Bonjour! I know, I really ought to stop starting up these series. But I can't help myself, sometimes an idea just hits me and wham! there I am typing it up. And then I realize that I can't possibly fit it into a oneshot, so obviously I have to make it a multi-chapter thing.
I do hope that you enjoy this one though. It has to do with horse racing and shtuff. Je ne sais pas pourquoi I decided to write this, or what inspired me, but it hit me like a runaway horse (hahahaha...haha...ha...) so here we are. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia franchise, so the vast majority of characters that will be starring in this work are not my property.

Off to a Land of Pouring Rain

"I don't like people," said Velvet. "... I only like horses."

―Enid Bagnold, National Velvet

The first time Alfred saw Arthur was at the Santa Anita Handicap in California United States. The man, dressed impeccably in a gray-pinstriped suit, was staring absently out at the track. You could tell that he wasn't paying attention to the massive beasts working their way through the dirt, sweat glistening and darkening their necks, white foam frothing at their bit-laden mouths. His greener-than-green eyes were gazing but not seeing.

Alfred was fascinated with the silhouette this man cut against the excited people cheering about him. Screams and yells and curses were sailing through the air, like cannon fire from ships, but they flew right over this removed man, curving around his stoic figure.

Alfred did eventually return his eyes to the track, locking and tracking on the horses that he had spent his life surrounded by. The 1967 Santa Anita Handicap was claimed by the horse Hill Rise. Alfred felt a flicker of disappointment that the animal he'd betted on hadn't gotten the first place title, but he eventually pushed it aside. He hadn't lain down that much money, two bucks in total.

When he returned his blue gaze to where the man with wild blond hair had been, he noticed only the absence of the man's body from the crowd of disappointed and elated spectators. Alfred collected himself, standing in his moccasin-clad feet, as was the fashion of the late '60s, his button down, patterned shirt stretching across a chest toned and muscled from working with horses, dark blue Levis hanging comfortably on his frame.

He waited until the majority of the people who had been packed into the newly renovated Santa Anita racetrack had flooded out before working his way down the concrete steps that adorned the bleachers and grandstands. Once he got to the rail blockading people from hopping onto the track, he hopped easily over it, his moccasins landing securely in the firm hold of the dirt track beneath him. He shouldn't be doing this, but it was a habit he'd developed at his first race where he was running a horse he'd trained back in 1956, and so he figured, why the hell not. If he could do it when he was sixteen, why not at twenty-eight.

After checking that the coast was clear, he began to walk the track, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, his eyes focused on the clumped dirt beneath his feet. He wasn't walking where the horses had run, choosing instead to forge a path of his own on the untouched area of the track that was bordering the opposite fence.

He didn't realize that he had company until he heard someone clearing their throat behind him. He paused then, working his hands nervously out of his pockets and closing his eyes a moment before turning to face the other person.

It was the man from before, that man with the empty green eyes, hidden back in a gray pinstriped suit. Alfred waited for him to speak first, since he'd felt such a pressing need to interrupt him on his traditional walk around the track.

"Might I ask what you're doing?" spoke the man, momentarily startling Alfred with the British accent that was flavoring each word.

"Just walking the track, sir," was Alfred's response, making a motion that implied that he intended to resume his activity when this man spoke up again.

"I'm Arthur," he said, awkwardly, confusing Alfred as to why he was trying to start a conversation with a man who was very obviously not interested in participating. But, Alfred, being the gentleman that he was raised to be, forced himself to take part.

"I'm Alfred." Then an uncertain pause, "Er, not to be rude, sir, but why are you talking to me?"

"I've heard about you, Alfred," said Arthur, taking a few more steps to make himself level with the taller horse trainer. "I have heard that you have a way about you, an aura of some sort that appeals to horses." He paused, waiting for Alfred to slowly nod his head in confirmation of what Arthur was saying. "I was hoping that you wouldn't mind accompanying me back to England so that you might work your sorcery on my own racehorses," he pushed it all out in a rush of words, but Alfred was able to understand all of it.

The American's eyes widened in complete and utter surprise. "What the hell?" he snapped, losing all attempts at using decorum, "You can't just walk up to someone and ask if they would like to go with you back to England, man! That's so wrong. I have a life, ya know," he said, giving him an injured, defensive look. "Besides, I'm already working for someone."

