So after the depressing angstfest that was my last fic, I decided I wanted to post something fluffy and happy. Therefore, these five ficlets, in which I used Fanfic100's prompts as inspiration. I'm not sure if anyone will be interested, seeing as it's femslash between two OCs; they're the nation-tans of French Louisiana and Spanish California, and they're from an alternate timeline in which America loses the revolutionary war.
001. Beginnings. 1723.
Louisiana first kissed California on the shores of the Pacific with cold frothing water tickling around their bare ankles. It was a chilly, blustery day, and California's hair had escaped its braids to dance enticingly about her warm, round face. The kiss only lasted a moment and was relatively chaste, Louisiana thought, rather proud of herself; she had leaned forward, daringly, so that their lips were the only bits of them that touched. Louisiana broke away, and stood there, nervous, bare brown toes digging deep into the sand.
California looked- rather bemused, but at least she wasn't backing away, or crossing herself, or doing any of the other things Louisiana had imagined (feared). California's fingers busied themselves, tucking those wisps of hair behind her ears as she thought. There was a long twenty seconds of silence, broken only by the irate cawing of a gull, somewhere out among the breakers.
"That was interesting," California said eventually. "Can we try it again?"
This time they were close enough together that they could feel the cool metal of each other's crosses even through layers of silk and taffeta.
067. Snow. 1830.
"¡Qué bonita! " California exclaimed, when she saw the snow. She twirled around, boots crunching on the hard crust of the whiteness. "Wow! This is amazing!"
Louisiana exchanged a grin with Canada. "Would you like me to ship some down to you?" Canada teased. "We have rather too much up here."
"Well-" California stopped, turning to face them, a twinkle in her eye. "I am afraid I already have much nicer snow, in the mountains, fifty miles from my house," she explained in her broken French.
"Hey, my snow is the best," Canada said, mock-offended. "Take that back!"
"No," California said, sticking her tongue out at him.
Canada, laughing, scooped up a ball of snow in his mittens and lobbed it at her. Shrieking, California ran away from him, across the field of sparkling white. Canada growled and took off after her.
Watching them tripping and falling in the snow, Louisiana almost managed to forget that America was not there.
025. Strangers. 1870.
Whenever Louisiana sees California and Russia together, it hurts somewhere tight in her chest. Whenever she sees California laugh at something Russia says, or bestow him with a bouquet of sunflowers, she tries to convince herself that this is ridiculous, that a few girlish kisses between children do not constitute a claim. But no matter how often she tells herself that she and California are no more than friendly strangers, she never quite manages to believe it.
Finally she confides in Canada, who laughs at her. "Don't worry," he tells her. "Anyone can see it's not serious. They'll be over in a couple of decades. Honestly, you're taking it more seriously than California is." He then hands her a mug of hot cocoa and a plate of crepes and maple syrup, and suggests they spend the afternoon puzzling over Descartes together.
Louisiana loves her brother, and tells him so.
024. Family. 1890.
Sometimes Louisiana envies California. When she sees California with her brothers, mostly. There are so many of them- and they are all the same color.
Mexico is very protective of his sweet little sister, and he often glares at Louisiana fiercely from underneath his sombrero, as though Louisiana is responsible for corrupting this good Catholic girl. Louisiana smiles sweetly back at him, feeling hot and overdressed in her evening gown, wishing and longing and envying.
California's brothers are not white. None of them are broken burdens on their siblings. California's father has never kissed her with desire, never stood by and watched while his husband beat their children.
"Feeling lonely?" Brazil asks in Spanish softly colored by a musical Portuguese accent. Louisiana blinks. Brazil is darker than she is, with the exotic features of a cafuzo, a person of mixed African and native descent. Brazil is attired like a phoenix, with red and gold and feathers. She smiles, all sharp fierceness and glory. "Take care of our little irmãzinha," she says. "You'll be good for her, I think."
"I hope so," Louisiana whispers.
004. Insides. Vaguely twentieth-century.
California's house is not at all like Louisiana's. Louisiana's home lies in the heart of the swamp, all rotting grandeur, peeling gilt pillars supporting patios and verandahs. Louisiana's home is heat, and trailing vines, and melancholy music played on an antique Viennese fortepiano, kept carefully in tune since a time when her brother could still coax the trembling notes from taut strings with gentle fingers. Louisiana's home is isolation, a solitary existence disturbed only by the company of a loyal Catahoula leopard dog. Louisiana's home is humid darkness, and secrets.
California's house is made of light. Thirty miles outside of the City of the Angels, she resides on the beach known as Corona del Mar, Crown of the Sea. Her house is whitewashed and full of sand and modern art. Ceramic mugs stand about on every available surface, some full of cooling coffee, some serving as pots for native succulents or desert flowers. The house is never empty. Mortals come there, sometimes, bright earnest young things who like to discuss politics or religion or sexuality with their appreciative nation. Hawai'i is often there as well, a quiet, mysterious little girl with bright flowers in her hair, building sandcastles on the porch. Sometimes Louisiana will stop by to find one of California's brothers already inside, laughing and flipping tortillas.
Normally Louisiana does not feel comfortable in other people's lands, but lately she has found that for her, home is wherever California is. California skips into Louisiana's house and throws back the curtains, exchanges the Debussey on the record player for reggae or makes Louisiana play jazz on the fortepiano while she accompanies with her beautiful voice. California invites Louisiana to her house and takes her to the desert at night, sits with her on top of a mountain to watch the sun rise over the sands. Sometimes they meet in the in-between places, lonely meadows in the Rockies, and braid wildflowers into each other's hair. Louisiana laughs so much that she can't catch her breath, and if this is falling she doesn't care if she never flies.