A/N HAJEAR! You read and reviewed this story on FFN~ I'm so happy :D Unlike the last chapter, this chapter is set back when Minnesota is getting used to being under France's rule (Chibisota is back, yay~) Think of this as a -mistimed- continuation of chapter 3. One more thing, if anyone wants to see Minnesota as an adult, I've replaced the link in my bio to a newer picture of Mnisota! (Special thanks to Hajear for that :D)
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers or OC!Minnesota.
n.n
Prompt 5: "French Bread"
It was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, and yet it still couldn't replace frybread; that was reason enough for Minnesota to hate France's famous bread.
n.n
It took nearly a month until France settled on Minnesota's land. The nation had to bring his men back home and collect new ones for support when the blond declared Minnesota as his own. He'd wanted to build a grand house fit for royalty and aristocrats and was determined to get his way—in the end, France did. Minnesota didn't resist the elder's markings on his territory; why would he? France was – although extremely touchy-feely – nice and told the boy that he'd act as the father Minnesota never truly had.
So the boy never got sore when the blond constructed his large home in his northern land. Minnesota would simply watch from behind the brush, quiet and anxious to see the finale of the construction. He didn't have anywhere else to be at during the day—he was too shamefaced to be in Sakima's presence by now. The feeling of hairs being ripped off of his scalp sent a cold shiver down the boy's spine as he grimaced. 'And anyway, France told me that Sakima didn't want to see me. I was gone for too long again, and Sakima just didn't want me around no more,' Minnesota reminded himself time and time again.
He would pound this into his head until he believed it. So far, that had yet to happen.
"Ahaha~ Clotaire, I know you're hiding around here somewhere," that smooth voice called out from the distance. "I think you've been waiting to hear this for awhile, but alas~ I've got a new home with you!" Minnesota's head snapped in place and his eyes popped open to see the finished house. He slowly crawled out of his hiding place as a soft admiring gasp escaped his lips.
There stood before him a grand mansion of palatial standards.
A nice mixture of navy blue and the sun that beamed and glistened the wet paint sent Minnesota in a tizzy as he forced himself passed France's lovingly tight embrace and ran towards the large house with an anxious look in his eyes. However, before he could take in the sight thoroughly, France's strong arms snaked around his small waist and hoisted the boy into the air with a laugh. Minnesota, on the other hand, wasn't amused at all. Ignoring the urge to scream in the blond man's face – the Frenchman had gotten used to Minnesota constant temper tantrums now – he instead chose to flail his arms and pray to the Creator(1) that he'd be lucky and punch France, hard, in the jaw.
A wild punch hit France square in the jaw, to which Minnesota grinned mischievously as he anticipated being set down—'Damn it, why didn't he flinch?' Minnesota thought furiously when the blond instead flung the boy over his shoulder and began walking towards the new house, not once acknowledging the perfectly round bruise that was forming on his already reddening face. "France, put me down!" Minnesota wailed angrily as he struggled in his new caretaker's strong grip. France, however, smiled and didn't say a word as the two entered the large home. His men were strewn about the entire first floor and possibly even the second floor ('Damn, this is a huge place.').
"Well Clotaire," the Frenchman said amorously as he set Minnesota down and strolled casually into the kitchen, "are you hungry? I'm going to make bread." Suddenly, Minnesota lost all feelings of annoyance and his auburn eyes lit up in excitement. His stomach grumbled rather obnoxiously and France chuckled to himself quietly. "Settle yourself next to Corbin. He's the one with the cards at the table." Minnesota glanced up to see a strange sight—a man with a cheery grin and a mess of curly red locks sat at a round glass table. Odd pieces of paper with weird symbols and pictures were on the face of them.
