The first time Spain sees it, he is over in America to check up on things and happens to drop by Alfred's house to check up on the boy. (The fact that he knows for certain England is in Europe at the moment has nothing to do with it whatsoever.) The house, however, is empty, and Spain concludes with a wry smirk that America is growing too old to listen to England's explicit instructions to stay inside when he isn't around.

He walks around to the back and doesn't see anything, and is about to just give up and leave when he hears a quiet voice from the forest beyond. Curious, he heads into the woods surrounding the house, following the voice, and after about five minutes of walking comes across a small clearing. In the center, sitting in the sunlight that spills through the absence of trees, Alfred reclines on a bed of grass. He isn't actually talking but is singing, some strange and lilting melody with words Antonio has never heard before.

More remarkable is what is keeping him company; Alfred is propped up against the side of a large, golden horse, which is laying down and curled around him as closely as a horse can get. Its legs are tucked around Alfred's frame and a circlet of wildflowers is dangling off one ear. Alfred is weaving another as he sings, and the horse has its neck curved around so it can watch Alfred with one eye.

Spain comes to an abrupt halt but the horse has already sensed him; it snorts abruptly, ears shooting forward, and then it clambers to its feet and swings around to face where Spain stands just out of sight in the trees. When Antonio moves forward, the horse – no, stallion – lowers its head and ears and moves so that its front legs brace on either side of Alfred.

"Ozuye?" Alfred clicks at it in the same strange native language, but the stallion only spares him a flicker of an ear before it focuses full attention on Spain again. Alfred finally follows its gaze and gives a delighted gasp. "Antonio!" He shoots to his feet and darts forward to greet the older nation, only to have the stallion squeal and dart forward, placing himself between Spain and America again and snapping his teeth at Antonio when the other tries to come closer.

This is odd behavior. Horses seem to favor Spain over most other people and even nations; he's never had one blatantly threaten him. In fact, his ability to take completely wild horses and tame them within days is legendary.

Alfred, from behind the horse, says in exasperation, "Ozuye! He's a friend!"

The stallion pins his ears at Antonio and stamps like a petulant child.

"Ozuye," Alfred warns.

Spain takes the time to appreciate the beauty of this horse; although it isn't all the clean, smooth lines that he enjoys in his horses, it has a certain power and raw wildness that appeal to him. The body is a smooth gold, certainly very eye-catching in the sunlight, and all four legs are a deep, rich brown that is mirrored in the mane, tail, forelock and eyes. The stallion also has a very fetching dark stripe that runs the length of his spine, and tipped brown ears. Altogether, he's a very attractive stallion.

America, with an exasperated sigh, ducks around the stallion and smacks him playfully on the shoulder. "He's not going to hurt me," Alfred assures the stallion with an eye roll. The horse, who Spain assumes to be named Ozuye, tosses his head and seems to almost roll his eyes back. He permits the two nations to interact, although he keeps a wary eye on them and, at one point, when Alfred clambers onto Spain to place a wildflower circlet on his head, Ozuye flares his nose in irritation and refuses to let Alfred touch him afterwards.

As dusk falls Spain suggests they go back into the house, but America wrinkles his nose. "It's summer," he protests.

"The bugs will be out, and you'll catch a chill," Antonio says, half-smile on his lips at the thought of young America spending a whole summer completely outdoors. No wonder the house looked so unlived in.

"Ozuye will keep me warm and the bugs aren't bad right now," Alfred asserts. "Sleep outside with me! It's very nice, I promise. You can see so many stars!"

In the end Antonio gives in and decides to try it. Alfred squeals and starts talking enthusiastically to Ozuye in one of his native tongues as he rushes around to prepare a bed of grass for Spain. Ozuye, for his part, stands to the side, staring at Antonio threateningly, the flower wreath somehow still dangling from one ear and his forelock draped over one dark eye.

Finally, the beds are complete. America runs over to Ozuye and clings to his neck, tugging at his mane until the stallion lowers his head and America can whisper into one dark-point ear. The stallion listens patiently until, suddenly, he jerks his head up and shakes it impatiently from side to side, looking irritable. Alfred cajoles his head back down and continues whispering. Finally, the stallion seems to acquiesce to something and his body posture relaxes. He follows Alfred to the bed of grass and, circling once or twice, proceeds to lower himself onto the grass, arranging himself so that his hooves are out of the way. Immediately, Alfred flops down on top of him, looking pleased and sleepy. "Ozuye says you can sleep against him for tonight!" Alfred chips. "He's very warm, I promise."