"That's already been dealt with. He says he is very pleased to relinquish you so that I may have you for my own trainer. Your pay would be double what it is now," he said, running over Alfred's attempts to interrupt him.

Alfred's jaw just hung open after Arthur complete his statement, his mind automatically beginning to run the numbers. That would be a lot. That would be close to roughly 250,000 a year. Now Alfred was rethinking things.

"Ya know, I'm not a person's property, Arthur, so I'm not obligated to accept your proposal. But," he enunciated this word clearly and loudly, understanding that Arthur was going to say something, judged by the Brit's parting mouth, "I will accept your offer. I've never been to England before, and I know the Beatles hail from across the pond, so why not?" he shrugged, though he could list several reasons as to 'why not.'

A slow, pleased smile spread along Arthur's lips, and he reached out to grip Alfred's upper arm with a firm hold, "Wonderful, he relinquished the limb in favor of holding his right hand out in front of him. "So we have a deal?"

Alfred didn't even think twice before he was sliding his own hand through the proffered one, wrapping his long digits around to give a firm handshake. "Yes, we have a deal," he responded, a brilliant smile seizing his features. "What time are we leaving?"

Arthur pulled out an old-fashioned pocket watch, forcing Alfred to hold back a snicker.

"In about three hours, actually." He replied languidly, snapping the golden contraption closed and sliding it back into his breast pocket.

At those simple words, a jaunty stream of curse words burst forth from Alfred's mouth, and he was slipping over the rail around the track yelling that he'd meet Arthur at the barn when he was ready to leave. He had some, rather a lot, of packing to do, and Arthur had not given him a particularly ample time frame for doing it.

Arthur watched the energetic young American sprint out of the arena, his green eyes watching the very toned butt that was slowly distancing itself from him. Yes, he had to say, this would be an interesting next few years. Who knew, maybe he'd actually start watching the races that his horses were running.

True to both of their words, Arthur and Alfred met with one another outside of the barn. The activity that bustled around them was one of lazy happiness. The grooms were happy that the major hubbub leading up to the Handicap was over, the jockeys were pleased that they didn't have to stress over what to do on the track anymore, and horses were just happy to be back in their stalls, surrounded by food, and some nice, comfortable hay to rest on. Their hides were gleaming in the burnished gold of the setting sun, comfortable waves of the soft light resting on the muscles that were covered with the smooth black, chestnut, white pelts of the thoroughbreds.

Before Arthur got there, Alfred allowed himself to take a deep inhale of the familiar musky stable air; that traditional smell of the horses, the odor of the hay; the chirping of the crickets around the stalls, the comfortable buzz of grooms' conversations, the angry mutterings of the trainers.

He'd worked here, at the Santa Anita track, for about five years, and had been a trainer handed off to anyone who needed their horse to get whipped into shape, and quick. So leaving was going to be a whole new milestone for him.

Then he heard the sound of shoes thunking on packed dirt behind him, and he turned to face Arthur. The British man could see the wisps of remembrance hiding in Alfred's gentle blue eyes. But he forced himself not to feel any sympathy for this character.

"Come along then, I have a cab waiting to take us to the airport," he said motioning for the American to make his way over to the idling cab, which was, actually, a limo. Alfred cocked one doubtful eyebrow at the green-eyed Brit before chucking his suitcase in the truck and sliding in. He didn't have a lot to speak of in the way of material possessions, so packing wasn't necessarily difficult. He was a bit dramatic sometimes, that was all.

Once Arthur had clambered in, the driver purred the limousine into motion, and they began their trek to England.

For Alfred, arriving in this country was earth-shattering. There was so much different to him, so many new things to absorb. The streets were driven by cars that were heading in different directions than they would in the United States. The British pound was exchanging hands with mumbled whispers tinged with accents.

The London airport was the one they flew into, which meant that there would be a bit of a drive to reach Arthur's house and stables. The flight had been thoroughly uneventful. Alfred had stared out the window the majority of the time, even if there was nothing to see there but white cloud cover and cool blue water. He wasn't much of a type to read books, and besides, he didn't currently have any with him to entertain himself with anyway. He'd tried drumming out a beat on the food tray, but that caused both Arthur and the woman sitting in front of him to turn and give him reprimanding glares. So, feeling much like a scolded child, he'd resorted to the very last form of entertainment out there: the sky they were flying in.