Scrunching his brow in a curious way, the brunette slowly sauntered towards the table, leaving France to his duties at the wooden stove. Minnesota climbed up on the empty chair next to the redhead, Corbin. The man looked down at his little visitor and gave him a cheeky grin. "Bonjour," Corbin greeted. "je suis Corbin. Et vous(2)?" Minnesota coldly ignored the ginger's greeting and snatched a few of the playing cards in his hands, staring at them intensely. Corbin, in turn, brushed off the cold shoulder the brunette showed and began to shuffle the cards he had. "Monsieur," the redhead breathed in his thick accent, "if you would like, I can show you how to play. I just need those cards first."
For the next half an hour, the duo bonded immensely. While the little territory was admittedly having fun with the ginger, he couldn't help but wonder why he was stuck in this position: he was suddenly 'Clotaire Beaulieu' instead of 'Mnisota,' he was in the hands of a certain Francis Bonnefoy, and he was bonding with a frog's frog. An odd feeling circulated in his heart as the image of Sakima and the touch of his half-eaten face on his fingertips shot through his body. All this occurred for no given reason—the binoojing was just having fun!
Just as he was about to get frustrated and shove the cards into Corbin's wickedly, friendly, freckly face, France's soothing tone called from the kitchen. "Minnesota~ I've finished making bread!" It was the call of a warrior. In the end, Minnesota did end up shoving the cards into the redhead's face, although it didn't hold the distressing pain that the boy wanted him to feel. However, as Minnesota raced to the kitchen, the scent of what he wanted to be frybread hadn't filled his nostrils like he'd assumed. What went through his nose was a sickly sweet aroma that was nothing like he'd ever experienced before. Upon entering the room, it only got worse. "Here, mon garçon," Francis proclaimed with a proud grin. "Careful now, it's hot~"
In front of Minnesota sat a pile of oddly shaped pieces of—no, pathetic excuses for oddly shaped pieces of bread. They were large and looked fluffy. Much too fluffy, in Minnesota's opinion. 'What, my first day livin' with this guy, and he can't even know how to make frybread?' Not wanting to have France's hurt eyes bore into his, Minnesota reached out for a piece. 'Oh well, I guess I can choke this down. I bet it is frybread. I mean, what else kind of bread would it be? Wild rice?' Snickering at his own little joke, Minnesota brought the crispy bread up to his mouth and took a relatively large bite.
He chewed for a minute. 'Weird, it doesn't have any sort of grease,' he thought to himself with disparagement. Minnesota stared at France with bewilderment, much to the latter's surprise, before promptly dropping the bread on the ground and stomping on it. France stayed silent for a tense moment. Minnesota, on the other hand, kicked away the beaten bread and crossed his arms with a pout. Suddenly, things got loud. Fast.
"WHAT? You dare dispel the delicacy of France, the French bread?" France shrieked in a horridly high-pitched voice. Minnesota nodded, not at all fazed by the older man's reaction. The men in the other rooms grew silent upon France's dramatic meltdown before continuing with their activities. France, in turn, grabbed another piece of French bread, a knife, and some butter and began slathering the slice in the yellow substance. He held it out to Minnesota with hopeful azure eyes, while the latter narrowed his.
"Fuck you, where's the frybread?" was the binoojing's response to France. Immediately heartbroken, the blonde fell slowly and dramatically to his knees and hung his head over the floor, emitting a soft sniffle. Minnesota rolled his eyes at first and tried to ignore the elder's quiet sobs, noticing that everyone else in the house was used to their leader's melodramatic antics. A few moments of crying passed by and with a sigh, Minnesota tried but failed to comfortingly pat France on the shoulder, though he never once apologized. ('Hey, it's not my fault the frog don't know how to cook.')
n.n
1 – For the Anishinaabe people, The Creator is our "God," but The Creator is not a man nor woman, so we don't refer to The Creator as "He" or "She." It's merely The Creator (I know for a fact that other tribes use "The Great Spirit" as well)
2 – French for "Hello, I am Corbin. And you?"
A/N A quick note, the last line "Hey, it's not my fault the frog don't know how to cook" was written intentionally because of Minnesota's slang. He doesn't say "doesn't," he says "don't" because that's the way it is up north lol