Prompt: First meeting.

1788. Tejas.

Alfred likes it here. He likes it here very much, from the soft sand between his toes (oh, and wouldn't England just piss himself to see Alfred running about barefoot?) to the tall palm trees that tower over him and leave his body draped in shadow. The sun is setting, making these same shadows stretch a bit, and the smell of the sea is different from the salty scent of the Atlantic that blows over New England when Alfred stays up too late. It's warmer, more serene, and the call of seagulls touch upon his ears as the spray of warm water splashes up from a rock.

The land is called Tejas, a Spanish word that's difficult for him to pronounce because the only thing he can say in Spanish is an introductory phrase that he'd learned from Antonio himself back when Spain had given consideration to colonizing; he doesn't remember much about Spain from back then, instead just knowing him from the help in fighting England during the Revolution. He doesn't know Antonio as well as he knows France or Prussia, but the feelings are still somewhat familiar and friendly, despite the coldness he gets from thinking that Spain had passed him over in favor of settling further south.

At least he can see why now. This place is beautiful, warm and inviting, with a breeze that tickles the flop of his bangs (though trimmed now, with France's help, "to help you to look more like a true nation, cher") and a twist on the Spanish spoken around him, most likely a blend of his own accent with the Spanish accent spoken by the more southern colonies.

He's arrived at this place because he had promised to meet Spain here, along the shores of the Gulf, to discuss the borders of Florida. In reality, the Florida borders shouldn't be any of his business, rather the business of Spain and England, but Spain had mentioned some concerns about a "secret article" floating about that involved a problem with the Floridan border.

He treads further, where the people are sparse, and it's only then does he hear the shriek of laughter. Startled, Alfred looks up in time to see two children - close to his own age, he can't help but notice that - running along the shoreline in the sand; there's a girl who sprints after a boy that's a bit shorter than her, their legs working like mad before the boy is tackled and the girl shouts an explosive laugh as she grins and pushes his face into the dirt.

Alfred moves closer, but just enough to hear them better, their Spanish babbling going over his head but their body language familiar. They're siblings, he can tell that just from looking at them, perhaps ten or eleven compared to his twelve years of age. The boy groans in defeat but then flips them around so that he's tugging on her curly pigtails and pushing at her with his feet, rocking on his back like some sort of turtle...

It looks like a fun game, and Alfred feels the urge to run into the middle and play as well, but he's a nation now, which means that he needs to behave himself like an adult would. He thinks of England, still a painful memory, and then thinks of France, which he supposes is a little better even if it makes him feel nearly sick to his stomach to think about being anything like Francis. No, he'll simply be his own, and he stands straighter, walks closer, and speaks up in the most polite voice he can manage.

"Hallo," he greets a bit shyly, but not nearly what the siblings show, both of them stopping mid-play to stare at him like startled fawns at the sound of footfalls. The boy, a scrawny little brown thing with curly hair and round green eyes, quickly releases his sister's hair.

"¿Quién es usted?" the girl asks, a bit lighter brown but equally dirty, clothed in a dress that looks as though it's been snagged on branches one too many times, and a suspicious look in her own eyes.

Alfred can't understand the question asked, and so looks around, bites his lip nervously, and pushes on in broken Spanish. "H-hola. Me... me llamo Alfred. Er, the Thirteen- I mean-" He bites the inside of his cheek, his face becoming hot as he tries for a moment to avoid eye contact. "The... United States? Of America?"

Too late, he realizes that he shouldn't go about telling random children what he really is, and he turns even warmer, plucks at his collar. "I wasn't s'posed to say that," he amends.

The girl is the one that speaks up again, standing up; the top of her head is barely up to Alfred's chin, and that makes him feel good, especially since her brother is even smaller. "English?" she asks, and his heart flutters before the relief floods him.

"Yes," he responds, "yes. Er, well, no. American. I- I mean, I speak English, but... but I'm..."

The little boy staggers up, looking up at him with a sort of nervousness in his eyes.

"...A-American," Alfred finishes with a terrified swallow. The siblings are staring at him like he's something strange, and he has to push out a sigh before looking right back at them. "Are you two...? I mean, where are your parents? Are you here by yourselves?"

