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L'amour? Really? (France)
Francis lays merrily on his towel. Of fucking course he wanted to come to the nude beach. Of fucking course he's laid there in all his naked prettiness, winking at anyone whose gaze lingers on him for more than three seconds. Of fucking course I'm laid next to him, exposed and ignoring the stares at the pair of us like this is normal behaviour.
Francis tuts, rolling over onto his stomach, face turned to me. "Honestly, you Australians are so strange."
"I resent that," I answer.
"It's amusing how many men look so bewildered when I wink at them. They could have literally staring at my, ah…. baguette, and still look offended by a flirtatious gesture."
Baguette? Really? "I blame Abbott."
"Why?"
"Because he's a dildo."
Francis is silent. I get the feeling he's frowning at me.
"Anyway, would you quit flirting with my people?"
"Oh, but I am the country of love! It's in my nature~"
"Flirt with your own people."
Francis sighs. "You just don't understand l'amour."
L'amour? Really? "Yeah, well it's different for us anyway. If we fall in love with a human, they're just gonna die. If we fall in love with another nation, shifting politics and racism and just people in general are gonna fuck it up for is. It's just a lose-lose situation."
"It's sad that you think that way," Francis says quietly. Maybe shouldn't have brought up the loved human dying.
"I don't think so. I'm happy enough with mates, visiting nations and the occasional one night stand." I shrug.
Francis laughs. "As long as you're happy, Big Brother France is happy."
Flowers in her hair (Tonga)
Mele sits patiently as I twist the flowers into her hair. Mele's a pretty girl, laid back until she's in a competition, polite until someone disrespects her, fun loving until she's tired. She's a very soothing presence, and on weekends we like to meet up and chill.
I like putting flowers in Mele's hair, and she's never complained so I think she quite likes it too. It makes her colourful, and she matches her lands which I think she likes the idea of. Her short hair is incredibly curly, making it easy to wrap it around the stems.
Mele hums a tune, some old folk song I vaguely recognise, as I weave the flowers into her hair, the soft stams braced against her scalp. She rocks side to side gently, and I move with her, a couple of the flowers falling out, fluttering down.
There are no more flowers within immediate reach, so I leave it. Mele has a random patch on the back of her head left flowerless, but she can't see it so I doubt she'll give a shit. I shuffle forwards, sitting next to her. She leans on my shoulder as we gaze out down the sloping land and over the rolling blue sea, sharing a comfortable silence.
Cute as shit (Japan)
Kiku's a pretty weird guy. Well, no he's not, he's just culturally different. But as different as we are, we can definitely agree on one thing; small, fluffy animals are the cutest shit.
We sit on the cushions, legs under the futon, running through blogs. I'm on a puppy blog, Kiku on a kitty blog, and every now and then, which is pretty much every few seconds, we show each other a vine or picture or video of a cute animal doing some cute shit, and we both melt.
A puppy chasing a small video camera on the back of a remote control car comes onto the screen and I fill with that sparkly warmth as I watch the tiny dog bounding along, tongue out and ears flapping. Kiku leans over to look at it, making a squeaking noise in the back of his throat I don't think he's aware he makes.
There is a white cat wearing a pink ribbon on Kiku's screen. Pooki and Steve have fallen asleep in a lazy pile. I honestly don't know what's cutest; Pooki and Steve, the ribbon cat, the dog, or Kiku's dazed expression.
Option Four (Ukraine)
I honestly don't know what to do. Katyusha looks beautiful in her bikini, which is obvious given that she's a very pretty lady, but I'm having a bit of a problem with her… assets. Well no, I don't have an issue with it, other people just do. Well no again, they don't have a problem…
Another random man gives her a hug, pressing his chest flush against hers. She doesn't seem to realise the true intention behind this usually innocent action, often commenting to me and other warm nations that our people are so friendly and cuddly.
I have a few options here, but none of them are exactly great. Option One; I tell her why people are so cuddly with her, and she never trusts hugs, or possibly men in general, again. Option Two; I talk to one of her siblings about the issue, but there's no way on earth I can ask thoses scary bastards for help! Option Three; I encourage her to wear more covering clothes, but her large chest is accompanied by a chunky stomach she's still learning to love and the last thing I want to do is accidentally regress that. Option Four...is go, I suppose.
"Hey, Kat," I say in as friendly a manner as possible, sliding between Katyusha and the sleazy stranger, "Do you wanna come make sandcastles with me?"
"I'd love to, Jett!" she gushes. I hold an arm out for her to take, and lead her away, flipping the bird to the annoyed douchebag we leave behind.
Dementium (Liechtenstein)
Visiting Lillya is always fucking terrifying. Mostly because of Vash. Obviously.
