This is what came of a sequel idea to "It's Lonely at the Top". I can't promise fifty chapters, because some vignettes features two states or more. It should be around forty or so, and I'm hoping to give each and every one a spotlight. If you're from a state you haven't seen written yet, and you have a cool premise for their chapter, PM me and I'll see if I can make it happen. Updates will be highly irregular, but I haven't abandoned a fic yet, and I don't plan on starting now.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but I do own my interpretations of my OCs, the states. If you'd like to use my version of any of them, just ask, I'm happy to share.
La Florida- Spain's blooming flower.
England was sweating. His hair was damp and more unruly than normal, heavy clothes stuck to his flushed skin. A dark-skinned girl did her best to fan away the heat, but it refused to yield. The sight made Florida smile.
She made a show of gathering her skirts, tossing her brown hair, unaffected. Let England finally take ownership of her lands. But her hair would not bleach, her skin would not pale, her tongue would not turn. England was sweating. Florida was not.
"I'll leave you to bid farewell, but our ship will depart within the hour." His words were stiff, unapologetic, unlike his drooping, sodden clothes. Florida didn't deign him with a response, gently fanning herself only for spectacle- it was of Spanish design.
One hour left with her now former big brother. His back was still to her, hunched over the table where his signature still dried on the treaty. By every definition, Spain held no claim to her any longer. When he saw her in the lavish ballrooms of Europe, he could no longer sidle up to her and sway in a dance without permission. England's permission. He could no longer freely write her letters that only her eyes would see. England would monitor their every conversation. He could no longer swing from the masthead of his ships in her harbor and regale her with his newest discoveries, his hermanita. She was a woman of the court now, England's little sister.
This was his doing, and he knew it.
Spain stood from the desk at long last. The chair scraped against the stone floor in a shrill cry; papers rustled like dead leaves in the wind. His shoulders set back, red robes sweeping and grand, a melancholy smile and dull green eyes like pond scum. An arm extended hastily, raised to wrap around her shoulders, before he realized his mistake and recoiled. Instead, he offered a hand and a respectful bow.
Florida didn't care. There we no eyes watching but theirs. "Oh, España." Spain did not sweat, but he smelled like the sun-baked tomato fields. Warm, tanned arms wrapped around her in her new paisley English dress.
Spain's hold lingered far longer than it had any right to now. "Come," he said, taking her shoulders with callused hands and smiling with watery eyes. "I have one last gift for you."
Florida left the shade of the fort's comforting stone walls, past soldierless ramparts, a flagless monument. Saint Augustine. She could smell the salty Atlantic that bordered her on three sides, that connected them by a great expanse of blue. This fort would remain, the oldest settlement in this New World, for as long as the sun rose to bake it in the summer heat. It had to. The English would come, perhaps the French again to seize her lands, to claim and reclaim what was 'rightfully' theirs, but this fort would remain. Florida swore it to herself. Spain might leave her white, sandy shores to never return, but he would never be buried by time.
Spain led her in the opposite direction of the harbor, beneath a grove of orange trees. Whatever his intended destination, he lingered amongst the trees and snapped off a branch of late blooming white blossoms, sickly sweet and delicately soft. And he smiled.
Florida turned her back to him, closing her eyes as his fingers undid the harsh English bindings of her wild curls, and braided the flowers of La Florida in her tresses. It was messy and uneven, but it was done by Spain's hands. He draped the tapered end over her shoulder and spun her as if dancing to music only attuned to his ears. "Tú eres bonita."
Florida grinned and hiked up her skirts. She kicked off her shoes and didn't care if they became fossils beneath the grove. "Race you."
Spain let her win. Florida didn't care. She ripped the laces of her corset and fell back under the shade of the trees, heaving and laughing at the edge of the grove. Her stockings were ripped. Spain began peeling a too-ripe orange, sticky juice spilling down his fingers. Half went to her.
England found the fruit "terribly sour." More for them, in her opinion.
Half their hour must've passed at least, and Spain seemed to realize it. "Come," he said again. "I have one last gift for you."
This time, Spain didn't stop until they reached the stables, evacuated, save for one last stall in the corner. A whinny, a snort. Florida gaped. Spain smiled in self-satisfaction and led her carefully over, still without shoes.
The mare was beautiful, a lipizzaner of the Austrian court. She hadn't quite shaken the grey of her coat, but her mane and tail were white as the snow she'd had yet to see. England would be drowning in it. Florida laughed, stroking her face, scratching under her mane. "What's her name?"
"Relámpago," he declared wistfully.
Lightning. A tempest only Florida could contain. England didn't stand a chance. And now, she thought, Spain didn't either. Relámpago whinnied and nuzzled her hand, as if she knew. Florida found herself speaking Arthur's strange tongue suddenly came easy. "I'm going with England today, Esp- Spain. And though you may fight, you may even win me back with another treaty… this won't ever return. I'm going with England today, but I will not be his colony. Someday soon I will have my independence, and you and he and France will not be able to pass me around the table like a dinner platter. I will be my own nation," she bit her lip, afraid to turn around, afraid to see the heartbreak on his face, but he deserved such respect. "But I will always be your hermanita."
Spain did not frown, though tears welled in his eyes. His cheeks flushed, though not of humility. His eyes brightened, just like the sea. "I know."
A bell rang in the distance, their hour was up. Spain smelled of orange blossoms. Florida hugged him as if the toll were for the dead, and he was a ghost bound to slip through her fingers.
"Let me walk you to the harbor."
Florida pulled away, her throat constricted and her eyes stung, but she smiled and shook her head. "No, España." Her fingers curled in Relámpago's soft, white mane, an eternal gift from her big brother England could never take away. "This I must do on my own."
*****
Be prepared, most of these won't be lighthearted.
Florida's my home state, and I've been to St. Augustine. I took some creative liberties with location- I have no idea where this treaty was signed, but the Spanish fort was fitting. Florida was passed between Spain, France, and England a bunch of times, even split in half, before finally becoming part of the US well after we became our own country, and there's still Spanish influence everywhere in the most obscure places as old missions. Tampa has a theatre that looks like a Spanish cathedral on the inside. St. Augustine is the oldest settlement in the United States, and it really is beautiful.
Lipizzaner horses are born black or brown and turn white (almost always) once they mature, and were bred for the Austrian court, performing at the Spanish Riding School in Vienna (which I've also seen). The US doesn't have any, but I thought such a horse would be a fitting departing gift.