The girl twirls some of her hair in her fingers and nods. "Papa is talking to somebody," she says in that squeaky voice of hers, flat-chested and narrow-hipped like the little girls he used to play with as a small child. "Los Estados Unidos?"

Alfred knits his brows and, again, doesn't understand. "I- I don't..." The girl bites her lip and turns to her brother, whispers something in Spanish, and the boy then kneels down and draws the American flag in the sand.

"Yes!" Alfred hears himself shout in excitement, pointing to it. "Yes! Yes, that's me!"

His voice is too loud; he can tell from the way the boy cringes a bit without saying a word, but the girl then smiles just as brightly, pulling her brother closer to her side and gesturing to the both of them, saying, "Nueva España. Maria Guadalupe Carriedo - that is my name."

Which is a good name, if Alfred can learn to pronounce the last two words. Maria, though, that's a good name, very Catholic in origin and he guesses that she is, judging by the cross hanging around her neck. Alfred wears a cross as well, though keeps it tucked down into his shirt now, not wanting to offend anyone who should find offense in it.

"And this is mi hermano, Pablo- Nueva España del Sur," she explains, though again, Alfred doesn't know what that means, and just nods politely. "He's shy-"

"Not shy," Pablo mumbles in embarrassment, shoving her to get her to be quiet. Alfred smiles as he watches the boy look up at him from his shorter stature. "Y-you are very tall, Señor America."

Alfred grins in pride at such a fact, adjusts the hat on his head that keeps the sun out of his eyes, and feels like this is an incredibly lucky coincidence to run into the Spanish children here like this.

"You said your father is busy?" he asks, and Pablo nods, twisting his foot to bury his toes in the sand.

"He's busy a lot," Pablo murmurs with shy eyes. "Pero... esta bien. Maria and I-"

Maria finishes, "Papa loves us, he's just busy."

Despite himself, Alfred understands. Arthur had been "busy" a lot too, spending long periods of time away from the lonely confines of New England, and he can only hope that New Spain is better off than he had been in that crushing loneliness.

"Oh. Well, er, that's alright - I can wait. I'm s'posed to meet with him, you see, to discuss the borders of Florida, even though that's really none of my business and I dunno why he's bothering to ask-"

Suddenly Pablo pushes forward past his sister, and slaps Alfred harmlessly on the arm with a wide smile on his face. In the next moment, both of the siblings have vanished, and Alfred stands there in confusion, glancing around, before realizing that it must be some sort of...

Game. A game. It's been far too long since he's played a game.

He looks around once more, just to be sure that nobody's watching, and races after them, laughing.

1810. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

"Mr. Jones?"

There's a soft knock at his door, and he glances up briefly from the book he's had sitting in his lap for the last few hours, right in the middle of taking a nice break from the ridiculous politics constantly being shoved down his throat. Gently, he tucks his bookmark between the pages and says, "Come in. Who is it?"

The door opens and a thick sort of man walks in, carrying a few envelopes in his meaty hands. "Terribly sorry to disturb you, sir," the man says from behind his mustache - Alfred hates being called "sir," but he lets it slide in favor of the curiosity about the envelopes. "These just arrived in the White House, sir, and President Madison thought it only right that you look them over."

Curious, Alfred sets his book aside and stands up from his bed, padding over to the door and holding out his hand for the letters. Two envelopes, one a bit worse for wear, but still clearly readable; he bites his lip and tears them open hastily like a boy with a Christmas gift, and begins reading one of them over.

"West Florida?" he asks in confusion.

"Just declared independence from Spain," the man explains. "We thought it only right-"

"Right, of course," Alfred replies. "Annexation is more than appropriate here. Tell the president that I give my approval. What's the other one?"

He tears that one open as well, unfolding the parchment so that the hastily-scrawled handwriting can be read. It looks as though it had been written by a child, or more appropriately, a very nervous child with whom English is obviously a second language. Alfred doesn't recognize the writing, but then again, it's not often that he comes into contact with other nations as young as himself, so narrows his eyes to read it.

Los Estados Unidos:

I doubt you remember who I am. I was the boy at the beach in Tejas when you came to visit my father.