I sit on the lawn with Lillya, vaguely aware of Vash watching from the window and of the rifle in his hands. Lillya chews her sandwich merrily. I've never known her to do anything un-merrily. Glitter seems to erupt from her body constantly and I'm honestly impressed by her cheeriness.
Finished, she screws up the foil from her sandwich and throws it in the basket, pulling out her D.S. instead. "Do you have your Dementium game with you?"
"Of course," I pull my D.S. out of my pocket and switch it on.
Dementium is a pretty old game, but a great classic. One day I'll beat Lillya at it. One day.
That day, judging by the wry smile on Lillya's face, is not today.
Anzac Cove (Turkey)
We wander down the beach of Anzac Cove. It's a place full of memories. That's where I smacked a man in the face with the butt of my gun, breaking his jaw, and I hadn't even known I was strong enough to do that. That's where Wellesly almost got shot. That's where I landed when I first got here.
But that was all a long time ago. Sadiq is quiet, his head is bowed and his hands are folded behind his back. I've noticed that he gets like this when sad aspects of history are brought up, especially wars. I never break his silence.
Very few people understand it, but I owe Sadiq a lot. The Gallipoli Campaign was the first real battle my Australian Force had been in, and it had been atrocious. We bore the brunt of failure, injuries and deaths weighing heavy on my health and conscience. I'm still not sure how I managed to stay so loyal to Dad, but I did. It was the battle that showed me what a fuck-up Dad was and honestly still is.
It was also probably the first step towards my national identity, independent from the British Empire. And while I know Sadiq didn't do this directly, I suppose I'm grateful that his asswhopping had such a great outcome in the long term. Even if it did hurt a bitch.
Chopsticks and trinkets (China)
My relationship with Yao has been improving, getting stronger and stronger, but much of the old man is a mystery. I didn't see much of him during the World Wars, too busy running errands in my blind loyalty to Dad, and after that we were worlds apart. Not literally, obviously, but sitting in his living room I feel like I might as well be visiting an alien planet.
Like a lot of what I understand of Asia, he sits on the floor. But that's where the comparison ends. All I can understand is that he must be an incredibly nostalgic man, trinkets littering the room with no obvious theme or design. A lot of them look old, some don't, but knowing how good Chinese building and design can be I'm afraid to get too close to anything in case it's older than it looks and breaks. Or in case it explodes. Leon must have learnt the basics from someone, and it wasn't anyone British.
Yao puts the bowl of food down in front of me. Leon had warned me that his Ba is a bit of a feeder. I pick up the chopsticks carefully and… immediately drop them.
I try again as Yao sits down, blushing with embarrassment. I manage to organise the sticks in a way that looks correct, even if it's uncomfortable. I try to pick up a piece of meat with the sticks, but they slip and warp and I drop them again.
Yao huffs a laugh, and my blush deepens. This shit looks easy on telly! Yao stands up, picking through his trinkets until he finds what he was looking for.
He returns to the table and takes the chopsticks. He takes my hand gently and helps me settle the sticks, more comfortably than before but still less comfortable than a fork, curling my fingers around them. He then ties the elastic band around the ends, limiting how far apart they can move.
"That will be easier," he says.
I try again. The chopsticks feel funny, and I still struggle, but I don't drop them and manage to successfully pick up the meat chunk. Yao gives a laugh as I cheer.
Fritz sandwich (Prussia)
"What the fuck is that?"
I stop, Gilbert pointing at something. We're in South Australia, just by a vendor cart serving sausages. I peer at the sign on the cart. "It's a… 'Fritz sandwich', apparently."
"So I definitely read that right?"
"Yep."
"Why are you eating my Old Man?"
"Uh…" I stare at him dumbly, "It's…. not…. actually…. it's just sandwich meat, it's not actually a person!"
Gilbert narrows his eyes at me, and I splutter. Fuck, he's scary!
"Look, it's really not!" I drag him to the stall, ordering two Fritz sandwiches.
I hand Gilbert one sandwich, on some crusty bread roll and wrapped in foil. He unwraps it, glaring at the meat like it's committed him some personal wrongdoing. It feels like an eternity of narrow eyed disdain before he finally bites into it. He chews, and swallows.
"Well, it's not the best sandwich I've ever had, but thanks for the free food!" he grins before beginning to wander off.
The bastard conned me. Fucking shit.
Off-roading (Hutt River)
Dwight grins as he leans his head out of my off-roader, hair wild in the wind. It's rare to see him like this, but it's brilliant when it happens. He's always so uptight and pretentious, with his stupid cape and tassels and brooch and poncy shit. Deep down though, he's still my little offspring micronation, and he loves the stupid shit the rest of us Aussie reps do; long drives, greasy food and strong alcohol. Except not the last one, because he's a kid.
