma surely sent those pictures of us to England and France."
An arrogant smile appeared on his face, but he too was worried for when the news reached Britain more than France. He doubted France would be too upset with Louisiana and he having fun on a celebratory day, but he wasn't confident when it came to Britain. He could imagine the scene that would erupt at the next world meeting, and he inwardly groaned at the shouts and pointed fingers that would be aimed in his direction. The older nation was too stiff for his own good. Perhaps, next year he could take him to New Orleans for a great celebration too. Another Christmas party wouldn't hurt anyone, would it?
"Ah well!" He finished the last of his coffee and pumped an energetic fist into the air, "I don't care! Last night was the badass awesome journey of the epic hero!" He pumped another fist in the air and shouted out, causing the city and the state to look at him as if he had gone mad in the head. It was easy to think that he had gone mad in head because he began to laugh manically, and though the blemishes on his neck and the pain inside his head still throbbed, he knew he had a damn good time with one of his children and technical grandchild that he hadn't had in a long while.
"Next year will be even more badass!" He boasted, "We totally gotta invite Prussia and Pennsylvania next time. 'Cuz, bra and bro, we'll get him next time doing naughty things, and have you seen Germany pissed off? Dude is crazy mean when he is." He grabbed his sides and ignored the pain inside his head, the inevitable hangover. Oh yeah! He thought as he went back to his bedroom, We're so going to party hard next year. And I'ma get me some chit'lins! The city known as New Orleans and the state known as Louisiana watched in silence as their country, The United States of America, grabbed their unfinished plates of grits, eggs, and bacon and ate them without their consent.
It was good thing that they weren't' that hungry after all.
"Jacques."
"Yes, Eva?"
"Remind me to spike his coffee next time he visits." She watched with a straight face as he ran into a chair and winced, "And we should find his glasses before he leaves. I don't want him getting lost at the airport again."
"That's right. He did get lost when he didn't have his glasses last time." The city laughed at the memory, "Luckily, a security guard found him and sent him to the lost and found. That was real nice of him."
"Get the aspirin too," she said, "we're going to need it." She watched wearily as the nation dropped on the couch in the adjacent living room and rolls about before he curled up into a tight balled fetal position, "He more than me."
New Orleans nodded and hurried to the cabinet where he kept the medicine, "I'm glad that yer guys were able to keep your liquor down so well, tho'." He wanted to break out in a fit of bursting laughter at the still fresh memory of his older sister chugging down a tug of beer without a hitch, "I haven't seen you do that since…well, dang, since ever."
"You're saying this is a good thing?" He handed her a glass of water and two tablets, "A good thing that this happened? This is going to be around all over the world by now, and that is nothing good. I hope you know."
"I'm not glad that albino man got to take yer pictures, but you two were having fun." He took a seat at the round kitchen table, "But getting into all those bar fights ain't something to proud of. At least you won, that'll be a sorry story to tell."
"Yes, I am so relieved that I've once again tarnished my good reputation with my questionable behavior through our native celebrations," she swallowed the pills in one gulp, "but I will admit, if I can barely remember what I did the night before, and I don't, then the partying must've been good."
"That it was, Sis," he confirmed, "that it was."
It hadn't taken him long to return to his numbing sleep, and as he lied on the comfort of the couch, taking in the salty scent, his mind wandered off through the dulling pain in his head. Yes, he couldn't remember the night before, but the trail of painted purple, green, and gold beads in the room he slept in was an indication of what transpired. So many beads he had, those with the white masks, black eyes, and red tinted lips, and the ones that were giant chains of balls that women and men alike fought for during the uncontrollable masses last night.
The images of brunettes, redheads, and blonds alike, clinging to his body. He chugged more beer than he did on an average night, going against a young woman whose eyes glinted with determination and arrogance. He punched a guy, that he did, and it was brilliant.
"The epic hero prevailed awesomely with his booming heroine," he grinned as he retreated to slumber, "and it was friggin' awesome."
"Now, what the bloody hell is this?" England was more than exhausted after another tiresome meeting and was about ready to return home when he felt the familiar rumble inside his back pants pocket. Immediately he sent his hand down to retrieve the small, moving device that was his cellphone, and with a curious eye he saw that the number was oddly familiar, Prussia, and his instincts told him not to respond to the text message because that was what it was.
"Something I think you will like to see." Ah, the words were ominous, and something told England that if he happened to unlock his cellphone that he wouldn't like what he read. Wait a tick. How did he get my number? My number? Who gave the git my number! In his sudden panic and concern he unlocked his phone and tapped the screen that led to an image that revealed an unsettling sight.
It didn't come to him immediately. The information was slow processed within the dwelling of his normally fast moving brain, but the information was ultimately processed and understood. It came to him; it struck him down and wrapped its hands around his delicate throat, strangling him. The setting was obscure, too obscure for him to recognize on the spot, but the person's face was without a doubt who he thought it was.
"Mr. England, sir," a page approached him, "your driver is waiting for you."
"Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot."
"Um…, Mr. England?" He paused and stared questioningly at the nation, "Is something wrong?"
"Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! In the name of Elizabeth I, he is a bloody idiot!"
"Charles, what's the matter with you?" The man turned to his younger partner whose face was ashen and eyes shaking in fear, "Did something happen?"
"Mr. England, he is, so is, he is," the page couldn't find the right words, "he's so scary."
The older man looked at the younger man and laughed, "It's probably America-related. Don't worry, a night out at the pub will clear all things up, or make him drunk enough to forget."
A/N: I decided to give personifications to New Orleans and Louisiana. I wanted a straight-mellow character, and it made perfect sense to use him. Jacques Jones and his older sister, mother-whatever, Evangeline Bonnefoy-Jones. As far as I know, Louisiana has a mixture of French, Native American, and Spanish roots, and New Orleans speaks with a distinct Cajun accent where Louisiana is the traditional light Southern accent. This is my first try with these guys, and I wanted to give them a test run. I have two longer stories in the oven in which Louisiana will appear in one as a secondary character, Civil War, but I have to give them a test run to see how it turns out the first time.
My main issues are the characters because I want them to fit, and all thoughts are appreciated. I see England losing his lunch, and I see Prussia going off on some random adventure without telling Germany. I'm sure he's heard some of the stories about the infamous parties during Mardi Gras, like on the Internet or something, but that's my head canon. He is such a little devil. Please, do tell me what you think of this in a review because I want to know! Reviews make me happy, and it points out my strengths and weaknesses.
Fun Fact: Last year, I attended my first New Orleans Mardi Gras, and it was an experience. The Silver Painted Man was someone I actually saw in the French Quarter; my friends and I took a picture with him, but I don't have a picture of my own. Wish I did. I didn't get a lot of beads that night, for obvious reasons, but I had a lot of fun there. I wouldn't mind going back to the French Quarter when Mardi Gras isn't happening, but I got see lots of things that night, both exciting and traumatizing. Chit'lins are eaten around the world; it's pig intestines. Yes, I have eaten them and enjoyed them; I was a little girl then, and my great-grandfather was an amazing cook.
To all those who decide to review, read, alert, or anything else of the sort, thank you. Have a great week and weekend!