Spain hesitates, looking warily at the stallion. "I'm not sure he's very fond of me," Antonio says, all too aware of the volatile reactions he could elicit for annoying a stallion while you're in close range of the hooves. "Perhaps I should just-"

Ozuye blows air out of his nostrils in a vaguely impatient fashion and jerks his head up in the air once or twice before settling it down onto the grass. The gesture is so strangely human – it's clearly a 'come over here already you idiot' – that Antonio doesn't think twice before going over and gingerly settling himself beside Alfred. When there is no negative reaction, he allows himself to relax against the warm side and begin to drift off. His last coherent thought it how strangely warm and comforting the stallion is to the touch.

He only wakes up once during the night. The stars are vivid overhead, almost abnormally bright, and Alfred has shifted in his sleep to curl against Antonio's side. When he becomes aware that there is no longer a presence supporting his back, he glances around. At first he can't see anything, but another scan reveals Ozuye on the other side of the clearing, standing still and impassive. Everything is completely silent and it is only when he looks back a third time that Spain realizes Ozuye is made out of thousands of stars; they're threaded through his mane and tail like diamonds, they dust his coat and make it shine impossibly bright, and they cover his hooves, turning them to silver. Most imposing of all are his eyes; bright and filled with a relentless fire. He turns to stare directly at Spain, as though hearing his thoughts, and a summer breeze whispers through the trees as Ozuye begins to move, walking towards the two nations. He seems impossibly brilliant as he brings his head down to look first at Alfred, touching the top of his head very softly with his nose. Then he turns to Spain and shakes his head, once, dislodging the stars and making them fall like rain into Spain's eyes, blinding him and sending him into darkness and sleep.

He thinks it an elaborate dream when he awakens.

….

It's years later – about a century - and the world has changed. The Empire has long since fallen – England no longer controls America and has fallen to the slavering jaws of Europe. Spain has gone to the Americas to check on a few things and just to visit – it's been quite a while since he's last been. And he's heard stories of Civil War on America's soil, stories that seem impossible, stories that make the rest of the world eagerly anticipate Alfred's possible decline and death.

Alfred has long since moved houses – he burned the one England gave him, Spain remembers – but nations intuitively know where to find each other, and he follows the pull to the state of Maryland, where the rolling hills are a welcome break from the crowds in Europe.

He finally stumbles across a ramshackle cabin, poorly put together and poorly kept up, and he knows by the screams that Alfred is there.

Antonio opens the door to the smell of blood, the sound of flies, and the agonized sounds of something being killed, slowly and torturously. It's dark, as there are no windows in the cabin, but the light from the doorway shows him everything he needs to know. Alfred is in a bed, the mattress soaked and dripping with his blood, the sheets tangled around his legs. Everything is dark crimson, even the air smells congealed, and Alfred keeps screaming, his voice harsh and mangled, his hands scrabbling along his sides. There is no relief from a civil war, not when it's gotten as bad as Alfred's has, and Antonio listens as Alfred breaks from the screaming to ramble wildly. "Come on men fight with spirit those uncivilized bastards burn the place to the ground load and fire train guns," he babbles hysterical. "Free them slaves I can't-" he pauses to gasp hysterically for breath and then suddenly screams again.

Spain collects himself and stalks inside. Clearly Alfred has hidden himself in the hopes of recovering on his own. Civil war is rarely kind to a nation, even less so to one as young as Alfred. First things first, Alfred needs to get out of this cabin. There's a river right nearby that Antonio can wash him in…and then suddenly something smashes into him and he crashes into a rough wood wall, dizzy and disoriented, but every sense is screaming at him and he straightens up, forces himself to see straight, assumes a defensive position...and then drops it in shock when he sees a very familiar stallion three feet from him, coat covered in blood, eyes defiant and wild.

"Ozuye," he says in shock. It's impossible; no horse can live for one hundred years, surely this must simply be a descendent. But every detail is shockingly similar, and as Antonio watches the stallions snorts and tosses his head in an alarmingly familiar gesture.

