A/N: Both Mexicos belong to me; I thought they would do well with an introductory fic, since I'm likely to be using them in future works. Thanks to Savcat, Kanki Youji, and my friends at school for helping them grow as characters.

Sometimes Pablo felt close to invisible.

He knew it was silly to feel that way. Just because he wasn't invited to the world conferences, just because his presence in war was mostly forgotten… that didn't mean he was unimportant or anything. Hi sister, Maria – designated "Northern Mexico," though really she was the whole country and everyone knew it, including her – she noticed him, and loved him, even when their mutual loneliness attempted to overshadow one another's.

And the Mexicos offered services, decent work for not much money, that the other nations appreciated, if silently. They were far too busy with their wars and their economic hardships and their importance to worry about silly things like their messy, weed-infested gardens, or their overflowing trashcans.

(Pablo planted every one of France's roses. Maria dusted England's shelves to keep the model ships nice and clean. And no one said a word.)

They were paid well for their work; France supplied them with the money he could give, England with trade, and even the smaller nations like Portugal and Australia managed to offer something in return for their labor.

All but America, but Pablo understood why. America was in a recession right now, he couldn't afford to pay even the full minimum wage fee, but it was all right. America could look at him and see him as a nation, as a person, and not just an employee with dirt-encrusted gardening gloves.

America paid attention to him. He wouldn't let Mexico become another Canada. So Pablo could forgive the issue of payment for the time being.

And America… well, Pablo could probably forgive him for everything.

(The soil of America's garden always felt so cool between his fingers. Damp and soothing and gold with pollen. It felt like liberation and a hero's smile.)

America was kind to him, after all. The work that America supplied was steady, and his words were gentle, if sometimes a bit loud. His hands were always warm on Pablo's shoulders and his eyes were earnest, young and innocent (Pablo I need your help), jacket sometimes stained with ketchup or mustard, other times dusted with gunpowder.

And sometimes both. America was like that – able to look so incredibly honest and open-hearted with his gun in the face of speculation.

(Sometimes their hands brushed when America handed him his paycheck. Pablo tried not to notice when his heart skipped, or when his face flushed hot and shameful.)

Above all, America was his friend. That thought alone was enough to give him a warm feeling, like summertime by the Gulf. (Maria told him he was being childish. He argued that if being a child included America, then he didn't want to ever grow up.)

They could talk like there wasn't any tension, could lean on one another until America's breath gave him goosebumps, could bare their minds and hearts to each other like there was no border between them (America's voice whispering, "keep away, only sadness dwells here").

So it was normal to want to invite him over. It was probably normal to hesitate too – invite your employer to dinner? It seemed a bit absurd – fingers hovering over the buttons nervously, trying to summon the courage to dial.

The hollow ringing on the other end made him feel like hanging up, or being sick with nerves, but then the soft click and "hello" made him struggle to think, English broken like shards of glass in his mouth.

"You should eat dinner with us tonight," came like a question when he'd meant it to be a suggestion, and was relieved when America said, "okay".

"We're having enchiladas," Pablo clarified for no particular reason, motioning to his sister to start cooking. She rolled her pretty dark eyes at him as the mop danced across the floor.

"You are such a child, mi hermano," Maria told him.

As he hung up, America's voice still echoed in his ears.