Dwight drags himself back into the car, grin still in place, hair blown back, dust clinging to his face. He whoops as he sinks into his seat, pulling his seat belt back into place. Billy, Dwight's pet bilby, titters in the back. Steve wakes up, smacks him, and goes back to sleep.
"Can we go again?" Dwight asks, bouncing up and down in his seat.
"'Course we can, kid," I say. I slam the brakes and turn the wheel, sending my trusty off-roader into a violent U-turn, Dwight squealing, and I'm pretty sure I heard Steve screech an expletive.
I slam the accelerator, and zoom back down the empty road, speed needle jumping. Dwight hollers, leaning back out the window and laughing.
Slip Slop Slap (Russia)
I drag Ivan out of the water, ignoring the way he whines. God, hanging out with this guy feels more like babysitting most days!
Ivan pouts, literally fucking pouts like massive kid, as I shove him onto the towel in the shade. He looks up at me, pout melting back into his usual smile, and the cool shade gets even colder. Seriously, how can this guy be so fucking creepy?
"Forgive me for saving you from sunburn," I say as firmly as I can, but my voice still wavers pathetically.
The smile just gets wider, and I don't know wether to be scared or impressed by his cheek strength.
"Tell you what, get some sunscreen on and then we can go get some icecream, yeah?" I say, opening the bottle and holding it out to Ivan.
The pout returns. "I don't like sunscreen."
"You really won't like sunburn."
"It smells bad."
"Sunburn hurts bad."
Ivan looks so crestfallen it's hard to remember he's millennia old. Ivan the Cold, Ivan the Heartless, Ivan the Cruel… Ivan pouting over the bad smell of sunscreen. Fucking really?
"Look all you need to do to avoid nasty sunburn," I say. I don't even talk to Paula or Dwight like this, "Is Slip, Slop, Slap. Slip on a shirt," I gesture to his striped shirt, "Slop on some sunscreen," I squeeze some of the +50 sunscreen directly onto his thick forearms, "And Slap on a hat," I shove his floppy straw hat down onto his face without thinking.
Ivan giggles, and I don't think I've heard anything so terrifying in all my life. He rubs the sunscreen in at last, and readjusts his hat. "We go for ice cream now, da?"
"Yeah," I answer, helping him to his feet, making him put his shoes on before we go. As scary as the guy is, he's honestly the most childish person I've ever met.
Slingshots and pulses (Scotland)
One of my strongest memories of Uncle Alistair is him teaching me how to shoot pulses from an elastic slingshot. I'd been quite small, physically about seven, and Uncle Alistair had lined me and the rest of the colonies up one afternoon when Dad was busy with some political bullshit. We were in the garden, and he handed us the wooden Y-shaped weapons. Our target was a broken embroidery ring. Our ammo was a purse each of dry pulses.
I'd loved it. It was pretty easy to get the hang of the slingshot. Get pulse, pull elastic back, let go. Not exactly rocket science. Aiming and trajectory and distance were trickier, and the words were just out of my grasp when I was trying to talk to Uncle Alistair about it. But he seemed to understand well enough and with help I excelled.
I was the first to 'move up' in Uncle Alistair's 'class', but he waited until we were all ready. Sat at the dinner table, Sunday roast, slingshot concealed in my breeches pocket, pulses hidden by the cloth draped politely over my knee.
Dad lead graces, of course. We started, as usual, with soup, some thick, chewy broth that clung to the throat and settled in the stomach heavily.
I was the first colony Uncle Alistair sent to the wink to. I slipped the slingshot from my pocket and picked out a dry bean. And as Dad looked across at Uncle Alistair as he had hacked suddenly, I sent the bean flying into Dad's soup, splashing the hot broth and clicking against the plate.
We took it in turns, our aunts and uncles hacking and coughing and sneezing to allow us to fill Dad's bowl with pulses. It still disturbs me that he was actually able to eat it, full of uncooked beans and lentils.
Uncle Alistair still laughs today at the soft splash and clink of a small pebble landing in Dad's tea, and sends me a broad wink as Dad starts yelling about it.
aLiEnS!1! (United States of America)
"I'm telling you- it was aliens!" Alfred insists, leading me through my own poppy field to the circle.
"And I'm fucking telling you it was wallabies," I say.
"Wallabies don't romp in circles like that."
"I'm sorry- which one of us natively has wallabies?"
Alfred ignores me, reaching the circle. He slumps at the sight of a wallaby rolling about drunkenly. "The fuck is it doing?"
"It's the opium," I say, tapping ones of the poppy heads.
"You mean to tell me that wallabies have been getting into your poppy fields, getting high on the pollen and rolling around in circles?"