America's screams and sobs break the spell. The stallion whirls and paces back to him, hooves echoing hollowly on the wooden floor, and he dips his head to touch Alfred's forehead with his nose, breathing softly. Alfred quiets at the contact, fading into moans and breathing that hitches erratically. But the minute the stallion withdraws Alfred begins writhing and sobbing again. Spain desperately thinks of a way to amend the situation. "Ozuye," he says softly.

The stallion does not look at him. He has retreated into the shadows of the cabin and is watching Alfred with a kind of unhappy understanding. He does, however, flick one ear in his direction.

"I can help him."

Both ears come forward. The stallion's breathing seems to slow.

"He needs to be outside. I'll put him in the river and clean his wounds and care for him, and I can take him where other people will be able to help. This is going to be a long and bloody battle. He's going to die if you keep him stuffed in here."

Ozuye finally looks at him, standing perfectly still. Then he flicks his tail, once, and slides through the doorway into the sunlight. Spain goes to the bed and picks up America, who is frail and thin, and ignores the way the blood runs between his fingers, clots of it smearing across his clothing as he carts him outside and splashes him in the river. The water runs red but America's fever cools immediately and his wounds become visible. Spain tends to him well into the night, bandaging and re-bandaging and soothing America's muffled screeches.

At some point, he falls asleep. He dreams that he awakens and there is a long-lost chant twirling on the spring winds; when he glances over to the river, he sees Ozuye rising out of it, a spray of water becoming the spray of dark mane. The stallion moves like liquid and he comes over to Alfred and Antonio. Again, he attends to Alfred first; he finds the wounds that run along his side, bloody and cut to the bone, chasms of blood, and he heals them using the chanted braids of rhythm carried on the wind. Then he turns to Antonio. He does not look directly at him, but he nudges Antonio's hands open until they are resting on the ground, palms up. Then he seems to do something – breathes on them, perhaps – and Spain wakes up to a stinging pain in his hands. If he had looked, he would have seen a rapidly fading marking that he could never have understood. As it is, he barely remembers the dream, and concentrates instead on moving Alfred to the closest town. Ozuye he chalks up to being a hallucination; it is plausible he could have fallen and hit his head, after all. (Spain comes up with a million excuses and accepts them all.)

He meets with exceptional luck taming horses after that; he only has to lay his hands on them to bring them under his command.

…

He goes to visit Alfred during the 1920s because he's heard that America is booming, that it's truly a spectacular place to be, and that England's about to have a fit because his former charge is doing so well.

He spends a few days in the big cities – he starts with Washington, moves to Boston, across to New York, and then all the way to Chicago – and while he enjoys the youth, the vitality, and the endless dancing, he never finds Alfred. Eventually, he resorts to using his status as a Nation, and he simply lets intuition guide him.

He begin to doubt his intuition when he finds himself in the middle of an endless prairie, grass on all sides and a massive stretch of sky above him. Until, that is, he hears the sound. A thundering of hooves, something he knows, and he turns just in time to catch a magnificent herd of horses cresting a gold-grass hill and come pounding down towards him.

Then his breath catches in his throat. At the head, blazing golden and so painfully bright Spain can't look without squinting, a man and a horse are moving in perfect tandem.

No. It's America and…Spain shakes his head because it's just not possible. Because the stallion that America is riding looks so much like Ozuye he can't believe it. America's hands are tangled in the dark mane and he's bent low, chin almost touching the whipping mane of his mount, and he's whooping something unintelligible as he draws level to Antonio. Although he wears no saddle or bridle, the horse slows simply by a few simple words, spoken in a long-forgotten language, and Alfred beams brilliantly at Spain as the herd mills around them.

"Whatcha out here for?" Alfred asks brightly, sliding off the stallion. He trills something low and sweet and his mount snorts, nips him very lightly in the shoulder, and gives a little whinny of mock protest when Alfred flicks his ear in retaliation. Then suddenly the not-Ozuye pulls himself into a rear and, with a terrific battle-shriek, goes plunging past the two nations and streaks across the plains, his herd at his heels.

