Southern Decadence
[There are a lot of problematic characterizations and situations in this one, written so early in the days of Hetalia fandom, but everything was written for a reason. Years later, the reasons weren't as funny as I had thought at the time, but this was a labor of love, and I still enjoy it enough to share it. Lots of little Easter eggs for the Louisianans and Texans among us. Now have some France/America/Canada.]
The first thing France always noticed about Louisiana was that it was hot. Hot and wet. Hot, wet and dirty. Normally a very pleasurable combination of adjectives to describe something, in his mind, but not so much in this situation.
He rolled an ice cold bottle of beer across his forehead once or twice, seeking temporary relief from an unusually warm day in New Orleans. It was so humid he could not actually feel any sweat, only condensation forming rivulets on his skin, dampening strands of hair that had escaped the hastily tied-back knot and which now clung to his neck and forehead. How did America survive such unbearable weather? Moreover, how could he enjoy it so? There must be something wrong with the young nation, and France suspected, not for the first time, that England had dropped America on his head as an infant more times that he would admit.
Which was not to say that New Orleans lacked charm, no. Certainly a part of his heart remained here, in this city that he helped establish, even after the territory itself changed hands so many times throughout its turbulent history. New Orleans, or N'awlins as American insisted on calling it in his appalling back-country drawl, had a spirited wildness that lured France back every now and then, a siren song masquerading in the rhythms of jazz.
Speaking of, France turned his attention away from the beer – which tasted more like piss than anything else, yet he drained half of the bottle in one go and was now discreetly looking about for another - and he rested his gaze upon the not unpleasant but still unsettling sight of America in front of the stove, humming under his breath as he stirred and sautéed. It was strange - the nation, upon greeting France with an uncharacteristic kiss on the cheek, had insisted he relax and not worry about stuff like cooking because he could totally take care of it himself. France, a little surprised by the greeting, had conceded to his host's wishes - against all common sense, he might add. And that was how he ended up sitting at the breakfast table, sweating most unsexily in a kitchen made even hotter by the burners apparently on full blast… as well as the fine view of America's backside in designer jeans.
France set the empty bottle down and stalked over to America, wrapping his arms around the other's waist and getting a noseful of aromatic Cajun-style cooking in the process.
"Mon ange, I am getting bored..."
"Espère! You can't rush a delicate process." America tried to wriggle out of France's embrace as the older nation planted a kiss on his tanned neck. "And if you keep distractin' me like that, we gonna get burned."
"But I am already burning. For you, of course," France murmured as he pressed his hips against the back of America's legs and let his fingers trail down the planes of the other's stomach.
"That ain't gonna make the gumbo cook any faster," America complained, but he did turn his head just enough to give France another peck on the cheek. With that, France decided he would bravely endure another three hours in the kitchen if in return, he could stay in the company of this America, all Creole charm and off-and-on Southern hospitality.
"Why don't you go upstairs and take a nap, huh? You'll need to save your energy for tonight, old man."
"Oh? What do you have planned, hmm?" France asked, a wicked edge to his voice, and pointedly ignoring the jab at his age for now. There would be plenty of opportunity to show off his superior European stamina later, he knew.
"I'm not tellin', you dirty bastard! But trust me, it will be worth it." Grinning, America leaned over to give France a proper kiss, slipping his tongue in for a moment and biting ever so lightly at the other nation's lip, a promise that was as teasing as it was arousing.
When they finally parted, France looked over at the stove and remarked, "The roux is about to burn, cher."
He left a flailing America to deal with the mess, and went upstairs with a sigh, reveling in the sudden coolness. Though his room was as far from America's as was possible in the cozy downtown apartment, France did not mind, for it commanded an unparalleled view of the Vieux Carre, the French Quarter, below. How unlike America, to pander to France's vanity so, but really, was there any other option? Of course not.
Peeling off his damp shirt and tossing it onto a chair, France laid down on cool cotton sheets, his eyelids already heavy from a long day of traipsing about the city, feeling quite soothed by the breeze of the ceiling fan. Resting his cheek on the pillow, he looked out the arched window, at elegant wrought iron balconies and plaster walls and trees draped with Spanish moss… Recalling the day he first arrived here, holding onto the hand of a small child sometimes Canada, sometimes America, sometimes both…
France sighed once more, out of twisted nostalgic pride for this marshy land that had welcomed and sheltered all three of them, this rebellious port city that England could not take, even in the height of his power. This place, their haven.
Tonight, there were tall candles lighting the hall, a lively valse playing in the background, and France found himself dancing with a beautiful voodoo queen, her skin and hair golden brown like violins, the skulls at her waist clacking in time with her heels. A pirate lord passed by, feathers nodding in his hat, while masked dancers twirled gracefully in the ballroom. Outside of the mansion, ghosts and vampires laughed and flirted and lured hapless victims into the depths of the ebony river, where zombies and mermaids awaited to feast upon their flesh. He caught a glimpse of his glittering youthful reflection in a great antique gold mirror and wondered how he managed to purchase Armani glasses and an Ipod in the 1730s…
"France, wake up." Now someone was shaking him by the shoulder, impatient… "Lève-toi,France!"