Your War for Independence has inspired me to rebel against Spain on my own. Maria won't help me at all - she is my sister, if you have forgotten her as well - so I have decided to battle the Spanish Empire on my own. This has proved to be more difficult than I thought it would be, and I am asking that you please lend-

(Here, there are several misspellings of the word "assistance," and once spelled in Spanish, and Alfred has to smile a bit. Of course he remembers the boy from the beach. It isn't often that he finds other nations willing to play with him in that manner, or nations that realize how young he really is - nations that aren't from Europe, and thus don't see the mistakes he makes on a daily basis.

"It's from New Spain," he tells the man, who simply gives a firm nod but doesn't leave the room. Alfred continues reading.)

Spain has been chasing me for months now since I declared my independence, and I have nowhere to stay. I am quickly running out of ammunition and my men need medical attention. I would be very grateful to you if you lent me shelter and weapons, but I understand if you refuse.

Saludos,

Pablo Montoya Carriedo
Nueva España del Sur

Alfred smiles even more brightly when he finishes reading the letter, though given the circumstances, he wonders if it's appropriate to have that reaction. That little boy, rebelling against an Empire as strong as the Spanish? On his own? No doubt dangerous work, but Alfred feels touched that he could inspire someone to rebel, and if all fails-

Well, if all fails, then that leaves the entirety of a war-torn New Spain to claim for his own.

For now, he doesn't consider it. He knows his reply, and hands the letter back to the corpulent man with his heart full of confidence.

"I want to provide the best hotel we can offer," he says proudly. "Just below the Tejas border, so it's still within New Spain, technically speaking. We want him to be comfortable and well-rested for his fight. I want... him and his army to have free meals and... and coffee. Lots of coffee."

He thinks, then snaps his fingers. "And guns! Lots of guns - fresh ammunition for his party, and... and make sure he's happy with the stay. Please."

1827. The Mexican Empire.

Alfred hasn't seen Pablo since he was still that little boy at the beach. Their house is in tatters and there are still stains on the floor that look like spilled ink or juice of some sort, but Alfred's not stupid and knows what they really are. Maria's face in littered in bruises and she sports a fat lip and a broken wrist, though still with the little-girl features that Alfred recognizes as signs of feminine youth. Now she sits in the corner and watches with blank eyes, her arms wrapped around her knees.

Pablo is worse off than his sister, despite her having been the one to fight the last half of the war. He's no longer the boy that Alfred had first met. Now he's taller - not by much, but just enough to be noticeable - and his limbs are long, as though someone had pulled at him from either end to stretch him out. This would be almost comedic if it wasn't so horrifying, and Alfred has no idea what to say to him when Pablo marches up to him, shouting at the top of his lungs-

"You bastard!"

He doesn't expect when a boot is thrown at him, and it hits him square in the chest before he has any time to move out of the way. Pablo's voice squeaks with childish indignation, and the force of the thrown boot makes Alfred lose a bit of air, but he holds his ground, hands up almost in surrender to show that he means no harm.

"Whoa, Pablo, what-"

"You son of a bitch! You dare to show your ugly face here after you swore-" Pablo wrenches off his other boot and throws that one too, but this time Alfred is wise enough to duck, so it soars through the window instead with the sound of shattering glass. "After you swore to me that Coahuila would be safe, that no, the Spanish wouldn't be there, gringo estúpido! Estúpidos gringos con sus promesas estúpido! Te odio! Fuera de mi casa! Te odio!"

Alfred blinks in confusion of the rapid Spanish thrown at him in addition to the boots, and when Pablo rushes forward, he opens his mouth to speak, but not before Pablo's fist hits him square in the mouth. There's the sound of something being struck, and Alfred's head reels for a moment before he manages to see straight again, tasting copper against his tongue.

"Pablo-"

"Get out of my house!" Pablo screams at him, about to throw his fists again, but not before Alfred catches Pablo's skinny wrists in his larger hands. "Get- Let go of me...!"

Alfred's dizzy, but he holds him still even when he feels blood dripping from a split lip. Great, now he and Maria can match. "Pablo, wait- wait a minute! Why are you attacking me? What's going-?"

Pablo gives an angry sort of growl, like a beaten dog finally standing up for itself, and even goes so far as to bite one of the hands holding him until Alfred yelps and yanks away.

"Idiota bastardo, you know exactly why I'm attacking you!" Pablo shakes, hands clenched into fists, and only now does Alfred see the rings around his eyes. Perhaps from bruises, perhaps from lack of sleep; he hasn't been able to properly tell the difference yet. He just knows what Pablo looks very tired, very thin and sick, like he maybe... shouldn't be alive right now.