Spain, watching them, thinks he sees something very strange – within the bodies of the herd there are shifting forms of people, with sharp faces and strong, lithe bodies, with strange beads and body paints and bright, vivid eyes. The stallion at the head has none of this illusion; instead, he seems to shine brightly enough to eclipse the sun. Then Spain blinks and they become just a herd of mustangs, swiftly drawing away.

He doesn't remember to ask Alfred about Ozuye. And when he does, he doesn't want to.

…..

It's Spain's turn for Civil War, and he doesn't seem to remember much these days besides blood and pain. His government has tried keeping him under lock and key, but delirium and insanity have long since overpowered him, and the last time he regained his bearings he was in the woods, staggering through trees, hiccupping up blood and partially blinded in one eye.

He doesn't know why he's gone temporarily blind in that eye. The joys of Nationhood.

He registers falling down at some point, and he registers the pain that is the stress of his body trying to crack into two, trying to divide, but also desperately holding itself together. He begins to scream something, he's not sure what, and eventually it registers that he's gagging out verses of his nation anthem. He tries to laugh because it's so painfully ironic but ends up screaming instead, and then he can't scream because his throat is throbbing and clogged with blood.

Then there are hands and a voice he knows well. "I'm not taking an active part in this war, don't look at me like that," the voice says softly. His hearing distorts and fragments it and he can't tell who it is. "But that doesn't mean I can't repay a favor. Hold still, Oz."

He's lifted and cradled briefly and suddenly he's on the back of a horse. Or he would be, but it shifts abruptly under him and he slides off. "Ozuye!" The voice scolds. There's a pause, and then, "I know I'm the only one who's ever ridden you but maybe…oh, fine. I'll carry him. You follow and keep a look-out. Priss." Antonio is lifted and held again and he groans as it jolts every party of his aching body.

"Pl's…" he groans, not exactly sure what he wants. Death, maybe, or just an end to everything.

"Don't talk. Your throat's gone and cut itself open."

Oh. Well. He tries to lift his eyelids and actually succeeds, and he glances blearily upwards with his one good eye. Blue and gold swim before his unsteady vision. Pure colors, so unlike what he's seen lately. "So bright," he says, and when the face looks confused, adds, "t' colorsh." His voice is fading fast. So is his sanity.

When he finally comes to full consciousness, he's back in his home in his capital and the war is winding down. There's dust on the floor, and also bandages, and various medicines lie scattered about his room. A maid is taking care of him now, but he can tell America was there at some point during his illness due to the untidy kitchen and a forgotten shirt that rests on a chair in his room.

There's also a small, round circle that hangs above his bed. America, Antonio remembers, is fond of them and calls them 'dreamcatchers.' They supposedly filter out the bad dreams. This one is made of leather with four white feathers hanging from beaded strings. The woven part is made entirely out of coarse, dark brown horse hair. He wonders where America got it, as his own breeding stock usually have flaxen manes and tails. Still, to humor Alfred he keeps it up. It may just be the principle of the thing, but it seems to work splendidly regardless.

…..

It's the second World War and Spain is still recovering from his Civil War. He hasn't taken an active role – really, it's mostly been listening to Germany try to pressure him into giving him supplies and then receiving vaguely worded threats from one of the Allies that he'll be sorry if he helps Ludwig – and to be honest he's pretty sure he's got volunteers on both sides.

Still. It makes more sense to align with Germany for a number of reasons, so that's what Antonio's been doing, in a neutral kind of way, and now he's on a battlefield and there are bombs and guns and terrified men and the scent of gunpowder and death hangs heavy in the air.

His heart almost stops when he hears a very familiar voice, raging through the storm of machines, calling for his men to duck. It's not terribly uncommon for nations to meet on the battlefield, but…Antonio isn't sure he'll be able to handle fighting America head on. Emotionally, that is. He's watched America grow up, from a soft-faced young boy with deceptively wild tendencies to a full adult, strong and powerful, capable of making Antonio feel things he hasn't felt in a long time.

But he can't stop; standing still in the middle of war is suicide, and the only option is moving forward. He does, pressing forward with the rest of the troops – mostly German men – and suddenly there's the sound of an explosion. "Grenade!" somebody screams in his ear, and suddenly a warm, wet liquid splashes across his face and chest. It isn't his; it's from the trench where it would appear American soldiers were hiding. Spain hisses through his teeth. He and some Spanish volunteers have been placed on the Eastern front in what seems to be a last-ditch effort from Germany, and he hasn't expected to meet many enemy soldiers here.

