As France enviously watched England hug little America—that one vertical hair rubbing against England's face—he wished he had a little brother, too. He thought he would win over America with his delicious food (seriously, why can't England take cooking lessons?!), but obviously food wasn't everything to that kid.
France sighed as he strolled through a meadow and into the forest, having no clue where he was going. Spain was doing well. He had so many little hermanos running around in South and Central America already, France wouldn't be surprised if more would pop up. However, Spain's most important and treasured companion was Romano.
Not to mention, Prussia had Germany. And France had...? No one. Exactly. He was behind in expansion. Even Denmark had an island somewhere. His chest constricted with this lonely feeling and he hung his head miserably. France had been alone for a long time; he was used to it, but now, he wanted someone important to him. It didn't even have to be a lover! Just a brother, or sister, or cousin. Switzerland was his cousin, but Swissy was "neutral," a way of saying he didn't give a flip one way or the other.
Suddenly, France heard a sniffling noise. "Who is there?" He looked around the leafy woodland at its peak of summer. He thought that maybe it was just an animal making noises, but after hearing the sound a second time, he hopped over a log, tripped over a large oak root, and fell into a bush, in which his head popped out on the other side.
"AHH!" a small boy screamed.
"Sacrébleu!"
Before the kid ran behind a wimpy maple tree, France thought the boy was America, but upon further inspection, he noticed the boy had a stray hair springing from the side of his head and violet eyes instead of blue. Also, there were tears streaming down his face, and the boy wiped them away.
"Bonjour!" The country smiled. The heavy weight in his chest disappeared. It was replaced by a feeling like the one he had that one time when he wanted to make Romano a French territory. Only this was less perverted. "I'm France. I won't hurt you." He picked himself out of the bush and bent down closer to the boy, who still clung to the maple. "What is ze matter?"
The boy sniffled and replied in a quiet voice: "Nobody wants me. I've been alone for so long...and everyone else got adopted..."
"Aw, you poor little croissant." France patted him on the head. This kid could be a French territory! He could have someone to take care of! "You can be my little bruzzer if you want."
"Really?" The boy's eyes went big and shiny. He released his grip on the maple.
"Oui. Do you 'ave a name?"
"No."
"Zen I will call you...New France!" He exclaimed with pride.
The kid blinked. "But—that's not very imaginative!"
"Hm? Okay," France said. "Zen 'ow about Canada?" He had no idea where that came from, but figured it was a legitimate name.
"I like it!" the colony squealed.
France smiled, picked him up, and spun around, holding Canada in the air. "You're so adorable."
"Bienvenue to my 'ome!" France burst through the door and swung his arms out in a wide gesture, spinning around as he did so. With a gaping mouth of awe on his face, Canada took in the sight of blue, white, and red walls painted as the French flag, vases of roses everywhere, and pink furniture. "What do you think?"
"I like it!" he squeaked, stepping inside France's house. He liked it here better than sleeping out in the forest in a wigwam.
In a short amount of time, France gave Canada the tour of the house and made him a few gourmet dishes for dinner.
"'ow was it?" France asked as Canada daintily wiped his face of croissant crumbs, dead snails, and other French food.
"Très bien!" Canada said in his oh-so-polite voice. He was picking up on the French that he was supposed to learn.
France collected the dirty dishes and hauled them to the sink. "Do you want to 'elp me clean up?"
"Oui!"
France pulled a chair into the kitchen so Canada could stand on it. He filled the sink with hot water and suds, and then he washed and Canada dried.
"Spoon!" France called out.
"Cuillère!" Canada replied.
"Fork!"
"Fourchette!"
"Knife!"
"Couteau!"
After Canada got tired, France carried the little colony up to his room, which offered the flag theme and some really fluffy magenta pillows. He shifted his little brother under the covers and, seeing that Canada had his eyes closed, proceeded to walk out of the room. Without warning, a tiny hand caught France's wrist.
"Big brother...would you please tell me a story?"
France's face softened and he sat on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through Canada's hair. "Well, zere once was a beautiful girl named Belle and zere was also zis beast 'oo used to be a man, but got turned into a beast because..."
The Next Morning
"Top of the morning, France," England slurred. He was lying on his front lawn after a night at the pub. America was being babysat by Sweden; England was drunk at the time and he had few options. (America would later be crying into England's good trousers.) He noticed the shiny, happy, gloating expression on the other country's face. If not for his hangover, he would have greeted France rudely. "What is it now?"
"I 'ave a colony! 'is name is Canada!" He was going to shout it to the world. France was not a loner anymore!
"Funny. I thought you would have called him 'New France,'" England smirked.
Blue lines appeared across France's face. "Well..." They disappeared. "And 'e looks like your America."
"Really?" England lifted his head off of the grass. "Does he also grow tobacco?"
"Non."
"Does he fish?"
"Non..."
"Does he chop wood?"
"...Non..."
"Does he-?"
"Enough!"
England smirked again and hiccuped. "Silly Frog-Face, you don't even know what Cananada does!"
France gave him a scathing look. "Oh yeah? At least Canada wasn't founded on addictive substances!"
"Take that bloody, you back scoundrel!"
"Ohonhonhonhon!" France chuckled with his signature laugh and walked away dramatically with the swish of his cape.
Canada was sitting in France's backyard and playing with a raccoon. France was oblivious to the colony's giggling and thought his little brother was being assaulted by the masked creature. He dashed up to Canada and hoisted him into the air, yelling, "I'll save youuuuuuuuu!" He kicked at the raccoon, which chattered angrily.
Canada laughed. "Put me down, France! The raccoon won't hurt you! He's friendly!"
"Raccoon?"
"Oui!"
France reluctantly returned Canada to the ground and eyed the raccoon suspiciously.
"Okay, turn around!" Canada said, hugging the animal.
"Why?" France asked.
"Just do it!"
The country sighed and did as Canada said.
"Okay!" Canada called.
When France turned around, he was faced with a furry, gray, hat-like thing on Canada's head, which had a black-and-white tail hanging out the back. He jumped up and down gleefully.
"What—what on earth did you do to ze raccoon?!" France gasped in horror.
"He's my business now," the colony explained. "So are they." He gestured to the other side of the yard, where beavers, foxes, more raccoons, and other animals waited to be killed.
Ah. A fur trade. That's what Canada did.
By the end of the 1600's, Canada dressed in a fur outfit and he'd grown up some. France was a proud big brother.