The thought scares him. He wants to wrap Pablo up and keep him safe, despite the unfamiliarity between them, despite not really knowing Pablo outside of that one game of tag and a few rounds of hide-and-seek. Seeing him so broken down and angry in place of the smiling child he played with only a few decades ago... it scares him.

"Coahuila," Pablo says again, this time choked out as though holding back indignant tears. "Remember? Baboso, you said there wouldn't be anyone there... you told me I would be safe, that it would be fine..." He reaches for one of the glasses that had been left on the table in their sitting room and flings it full-force at Alfred's head; it flies over him and crashes into a painting of the Last Supper that's hanging on the wall behind him. "Idioto! Gringo! Chingado! You liar, you... liar...!"

Heart beating frantically now, Alfred holds his hands up once more to show that he's not willing to turn this into a fistfight, and that this is all just a big misunderstanding that the other is blowing out of proportion. Maria still sits silently in the corner and watches them without saying a word, her eyes staring blankly at them as insults were thrown, as glasses and boots were thrown as well.

"I- I wasn't lying when I said that-"

"But they were there, America! Spain was there, he was waiting for me like you promised he wouldn't be! Or maybe I shouldn't be so surprised. Antonio always told me that America was built on empty promises-"

And it hurts. It does, and he tries to argue that no, he worked hard to get where he is today; he had to defy all he believed in to win his own independence, and that Pablo should be happy to be free at all when Antonio had been the one to come crying to Alfred about losing his children. That Spain had broken down in front of him and Alfred had felt so guilty, so awful... he had to tell Antonio where Pablo was. It would have been cruel not to.

Pablo doesn't see things the same way he does. That's why he charged out into battle with nothing but a slingshot (or at least, that's what the stories are, the ones Alfred hears from the gossiping nations of Europe he still can't shake). It's why Pablo's war for independence didn't matter in any place but Mexico and the United States and Spain. It's why nobody cares that one Spanish colony is independent now, why nobody cares that one indigenous people is cleared away.

Nobody cared about the Aztecs except the Aztecs, and nobody cares about the Mexicans but the Mexicans.

And Alfred. Alfred cares, or at least he tries to, but for now, he just hears Maria let out a quietly pained wail of sorrow that splits the argument, and Pablo shakes as though he's about to have some sort of seizure, seething with obviously misplaced anger, since Alfred has done nothing wrong.

"Get out of my house," Pablo whispers in a hoarse voice. "Settle in Texas. I don't care. But don't let me ever see your face around here again."

1916. Mexico.

He isn't sure how to voice what he feels; Alfred has never been a man of words, so when he stands silently beside General Pershing and sees that boy again - the boy with the dark curly hair and the glaring green eyes - this time on his knees and spitting blood, Alfred finds that he has nothing to say.

Which he supposes is a sort of godsend, since Pershing seems to be doing most of the talking anyway. Alfred watches as the General shouts an order at one of the soldiers, who takes up a fistful of Pablo's hair and pulls. Pablo winces but says nothing. It's typical of him.

Pershing addresses Pablo as South Mexico, accuses him of hiding an important General within his borders, and crouches down to look him in the face.

Alfred can't keep eye contact with him, even when Pablo looks past Pershing and directly at the United States himself.

The guilt is nearly sickening.

"Antonio always told me that America was built on empty promises."

1917. Washington, D.C.

"We intend to begin on the first of February unrestricted submarine warfare. We shall endeavor in spite of this to keep the United States of America neutral. In the event of this not succeeding, we make Mexico a proposal of alliance on the following basis: make war together, make peace together, generous financial support and an understanding on our part that Mexico is to reconquer the lost territory in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona.

The settlement in detail is left to you. You will inform the President of the above most secretly as soon as the outbreak of war with the United States of America is certain and add the suggestion that he should, on his own initiative, invite Japan to immediate adherence and at the same time mediate between Japan and ourselves.

Please call the President's attention to the fact that the ruthless employment of our submarines now offers the prospect of compelling England in a few months to make peace.

Zimmermann."

