A/N More continuation of this story, picking up with prompts 7 and 8. Here goes nothing (:
Disclaimer: I don't own APH or OC!Minnesota
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Prompt 7: "Homesick"
Minnesota missed everything about being free: he missed his long ebony hair, missed the praise and fun he had with his people—he missed his old life.
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"M-Minnesota! What happened in here?"
"Oh no, what did Minnesota do now?"
"Don't bother Clotaire tonight, Mathieu, he was a bad boy last night."
Minnesota's days at France's home often started out and ended like this. An expensive vase would lay in a million shattered pieces on the kitchen floor—Minnesota did it. Mud and grass tracked onto the opaque white carpet at the front door—Minnesota did it. Flour and river water were speckled about on the counter in a failed attempt to make frybread—Minnesota did it. While the last example was something that only he would do, the boy had it with getting in trouble all the time.
Whenever something went awry in the two story house, France would always blame Minnesota, even if it was something that couldn't have been prevented, such as the frybread incident. France didn't know how to cook his favorite food, and the brunette wasn't about to go for another week without it. He felt like that ruining his 'perfect' kitchen with real food was the only option the frog left him. Thus, this morning's cooking failure was born.
Minnesota woke up much earlier than the others in the house and quietly slipped out the front door with a bucket one of France's men left behind after the construction of his new home. He found his way to the nearest riverbank and filled the bucket up to the edge with the water Minnesota deemed 'safe.' He waddled home with the bucket nearly being drug across the trail the entire way. During the walk home, he compared his new life to his old one.
His heart suddenly ached as Minnesota began to remember all the times he lived with his former chiefs, and their chiefs, and their chiefs. Although he couldn't necessarily pick a 'favorite' chief, the boy was fond of Sakima because the elder taught him more about his kind the most. He remembered when Sakima first began to braid his unruly hair; he loved how his black hair danced with the cool breeze that wild summer night. A smile tugged on the corners of his lips when he remembered coming back to the tribe one day—it was amazing because that was the first day Minnesota was allowed to go out hunting with the Anishinaabe warriors and helped them capture a wild moose. Oh! the praise he received that day from everyone – Sakima had even cracked a smile at the good work Minnesota did and personally invited the boy into his wigwam that night.
The azure house came into sight then, and Minnesota snapped out of his thoughts and waddled faster towards the house. Making frybread this morning was another perk—he wanted to relive a moment from his life prior to living with France. Upon opening the front door, Minnesota had made it back before the red sun's beams crept up from the horizon all the way.
"Aw shit," Minnesota grunted when he realized he'd forgotten how to start up the wooden stove. Slapping his hands together, the white flour sprinkled onto the floor as the boy reached out for the bucket of river water next to the feet of the chair he stood on. "Hmm, I'm not sure how much water Nindaanis uses for this," Minnesota said aloud when he examined the clear liquid thoroughly, trying to remember what the young woman would do with the water.
Shrugging, the brunette forced the heavy bucket onto the counter. It landed with a metallic clank and beads of water splashed on the white substance. "I think I remember. She just dumped this all over the flour," Minnesota pushed the bucket over, spilling all of its contents on the counter and floor, "and she said to wait for the bread to rise." Content with the creamy mess he made, the territory jumped onto the wet floor and carefully made his way out of the kitchen.
With satisfaction filling his stomach with butterflies, Minnesota bolted up the grand staircase to anxiously pass the time away in his room. He wasn't sure when the bread would rise, but he'd come back and check on it every now and then. 'Maybe if he's not on his man-moon, France'll be surprised and will actually let me cook frybread from now on!' Minnesota pondered excitedly while stepping up the ascending stairs, a smile gluing on his face with each step.
And was France surprised. Only an hour passed since Minnesota started making his early morning snack when France awoke and stretched his stiff body by crawling out of his warm bed and decided to give his sons – particularly Minnesota – a break from his exquisite meals and cook them something easy and simple: flapjacks. It was something that didn't upset Minnesota's stomach and brought Canada's taste buds back to delicious simplicity. He shuffled down the stairs with a yawn and reached for a hair band that was wrapped around his wrist to pull his tresses back as he approached the kitchen entrance.