Then, suddenly, just when things seem to be calming down, America himself shoots upward from a pile of bodies with a triumphant scream of rage. His eyes are blazing, his hair is matted with blood, and his uniform is ripped, but that doesn't prevent him from ripping the pin off a grenade and chucking it at the closest target before he seizes a gun and starts firing. The men in Spain's group start cussing wildly and shooting back, and Antonio flinches as he watches three bullets rip into Alfred. But America is running on adrenaline and hate and, despite two bullets to the chest and one to his shooting arm, he doesn't even waver.

It happens simultaneously with the bullet that is intended to go through Alfred's head. As if in slow motion Antonio watches the man beside him fire, watches the bullet spin forward, perfectly positioned to enter Alfred's temple. He isn't going to know what hits him, Antonio thinks, and closes his eyes because something in him doesn't want to see Alfred get hurt.

Then there's a scream of rage and the soldiers around Antonio cry out in shock. Antonio's eyes fly open because he knows that sound, but he wants to close them again almost immediately; there's a violently bright beam of light by Alfred, a blur of shining gold, and it's lashing out and destroying soldiers left and right. Antonio shakes uncontrollably but can't stop himself from staring, and he keeps staring long after the whatever-it-is stops moving and stops shining impossibly bright. Slowly, the light recedes, and suddenly Ozuye is standing silently by Alfred, sides heaving, head lowered aggressively and ears laid back against his skull.

Antonio takes a step back and the stallion, coiled and tense, springs forward with an aggressive snort, and then he rises on his back legs and strikes at Antonio with his front hooves. Alfred doesn't seem to even notice him – he's still firing, switching weapons out, face drawn in concentration, bleeding from numerous wounds, war drawing tension into his body that Spain has rarely seen in the younger nation. But he has his own problems – he has, in fact, tripped and fallen over backwards, staring at the raging stallion above him.

He holds his hands up in a placating gesture, and Ozuye freezes, staring at the palms of his hands. Then, with a little squeal of curiosity, he comes two steps closer and peers at Spain's face. Recognition sparks in his dark eyes, and Antonio wonders if this is simply a war hallucination.

Seconds later, America collapses, gushing blood from numerous wounds, but still snarling threats. Two German men advance on him and Ozuye whirls immediately, pinning his ears back and giving a raging shriek of fury that only a horse can do, before he drives the men off. Then he drops to his front knees, nudging Alfred with his nose, making encouraging whinnies as Alfred struggles up and manages to drape himself over the golden back.

The last thing Spain remembers is Ozuye rising to his feet and seeming to dissolve into thin air, taking America with him.

Obviously a hallucination.

…

It's the turn of the century and all the nations are gathered together, at England's house, to celebrate it together. (Spain only goes because France says they can climb up Big Ben and piss on people down below. France's sense of humor is strange, but the idea of doing that to English citizens appeals to Antonio, so there you have it.) So far, Antonio has consumed two or thirty little sugary drinks that didn't seem to alcoholic at the time, but were possibly stronger than he assumed, since he just watched two Gilberts take a flying leap off the roof they're all gathered on.

From what he can hear, Gilbert gets stuck in a tree. If Antonio were sober, he might laugh or go help, but as it is he stays slumped over the balcony, watching little dots flash before his eyes.

Then Alfred appears beside him. "Hey, Antonio!" he says brightly. His hands are shoved into his pockets since the night is chilly and he smells faintly of herbs.

"Smell like It'ly," Antonio tells him, and presses his forearms into the cool marble.

"Yeah, he thought the vodka was water, drained it, and passed out on me ten minutes later. I took him downstairs and laid him on England's guest bed." America moves to stand side by side with Antonio, gazing out at the scenery. "You seem a little out of it too."

"Didn't plan on it," Antonio tells him honestly. He doesn't feel terribly far gone, only a little fuzzy around the edges. Fuzzy and open. "Sometimes I dream about your eyes. You watch me and then you dissolve into thin air and I can remember the color of your eyes perfectly. It's nice."