He blinked drowsily, the remnants of the dream flitting away into oblivion, and there was Canada at his bedside, looking down at him with a frown.
"Dinner's ready, eh."
With a lazy cat-like stretch, France got out of bed, debating on whether to put on the old shirt or something not stiff with sweat. He chose a slightly less damp new shirt and buttoned it up as they exited the room.
"Are you the surprise America has promised me, Canada?" he then asked, hands latching onto the other's shoulders as they approached the kitchen.
"Eurgh, I have no idea what you're talking about." Canada tried to walk faster, to no avail.
France chuckled to himself, anticipating the events of this evening even more than ever. "It has been too long since I last saw you. What brings you here?"
"You, duh. Isn't that occasion enough?"
"Ah…" He tilted his face upward to kiss his former colony's cheek in gratitude, but Canada surprised him by meeting his lips with his own, sweetly and gently.
"Fraaaaaance!" America yelled from somewhere in the kitchen, ruining a perfectly intimate moment with his fog-horn of a voice. "We're gonna eat outside! C'mon now, food's getting cold!"
France made a face. "But it is so hot here, how can food get cold?"
Rolling his eyes, Canada dragged France out the patio door, assuring him that it wasn't that hot after the sun has set.
True enough, it was humid, but not unbearably warm, with a light wind blowing in from the waterfront. Lanterns strung from magnolia trees lit the scene with a warm glow, and a feast fit for a king and his entire court spread out all over a large table.
After the initial chaos of making enough space for all of the dishes and drinks, they could finally begin supper. The brothers, whenever they were not demolishing the food, persistently offered France samples of their - to put it politely – "unique" regional cuisine. A spoonful of thick file gumbo, a crust of bread, a bit of succulent shrimp and catfish and frog and cocodrie (did America catch it himself, one had to wonder), a variety of rice dishes, even a bite of the poutine Canada insisted on making whether or not the situation called for it. The smells heavenly, the tastes hearty and exotic and familiar all at once, and France thought he might have to revise his opinion of America's culinary skills, at least in regards to deep-frying and grilling anything that wouldn't run away.
"What… are these?" France asked warily, prodding at something round and golden brown and greasy with a fork.
"Umm… fried… stuff, I guess," Canada answered with a shrug.
"Stuff?"
"Good stuff," America clarified, spearing one of the objects and biting into it eagerly.
France pushed the plate of the fried things towards the younger nations, declining it for the sake of his arteries.
The fixed grin on his face, a result of concentrating on what the two were saying in their bastardized abuse of both French and English, soon turned into a real smile as Canada started serving drinks of an alcoholic nature. Every single one showcasing bourbon and rum and tequila and other spicy liquors that went down like a flash-fire on the tongue.
Well, France thought, perhaps now he could try to forget how many animals had died to feed them this night.
All throughout the meal, France did not fail to notice America meaningfully sucking the head of the crawdad for the meat inside, nor could he ignore Canada licking the powdered sugar off of a donut before taking a bite. They were clearly vying for his attention by the end, after they had satisfied the bottomless pits of their stomachs. It then became an effort to keep from laughing at their awkward attempts to court his favor - did he not invent this game to pass the time, centuries ago? But France graciously acknowledged them both, giving neither one an obvious advantage, until it became apparent that America and Canada were quite frustrated, glaring at each other coldly even as they murmured sweet nothings in drawn-out vowels and dropped syllables.
After they cleared some of the plates off of the table, France sat back in his chair, sipping thoughtfully at the iced café au lait, with that Louisianan hint of chicory. He could still hear their youthful voices in the air, arguing good-naturedly about Gambit versus Wolverine, though they had moved out of sight and further behind the cover of a magnolia tree. Curious, France set his drink down and went to join them in whatever prank they were about to pull.
"Hé, France, look!"
"Gardez ici!"
America and Canada emerged from behind the tree, their hands cupped around something he could not discern. Breathless and somewhat inebriated, the brothers ran to his side, as gleeful as the young colonies they used to be. Then they opened up their hands at the same time, and fireflies streamed out from between their fingers, spiraling away into the night like tiny dancing stars.
France stared open-mouthed at the fireflies scattering off into the darkness, and he knew he must look like a silly grinning fool.
"Merci, merci, mon frère," the two of them whispered into his ears, and because he did not know what else to do, he laughed until his chest ached and tears ran down his face.
[This is what the Cajun-French dictionary told me, IDK.]
Espère - wait
Lève-toi - get up
cocodrie - alligator
Gardez ici - look here