By the time they'd gotten his suitcase and into the limo, it was close to dinner time. But Arthur was unwilling to pull over and get a bite to eat, adamant in his refusals, claiming that he had some business to take care of upon their arrival at his home. So Alfred was forced to sit there, his stomach grumbling and whining for some food, while they drove the long, one and a half hour drive to Arthur's little ranch thing. Or at least that's what Alfred assumed it was.

The car pulled into the gravel drive, jolting Alfred awake, his head lifting from where it had rested on the window. His inquisitive, crystal-blue eyes slowly took in the sprawling ranch in front of him. The house itself wasn't that grand, surprisingly enough. It had a flat face, and was made of rocks. There were roughly six separate windows stuck periodically into the front of it, all arching around a dark brown, wooden door. This door had a tiny little doorstep, and no cover, or overhang whatsoever. Alfred thought that this was a bit of an inconvenience, but he didn't voice as much. The stables were a ways off from the house, he could see roughly the design and shape of it. It was a pure white, with a hexagonal shape to it. The roof was arching in two gray slabs that were connected with one another at the top. The building, though the majority was white, was also slowly getting overrun by ivy. The greedy green plant was grasping at the sides and front of the barn, adding a cheerful sort of quaintness to the whole thing.

Alfred was excited to see what the insides looked like, the important stuff. But first, Arthur made him walk into the house and put his stuff in the room appointed for him.

Though the house didn't look like much from the outside, the inside was another story. The walls were all covered with sensible wallpaper, bleak and gray. The floors were a solid hardwood and the rooms organized and clean. Evidently, this man wasn't keeping up with the latest fashions. Well, either that, or he wasn't interested in them. Alfred would put money on the latter.

A set of narrow stairs led up to the second floor where the bedrooms were located. There were about four up there, but Alfred didn't get to peek at them as he was led directly to one further down the hallway. When the door opened, he was greeted with the rather pleasant sight of a king sized bed. There was a white blanket resting, folded, at the foot of the bed, embroidered at the edges with fancy curlicues of birds and rabbits. Alfred raised an eyebrow and turned, askance, to the Brit next to him, but Arthur refused to give a spoken answer. His flaming cheeks spoke for him when it came to that. The comforter itself was a coffee brown, and plain. But Alfred was okay with that, he liked simple. Simple was good. There was a darker brown rug resting beneath the bed, and a chestnut side table next to it, where the lamp was sitting, throwing off its warm yellow light through its darker yellow lampshade. The walls were still gray in here, making the space a little disjointed, but not overtly soon. And the caketopper to it all was the view that was allowed him. There were evidently windows on the sides of the house, as this one gave a direct view to the stables and the paddock behind them. Alfred wanted to squeal and screech and jump up and down, but he restrained himself. "Thanks dude," he said finally, grinning cheerfully over at Arthur.

Arthur, upon seeing the approval on Alfred's face, relaxed incrementally. That was good, he'd been stressing the entire plane ride over how this horse trainer would take to his living arrangements. He adapted unnaturally well, but who was Arthur to judge.

"Excellent," he said, clearing his throat, "I'm glad that you're pleased with your accommodations. It is fair of me to assume that you would like to see the stables next, yes?" he asked Alfred, not exactly wanting to go over there himself.

Alfred nodded his head eagerly in reaction. All thoughts of hunger had fled his mind now at the new things he'd come in contact with. His mother always had told him that he had the memory of a goldfish and the attention span of a squirrel. "Hell yes!" he said, jumping slightly to do a fistpump in the air.

And not for the first time, Arthur wondered why he'd taken this dolt to his home.

"Well, than one of the stable boys will take you over," he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably before exiting the room. Alfred's fist lowered, confusion making him lose a bit of his exuberance.

"I don't…" he trailed off, but the stablehand that Arthur had spoken of was already at the door.

"Good evening!" spoke up the lad, his blond hair shining gold in the light of the side table lamp. "My name's Peter, what about yours?" he asked him, a childlike excitement marking his face.

Alfred grinned, happy to have someone he could relate to for once. "Alfred, Alfred Jones." He said, walking over to the boy with those strange, innocently sapphire-like eyes.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Jones! Let me show you to the stables."

And so they walked, well, in Peter's case skipped, over to the place where Alfred would be spending the majority of his time in England. The grass around the dirt path leading to the barn was fresh and green, presumably from all the rain that England was rumored to receive.