There's a confused silence by his side. Then America says, "I have dreams that I'm bleeding out and I can't stop and you appear and heal me."

"When I woke up from the Civil War, you left your shirt at my house and I wore it for a while because it helped calm me down."

"When I was a colony I wanted to marry you because you were the prettiest thing I'd ever seen."

"I like listening to you talk at meetings. You're very enthusiastic."

"Whenever I see you ride a horse I want to fuck you."

That brings the conversation to a halt. "Oh." Antonio feels the sharp edges of the marble pressing into his skin, cool and insistent.

Alfred brings his head down and hunches. "Shit. I'm sorry. I've been drinking. I always fuck things up when I drink." His face is flaming bright red, Antonio notices, and he brings his cold hands down to it. The heat on his fingertips feels nice. He becomes vaguely aware of the other nations yelling something.

"You didn't fuck things up." He slides his freezing hands lower and tucks them just below Alfred's shirt collar, where warmth radiates.

"Wha-"

Antonio brings his mouth down on Alfred's. He may have missed a little at first and kissed the side of his mouth, but he quickly readjusts and suddenly Alfred's arms are wrapping around his torso.

There's an explosion of color and sound above them and all the nations are screaming hysterically. It's 2000, Antonio thinks, and closes his eyes to deepen the kiss. Alfred tastes like warmth and chocolate and expensive silk, oddly enough, and Antonio hitches him closer so he can slide both his hands up his shirt, where it's warm and he can make Alfred squeak.

Antonio wakes up in a bed the next morning. He's in England's guest room, and he's completely naked. Alfred, also naked, is slumbering by his side. Italy, fully clothed and smelling violently of vodka, is at his other side, also still asleep.

His vicious hangover prevents him from doing anything other than burying his face back in the pillow to sleep. Explanations can come later.

….

It's sunny and midafternoon and Antonio is lounging on the couch that he had Alfred drag outside for a siesta in the sun. It's hot and bright and perfect, and Antonio's drifting off to sleep when an absence of something makes his hand twitch.

He cracks his eye open and glances around. It takes him a minute to place it; then he realizes Alfred is not lounging outside with him.

Well. How rude. It's been eleven years since they first kissed and Alfred still doesn't remember to take siestas when he's visiting Spain, which is most impolite. Spain heaves an irritated sigh and gets to his feet. He knows exactly where Alfred will be; typing away at his laptop inside, answered an endless stream of emails and filling out endless paperwork. The boy works himself almost to death sometimes. Antonio presses his lips together and starts thinking of…creative…ways to drag Alfred away from his work.

He stops dead in the doorway of the living room. Alfred's back is turned to him as he is, predictably, hunched over his computer. But that isn't what's so unusual. What's unusual is the large stallion that's plucking at Alfred's sleeve with his teeth and making little nickering noises. As Antonio watches, shock freezing him in place, Alfred flaps a hand at the horse. "Oz, seriously, go away. I need to work on these proposals and then I'll stop working, promise."

The stallion is apparently unconvinced, and then he catches sight of Spain in the doorway. He brightens and whinnies loudly at Spain and then stomps a hoof in exasperation when Alfred doesn't turn around. Another stomp and Alfred finally says, "Jesus, okay, you little brat!" and snaps his laptop closed. Then he stands, stretches, and catches sight of Antonio. "Oh, hey, handsome!" he comes and gives Spain a quick kiss on the cheek. "I was just coming out to join you! You didn't have'ta get up. Isn't this around the time you're dead to the world?"

It's now or never. "What the hell is that horse doing in my house?"

"Oz? Oh. Oh, shit, yeah, he's probably ruining the carpet. Yo, Ozuye!" The stallion, which has been gazing severely out the window, turns and looks askance at Alfred. "Look, I'm not working anymore, so go pester other horses or something. I don't need any help, you big lug."

Ozuye gives Alfred a doubtful look. "I promise," Alfred tries. The horse doesn't move. "Oh, honestly-"Alfred breaks down into a stream of language that Antonio vaguely remembers, from somewhere, but could never hope to understand. Still, it seems to do the trick. Antonio watches as Ozuye leaves.

By which he means fades from sight. Into the air.

"What…?" he demands shakily.