1942. Stockton, California.

It's strange to think of how they've grown since the last time they've spoken. Alfred watches Pablo step out of the dusty red pickup with much more finesse than when they'd met previously, obviously more used to the long limbs and teasing than before.

There are things that Alfred has come to notice as passing decades have provided him with more wisdom. For instance, Pablo's eyes are narrower, though they haven't lost the sharpness of their color. His hair has gotten longer, less tucked away, so the curls are wild and hang in front of his eyes. Pablo's skin has darkened too, most likely from more time spent outdoors and under the sun; but he's still Pablo. That much is apparent from the way those Spanish eyes light up at the sight of the rows and rows of leaves sprouting summertime green from the soil.

"Sugar beets," Pablo says, adjusting his clothes as he steps closer to the plants, looking around at the several dozen workers already harvesting. "What is this, exactly?"

Alfred isn't sure if he can properly explain it. He tries, "President Roosevelt thought it would be appropriate if... you and your sister were our allies." Instinctively, his hand goes to his hip, where Japan had scorched the skin only a year before. It still stings sometimes, but has mostly scarred now into ugly, hardened tissue. "I know Maria wants to be the one to handle the politics. But my people..."

No, this isn't working. Pablo looks at him with a tilted head, his straw hat crooked on his head.

"My people," Alfred continues. "My men are out fighting. I will be too, after you agree to do this for me. Japan caused a serious problem, and now that I'm involved in the war, we have too many factories and not enough manual labor out in the fields. We're calling it the Bracero Program, and- and I remembered how much you love plants and I thought... maybe you might..."

Pablo's eyes flick to the several dark-skinned Mexican migrant workers that hunch over the clumps of vegetation, and then back to Alfred, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"You should have told me back at my house," Pablo says, and Alfred's heart sinks.

It's a no. Of course it's a no. Alfred shouldn't have ever expected Pablo to jump to his aide when they've been on such awful terms lately. He imagines that Maria will have his head for it, but then his train of thought is cut short by the sight of Pablo's smile. It's such a rare sight that it shakes him for a moment, all bright lights and ringing bells, and Pablo shrugs a shoulder.

"That way I could have brought proper boots."

Alfred feels his face lift into a smile and before he can properly think about it, he pulls Pablo into a tight hug and lifts him a few inches off the ground, laughing. Pablo makes a noise like he's choking, and when Alfred sets him down, he's gasping for breath.

"S-sorry," Alfred apologizes. "Oh, golly, I'm so happy you said yes - fuck, sorry, I just... thank you so much, you don't even know how much-"

"I'm getting paid for it, right?" Pablo asks.

And Alfred nods, spitting out 'yes, of course' before the other can change his mind. In the next moment, Pablo pulls some gloves out of his backpack and glances once more out to the field.

"I should get started, then," the younger announces, and gives a half-smirk up at Alfred. "Jefe."

1997. Mexico City.

"So maybe things haven't been the greatest between our nations." Alfred has their attention, and he gives his coffee a lazy stir, not quite wanting to drink it, but wanting to at least be polite. "I know we've been through some rough patches-"

Maria snorts a laugh, cutting Alfred off, and rolls her eyes. "Señor America, it's been nothing but rough patches." Alfred wants to argue, but she holds up an impatient finger. "You underpay us. You're violent, you're mean, you're short-tempered-"

"Hermana, you're not really one to talk about having a short temper-"

"Callate, Pablo, the grown-ups are talking."

Alfred smiles slightly despite the insults as she nudges her brother in much the same way Alfred nudges his own when he's irritated.

"Well, listen," Alfred says. "Listen for a minute. I know I'm not perfect, alright, but... nobody's perfect."

Maria smirks. "I think I'm pretty close." Her voice is teasing, and he knows she doesn't mean it. There's an indecision and a curiosity in her eyes. He sees it there just like he'd seen it in Pablo when they'd first met.

Alfred lifts his cup of coffee in two hands. The siblings like their coffee cold, which he finds more than a little odd, but the sound of the ice clinking against the walls of the cup is pleasant when he takes a small sip. (Just enough to appear to like it, but not enough to taste it.)

