This is an entry for Season One of the Hetalia Fanfiction Contest.
Okay, this got way out of control. It was supposed to be half the length, for one, and Canada wasn't supposed to really do much of anything.
France, Vietnam reflected, had always been passionate. Passionate about empire-building, cooking, and… less savory things. Passionate was practically his middle name— or it would probably be Passionné, seeing as he was French and all.
That was another thing about France. He was French. He ate French food, spoke the French language, lived the French life. It was only natural, because he was France.
His inherent France-ness had passed into everything he did, including his empire. A long time ago, he had controlled a portion of the globe. All of his colonies, protectorates, and every other manifestation of France's influence had been, well, influenced by France. Their governments, eating habits, values, and identities had been defined in part by French occupation. Even after the imperial powers gave up their colonies following the end of the second World War, they remained distinctly French.
And once a year, they all came together to… not really celebrate that French influence, but more like partake in it. (There were definitely times that they weren't so fond of France, and those times weren't exactly few in number.) The tables were laden with French food, the speakers blasted crooning French songs, and the walls were decorated with roses and roosters (they joked that it was because France was such a dick, but it was actually honoring his national symbols, so Vietnam withheld her comments and just smiled a bit). The nations themselves endeavored to speak French as much as possible, but at the wilder parties (like this one), there was less conversation and more dancing sans inhibitions.
Feeling rather out of place, Vietnam stood in the corner with a cup of—probably spiked— fruit punch gripped tightly in her hand. It was almost midnight, and the chatting had long since led to enthusiastic dancing to the very loud, very French music. Vietnam was tired, yes, and sore, and hungry, and very impatient, for once. The seconds seemed to tick by exponentially slower, or perhaps asymptotically— no matter how long she waited, the time remaining until she could leave would never reach zero.
The music swelled, and her gaze switched from her oddly tinted fruit punch to the main occupant of her recent thoughts. Over in the corner, dancing in the way that only she knew how, was Seychelles. Next to her was Canada, who was apparently trying to do some combination of the Macarena and the Sprinkler.
How odd, thought Vietnam. Those two had definitely not consumed any alcohol, if she knew them at all. They hadn't even had any fruit punch.
Canada reached out for Seychelles' hand as her watch read 11:49. At 11:51, they began a strange, synchronized version of the Time Warp. This morphed, over the course of five minutes, to the Foxtrot, the Twist, and the Charleston. By 11:58, Vietnam had honestly no idea what they were doing. As her wristwatch beeped out 12:00 am, she concluded that they were just making it up as they went along, now.
But no matter, she thought, taking a step or two into the dim light. Canada's turn was up. Now she had her chance.
Sure enough, Seychelles bounced her way over to Vietnam within a two minute time period. "Are you ready to go?" she asked, eyes bright, dress bright, smile so bright it was radiant.
"Ready when you are," Vietnam demurred. Without another word, the two girls headed for the back door. Seychelles opened the door for her friend, and Vietnam accepted the gesture gracefully, only turning back to toss her untouched drink into a nearby trash can.
"Did you drink any of that?" Seychelles asked. "You know what they say about the punch."
"That's right," Vietnam replied. "I do know what they say about the punch. I didn't take a sip."
"Aren't you thirsty, though?" Seychelles pressed.
"It's not like I was dancing," Vietnam said dismissively. They walked down the street rather quickly— it was a cold night and windy to boot. Vietnam felt justified in slipping a bit closer.
"Still! We're both hot countries," and here Seychelles faltered, and both of them looked up to the night sky, ignoring the obvious second meaning. Seychelles bravely pressed on. "And— And hot things need water, right? Or they get dehydrated. Like, giraffes, okay? Giraffes, they're used to the heat and they've adapted, yes, okay, that's true, and they need to drink too to cool down their bodies, I think."
Vietnam eyed her… speculatively (or at least that's what she told herself). "You seem to know a lot about giraffes."
"Well, I'm no giraffe expert, this is all theoretical. It isn't like I go out on weekends and observe giraffe behavioral patterns or anything. But it sounds logical, right?" Seychelles faced her friend, smiling with both her mouth and her (bright, so bright) eyes.
Vietnam smiled back. "Definitely," she assured her. "Now, where are you headed? I know I'm escorting you to wherever you're going, but it might help to know where that is."
"Oh!" Seychelles said. Her face colored slightly. "Well, I was… I was thinking of asking you to head over to that sushi restaurant over there, what's its name?"
"Chuck's," Vietnam supplied.
"Wait, no, doesn't he run an ice cream store?" Seychelles asked.
Vietnam shrugged. "Chuck likes the food business. Who knows how many restaurants he has?"
"He seems like a nice kid," Seychelles said. "Eager, kind. Fond of karaoke."
"Wait a minute," Vietnam said. "Are you taking me to a karaoke bar?"
"No… not really. Technically, I'm bringing you to a sushi bar. And hey, you never even said you were going," Seychelles pointed out.
"Well, I don't exactly have any other options," Vietnam replied.
"Yes you do, you could leave at any moment," Seychelles informed her. Vietnam only walked faster, ignoring that latest statement. After a few moments passed, Seychelles' smile widened and she jogged to catch up.
At the end of the block shone a bright green neon sign that read "Chuck's Sushi House and Karaoke Bar— Now With More Karaoke."
Vietnam and Seychelles walked briskly toward the sign. After all, Vietnam thought, it was cold out, they were hungry, and how bad could it be, really?
The bell tinkled quietly as they opened the door and embarked on the night's feature presentation.
Back at the party, Canada shimmied his way over to India. "This is some party, huh?" he asked, adjusting his glasses. The usually quiet man loosened up quite a bit when it came to dancing, India noted. How interesting.
"It is," India agreed.
"Yeah," Canada responded. "Yeah, it is. These parties just get better and better."
India nodded. "Perhaps next time, we could even invite France."
"Don't get too ahead of yourself, now," Canada advised him. With that, he got up and danced away.
India did not follow. However, he did watch the normally quiet young man jitterbug by himself in the corner. And he did smile. But only a little bit.