Walking into the stables, he was blasted with the change in temperature. It was certainly cooler than it was outside. They were on the verge of summer, it being March and all, and so the air conditioning was being used a bit more often. After that initial surprise, Alfred got to really take a look around, and he liked what he saw.

The floors were clean, concrete, and without a slope. Each stall was well maintained, and the edges were covered with metal to keep the horses from gnawing on the wood. There was an opening for them to pop their heads out above the doors, but the locks were such that no horse could get it undone with his tongue. There were bars along the length of the stall next to the openings, about a foot long, and then there was the solid wood of the rest of the structure. The barn ceiling was high, allowing for a place to put hay and other tack that might be used for purposes other than racing and riding. Feed buckets looked proper, and guarded, water bins were all filled to the brim, and the floor of every stall was layered healthily and thickly with hay. It was quite literally a horse's haven. The tack room was clean, each piece of equipment shined and greased to a polish, and in excellent condition. There were names next to the saddlepads and bridles so as not to confuse and possible spread a sickness around. The feed was in buckets with lids that rats couldn't get at. Not that there were that many rats to begin with, because, no doubt, there was a reasonably number of barncats living in the hayshed.

The only problem was, Alfred didn't see any horses. Blinking, he looked about, before turning to Peter, the question about to burst out of his mouth when the boy was already answering it.

"Most of the horses are out in the pasture sir. We have a couple of our expecting mothers in the stalls further back. They're larger, to allow more space for the birthing and stuff!" he ended with an upwards curve to his sentence. The constant upbeatedness was beginning to bear on Alfred, but he supposed that he wasn't really much different.

"Is that so? Could you show me these mares?" he asked, curiosity and intrigue making him eager to find out who the sires of their foals were. Peter obediently led him over to the two back stalls. On either side stood the mares, their bellies round and barrel-shaped with their soon-to-be-born foals. The one on Alfred's right was a lovely, jet-black mare with a white band starting in the middle of her forehead and sloping down her face before taking a sudden curve off of her muzzle, and presumably ending at her chin. She had dark, chocolate eyes that were calm and bored with their environment.

"That's Midnight's Appeal. This will be her fourth foal, one of her last I think. She was already rather old when she had her first one. Her foal was sired by Cold Climate." Alfred felt his heart drop. That was disappointing, he didn't want a famous hunter with this one. He wanted a good thoroughbred. But he couldn't completely discount the hunter horse genes. They had a great amount of stamina and dexterity. He just didn't know about speed.

The horse across from Midnight's Appeal was a gorgeous chestnut, sleek and tall. She held her head high, and her eyes looked at him with a fiery challenge. That red mane of hers was tossed haughtily in the air at his gaze, as if she knew that she had to impress him now or her foal would never be considered for a racer. Her belly wasn't as big as Midnight's, showing that she still had a ways to go.

"This is Let's Set the World on Fire," said Peter, sheepishly grinning at Alfred, "I call her Flicker. I believe it suits her better than that ridiculously long showboat name Arthur gave her. He hadn't even seen her before her named her, you know. She's only about five, so she still has some foals and years left in her. This is her first." Alfred nodded absently, delighted to the bone with the animation sparking this horse's actions.

"The foal's sire? What's his name?" he asked holding a hand out, carefully, for Flicker to sniff. He didn't want to get his fingers chomped off. The horse eyed him a moment, a sort of human intelligence hiding in those dark eyes, before gently brushing her soft muzzle against the skin of his palm. A small smile tugged at Alfred's lips. She was his favorite, beyond a doubt.

"She was bred with Dr. Fager, sir."

"Why haven't any of your horses been bred with British equine?" asked Alfred suddenly, dropping his hand from where it had been petting Flicker's muzzle.

Peter shrugged. "I don't know, Mr. Jones. You'd have to ask Mr. Kirkland that question, he's the one who handles all of those matters."

The tour of the other horses in the paddock was done in record time. They were all beautiful, and some were primed thoroughbreds. Alfred was eager to get them out on the track. But in the meantime, he had some questions for Arthur, and he liked to think that he knew exactly how to ask them.

So, what did we think? Was it good, horrible, reasonable, honest, true, exciting, interesting, boring? You're not obligated to let me know your thoughts, but I do appreciate them. I promise that the next chapter will pick things up, on romance and on actual horse-y stuff. :3

Toodaloo! Enjoy your week!