"That is exactly what I have been telling you the entire way here, yes."
Fucking idiot.
Let's didgeriDO this (Australia)
Bambam, not watching where he's going, walks straight into the didgeridoos leant on the wall.
"You didgeri-didn't just digeri-do that!" I exclaim.
"You wanna go?" Bambam retorts, "You wanna didgeri-do this?"
"I'll fuck you up, mate."
"Bring it, white boy."
And so I chased him several times around the house. The didgeridoos were undamaged, a well-made didgeridoo being surprisingly strong.
We don't usually get along, but when we do it's because we're laughing at something stupid. Which is a damn good thing to get along on.
The language of paint (Wy)
"How much longer do I have to sit like this?" I whine. My back hurts from sitting so straight, I've got cramp in my leg, and the sun is beating down on my neck.
"Until I'm finished," Paula responds.
"How long is that gonna be?"
"Much sooner if you shut the fuck up."
"Oi! Watch your fucking language!"
Paula laughs, and dips her paintbrush in the yellow paint, mixing it with brown and pink until it forms a tanned nude and she dabs it on the canvas. Seriously, can't she just take a picture?
"Paulaaaaaa," I whine, "I'm hungry."
"Jeeeeeeeeet, you're annoying."
"Paulaaaaaaaaaa!"
"Jeeeeeeeeeeeeet!"
"Paulaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
"Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-ee-e-e," she fades off, unable to hold a whine that long.
I whoop, punching the air. It's the little victories.
Paula throws one of Steve's small cuddly toys at me.
Mermaids, motherfucker (England)
I am genuinely concerned about my father.
We're on a pier, around sunset. The place is abandoned, most tourists and fisher dads and theirs sons gone home. Dad and I are still on the end of the pier, Dad laid flat on his stomach, chattering down into the water as if there's genuinely a person there.
"Dad, can we go now?" I whine.
"No, don't be rude," Dad snaps, "Can't you see I'm talking to Cleo here? Ignore him, he's so unpleasant at times."
"There's nowhere there, Dad," I sigh, "Have you been eating Mattie's brownies again?"
"I haven't had any brownies, I am perfectly sober."
"Yeah, I believe you."
The water surges, sending a huge wave over the pier, smacking me in the face. I fall down, spluttering.
Sitting up, my clothes are dry. And so is Dad. Literally just my face was hit by some surge of water. Like some sort of of water-ball. Or some shit.
Dad is laughing, that smothered giggles you can't hear but can clearly see. And someone else, a high-pitched woman's laugh, but I can't see anyone.
"I'm going home," I snap. That bastard's sleeping on the fucking porch.
Doctor, doctor! (New Zealand)
Desperate knocks on my door at four in the fucking morning. This has better be important.
I open the door to Wellesley, teary-eyed with Smaug wrapped up in their arms. Wellesley hiccups a few times, barely able to choke out; "Smaug's sick but I can't take her to a regular vet because she's not really an animal and I just don't know what to do!"
I pull them inside, shoving a fuckton of paperwork I'll never actually do off the table to put Smaug down, laid on her back with her hooves kicking in the air, bleating weakly. With Wellesley as my nervous, teary assistant, I rub the head of the stethoscope over Smaug's belly, shine a small, weak torch light into her eyes and press a lolly stick onto her tongue. I am a professional vet.
I scoop Smaug back up in one arm, smacking her carefully between the shoulder blades a few times. She chokes, hacks, and spits out a dog toy, a ball the size of a peach full of hexagonal holes. It bounces over the floor, and Smaug bleats loudly.
Thank fuck that worked. That was a complete bluff and if it hadn't worked I'd have looked like a complete tit. Story of my life, to be honest.
"Smaug!" Wellesley cheers, snatching the sheep off me and hugging her tight.
Steve growls at them from the corner. We probably woke him up. My koala isn't evil, the fuck are you talking about.
Smaug bleats happily. Wellesley squeezes her tight, crying again.
"Thank you, Doctor Jett," they mumble. They stand on their tiptoes, and before I can ask what they is doing, they kiss me quickly on the cheek.
And now my face is on fire. Fucking great.
Ships ahoy (Canada)
"Can you believe there are people who literally ship us?" I say.
Matthew laughs. "Oh believe me, I've read some of the most ridiculous fics. There are people who think I say 'aboot'."
"There aren't even that many fics of me. I am unloved."
"Aw, no you're not," Matthew pats my head.
"Yeah, I am, but it's okay. I stopped looking through fics. There are some sick fucks out there."
"Tell me aboot it."
"We really don't want to be going there. Wait- you literally just said 'aboot'."
"Did I?"
"Yeah."
"Well, shit."