"President Clinton wants to start over. Make it better between us. Nationally, I mean." Since Pablo and himself had already been on several misadventures over the years since the Bracero Program, he thinks that might need clearing up. "I know I haven't been..." He pauses, bites his lip. It's such a rarity that Alfred admits his own faults in a political sense. "I know I haven't been very trustworthy to you. Or very kind. But I'm going to try a lot harder from now on, Maria. President Clinton wants us to be best friends in a political sense as well as in a personal sense, so..."

Pablo blinks at him and looks back and forth from Maria to Alfred. There's a look on his face almost like confusion, and Alfred feels awful suddenly for the way he's treated them both.

"Can I talk to you in private?" Pablo asks, and Alfred nods, and he's led away from the living room and into the small bedroom that Pablo calls his own.

There isn't much in the room, just the bare necessities, and he knows it's because of Mexico's devaluation of the peso. It's a shitty economy right now, and so he doesn't mention how naked the room feels, just a dresser and a bed, a few clay Day of the Dead skeletons propped up on toothpicks on the windowsill. Instead, he slips his hands into his pockets and watches Pablo fidget in discomfort.

"We're friends," Pablo says, and Alfred nods. "Para. I wasn't looking for confirmation. I know we're friends. What I don't know is why you're doing this. Are you being sincere?" Another nod, and a move to explain himself, but Pablo reaches up, threads his fingers into Alfred's hair, and kisses him.

It's been a while since their last kiss, he realizes. Pablo still tastes the same, like tortilla and booze, but less like booze than their last kiss. This is a good thing, or at least he thinks it is, that Pablo's been drinking less. His arms find their way around Pablo's narrow hips and pull him closer in the familiar warmth that the smaller brings. Not romantic, but certainly familiar.

"I've been awful to you," Alfred whispers against his lips. "But I'll make it better, I promise. No more mass deportations. I've got a new immigration policy, and... I think it'll be better for the immigrants. Better for you too, you and Maria both."

Pablo nods and tips his head into Alfred's chest. Just as when they were small, the top of Pablo's head just reaches under Alfred's chin, only this time he hears a little bitter laugh.

"I remember the last time you promised me something." He looks up at him with a sad expression in his eyes and Alfred's heart wrenches painfully once he realizes what it is that Pablo talks about. "It was always you, you know. Even when you're up in your pulpit, spitting venom at us like... what's the word... serpiente..."

Quietly, Alfred says, "Snake."

Pablo quiets too, bu that's less of a surprise. "Snake," he corrects himself. "A blue-eyed, blond-haired snake. Anti-homosexual, pro-life, baby-saving, building-bombing, country-nuking, lying snake."

A stinging sensation washes over him with the words and seeps into his veins with a permanence. It sounds far too much like things Arthur had told him once, only modernized and spoken in a soft Mexican accent instead of a tightly-wound British one.

But then those hands pull him down for another soft kiss and Pablo whispers, "I wonder why I still believe you."

2010. New York City.

Alfred has Pablo's cell phone number recognized. It's a Blackberry of some sort, nothing too expensive since Alfred had bought it for him after decades of Pablo refusing to own any sort of cell. After a while, Pablo had no choice but to accept it, and Alfred had made it his mission to memorize the number and add it into his own phone.

It's not on his speed dial - somehow, he doesn't feel bad about that fact. Arthur is number one on his speed dial, the White House number two. Ivan is number three, and easily the most pushed number on the phone if only for that reason.

So the numbers continue, though he's never gotten around to adding Pablo in. Their house number is number five, but Pablo's cell phone still isn't plugged in.

Instead, he makes the half-second effort to dial it by memory after watching the news, and listens to the empty ringing on the other end. Two rings, three, four, and after the fifth, it clicks over to voicemail.

"Hola, usted ha llamado a Pablo Rodríguez. No puedo atender el teléfono ahora. Por favor, dígame su número de teléfono y yo le devolverá la llamada."

The tone beeps, and Alfred clears his throat. "Um, hi. It's Alfred." Duh, he thinks, but just clears his throat again. "Um, I, um, just watched the news. It was about the Drug War going on down there and I was just... just wondering if you were-"

He cuts himself off with a concerned swallow, glancing again toward the television where President Calderon gives a speech on optimism and hope, dubbed in English for Americans to properly understand, though he's spoken to the President of Mexico himself and has heard him speak English fluently.

But that doesn't matter now.

"Call me back, okay?" Alfred asks, and hangs up before he can sound like more of an idiot than he is.