A petrified shriek traveled throughout the palatial building, waking both a tired Canadian and Native American. "M-MINNESOTA!" France screeched from the 1st floor ferociously. Minnesota's eyes popped open at the mention of his name and he clumsily hopped onto his feet and frantically raced down the stairs. He rushed into the kitchen while rubbing his eyes. It took a minute for Minnesota to glance up at France, but when he did, he stiffened in shock.
Caked on the floor and carpet was his attempt at making frybread. The binoojing felt like slapping himself—'Shit, I fell asleep and forgot about the bread.' His auburn eyes met the sight of a bare foot tapping in the drying mixture and he reluctantly raised his head. His blond caretaker had his arms crossed tightly against his chest. Red stained his cheeks from fury and France's breathing was labored as rage fumed in his pupils hazily, forcing Minnesota to gulp down a whine.
"Explain now, monsieur." Minnesota's eyes widened in fear as his throat croaked—how was he going to get out of this? "I'm waiting!" France barked furiously. Perhaps it was the early morning shock that had the blond nation so red with anger and while the territory was the one to blame, Minnesota had had enough of it all. And he was going to make it known that he was sick of all the blame.
"Fuckin' A, I hate this life! I hate e'rything about it; the food, the clothes, the people! E'RYTHING!" Minnesota shrieked at the top of his lungs. His Canadian brother stood silently behind him, a look of fright quivering in his doe eyes. Minnesota could sense his presence and he whipped around to grab Canada's dainty arm. "You never get mad at Mattie for anything that happens here! What, is it because—because I'm not white like you?" Canada's shoulders slumped as he hung his head. 'The first time I'm remembered as an individual... and I'm used as a guinea pig for accusations,' he thought bitterly.
France's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets once the words left the boy's lips. A cold bubbling his veins pricked at the blond's skin as hurt flashed through his oceanic eyes for a second. Then, his piqued appearance resurfaced and he slowly stepped towards Minnesota. Scared inwardly, the brunette released Canada's limb and shot daggers at the older nation. "F-fous le camp, France(1)! What do you think you're doing?" France snatched the boy by his wrist and marched out of the kitchen, handling the boy like he was a prisoner of war. Minnesota resisted and tried to pull his arm away from the blond. When that failed to get him anywhere, he began clawing at the rough hand, drawing blood after a few scratches.
"Assez!" France snarled before sitting down on the luxurious couch that lonely sat in the living room. He pulled Minnesota forward and – after a few minutes of wrestling – managed to fling the boy's body over his lap. Canada watched from far away, a stinging sensation suddenly pricking at his bottom as he knew what was about to come. With his hand raised high, France brought it down to the territory's rump.
A shriek echoed throughout the empty halls of the house. Minnesota jerked around as his butt stung. "G-gaawiin(2)!" the boy cried out as he tried flipping his body around. France's grasp on his back kept him in his lap, however, and another blow to his butt came too quickly. Thinking about it later, the binoojing shouldn't have considered this to be a painful punishment—when Sakima whipped the back of his legs, he always left behind some sort of bloody cut that scarred later on, whereas a mere spanking left behind a temporary red hand print on the cheeks.
Still, being punished using a method that was relatively unheard of in the tribes across his land was a scary thing.
And as the hand continued to be lifted and lowered onto the sensitive part of Minnesota's body, he silently cursed France before closing his eyes and pretended that he was snuggled cozily into Sakima's protective arms, reliving the best moment in his life in the midst of his first spanking.
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1 – French for "Fuck off, France!" (Interesting tidbit: I had originally wrote that Corbin to teach Minnesota how to swear in French a chapter back, but it soon became a 'deleted' scene, as it had nothing to do with the story. His swearing in French is reminiscent of that irrelevant drabble o-o")
2 – Ojibwe for "No"
A/N I didn't know how to end this, so I just typed it up without really thinking. That's why it's rushed ._.