"Yeaaaah, I guess I've kept you in the dark long enough on this one." Alfred scrunches his nose up in that apologetic way that Antonio has become so familiar to. "How far back do you remember Oz?"

"You…um…you were a colony, and we played with him all day." Spain thinks back to that gorgeous stallion, standing so proud and strong over his charge, tiny America. "He didn't trust me and he seemed bound and determined to protect you against everything."

America seems impressed. "Wow, good memory. Yeah, he doesn't trust easily. He seems to like you more now, though."

"But that's impossible," Spain protests. "You can't…no horse can possibly live to be over two hundred years. Are they just descendants?"

"Nope. It's been Ozuye the whole time. Okay. Um. Back before Europe came over and colonized, I had very strong ties with my Native people. One of these tribes, the Lakota, I was particularly close to, because they helped me out during a harsh winter when I was very young and sick. Of course, I mean, I was close to the land before everything else, but…ah, okay, the point is, they became an integral part of my life and I became one in theirs. And one day they granted me a spirit guardian."

Spain gapes at America. "They can do that?"

America's smile is small and oddly sad. "They could. There were connections then that I don't think even they fully understood. They're mostly demolished now. But at any rate, I was going up to visit the colder northern areas, and the tribe couldn't come with me, so they finally decided to send me with a spirit guardian. They called him Ozuye, which means 'warrior', and we became extremely close to each other during the trip. He always manifests himself as a horse, so I'm not sure if that's by choice or if he's actually a horse full time. The legends are a little tricky to decipher. At any rate, he stayed by me, even when I started losing touch with my Native roots, and he always helps me out. I mean, I'm sure by now you've realized he isn't an ordinary stallion."

Spain thinks back to every encounter. "He acts so…human."

"Well, he's had a lot of practice watching me," Alfred laughs. "He's almost constantly around somewhere, making sure I'm not in trouble. He's careful not to show himself directly to other nations that much, though. He's much more comfortable around you."

"I…when you were little…I dreamed he was made of stars," Spain says wonderingly. "I woke up and he was absolutely covered in stars."

Alfred simply looks at him. "That sounds like an interesting dream."

"…was it a dream?"

Alfred raises an eyebrow and presses his lips together. "Think about it, 'Tonio. A horse made of stars? That's a little far out there, yeah? Anyway, I'm exhausted. Let's go take a nap."

Antonio lets Alfred drag him back outside and shove him on the couch so they can cuddle and nap at the same time. He can't shake that strange quirk of Alfred's mouth, the mysterious little smile that says so much more than Antonio knows he'll ever be able to understand. For the first time he realizes that perhaps Alfred is older than he really lets on.

Antonio dreams that there is brilliant sun, dappling through a tree and falling on his face in patches. It is warm and golden and he is curled up with Alfred, who is breathing gently in sleep. He feels warmer and safer and brighter than he has in a long time.

When he looks to his left, Ozuye is standing there impassively, completely illuminated by sunlight, making his dark accents look like inky shadows. He stares at the two for a moment, seems to consider something, and then dips his head very slightly. Then he turns and begins to trot off…except his hooves leave the ground and he appears to ascend an invisible hill in the sky, until his coat and the sun meld together and Antonio can't see the difference anymore and he closes his eyes and tightens his grip on Alfred a little.

Another dream.

….

You can blame my obsessive love for my incredibly stupid but amazing horse on this one. Also a desire to try out Spain/America. It probably came out a little weird because after a certain point I just wanted to get it done. Hope you guys enjoyed! I was dabbling with a new pair and new ideas and all that. The Native America thing is a bit clichéd, but ah well. I did try to represent it a little differently.

Um. To clear up possible confusion:

Q: Why were Antonio and Alfred naked in a bed with a fully clothed Italy?

A: You're a big kid. You figure it out. Just know that Italy did not participate. (Alfred and Antonio, I hope you're ashamed…)

Q: Why'd you pick the Lakota tribe and not any other ones?

A: There are over two hundred registered Native American tribes, counting villages in Alaska. I'm not about to go through and pick over every one. I kind of made up my own logic and picked a fairly well-known tribe. Yes, I am aware that the Lakota tribe is a confederation made up of seven different tribes. Just…go with it. This is a fiction piece I did for fun!

Okay, I'm tired and I'm just going to post this now. Thanks for reading!