It didn't really hurt to tell him it had to end. This little game of 'tequila night' they had, him and Mexico, it was eating away at Alfred's dreams and causing a level of anxiety he wasn't used to. He couldn't take England's name-calling anymore or the look of disappointment in those green, green eyes. England didn't like Mexico, and if it would make him happy to let Mexico go, then… Alfred had to do it.

So it didn't really hurt to tell him that their games had to come to a stop. In fact, it barely numbed him to watch Pablo Rodriguez's slow and almost graceful understand of what was developing before him. Pablo wasn't stupid, even for being Spain's son; he knew from the minute Alfred opened his mouth why they were doing this, and Alfred knew it as well.

The only thing that hurt was Pablo's understanding of the situation, the calm and cautious realization; Alfred guessed he wanted him to cry, at least know that he hurt him somehow, see the pain across the sun-burnt face. But there was nothing.

In fact, Pablo didn't show any sign of even being remotely affected by what Alfred said.

"I can't do this anymore," Alfred had told him, "because I'm in love with Arthur, and it's wrong to use you that way."

The relationship – if it could be called that – between them, it wasn't a bad one, really. Alfred was too easily lost in his love for one Arthur Kirkland; his dreams were plagued by green eyes and messy hair and bushy eyebrows, not by a straw sombrero and gardener's gloves. Whenever Alfred would grow desperate for Arthur, Pablo was there with his arms open, offering comfort and sanctuary disguised in pretense.

No, the relationship wasn't bad. Just complicated. It had had dark places ahead of it, and Alfred supposed he was doing them both a favor by ending it when he did. But it felt so wrong to be here now, watching Pablo's expression go from understanding to pity to something unrecognizable, pretending to still be his friend… when he knew he hurt him, knew that he deserved to be hated and screamed at and cursed out.

Nothing. Pablo said nothing. Didn't call him sick for falling for the nation who had once been his Empire and older brother – Alfred shuddered to think of what Arthur would say if he ever found out – and didn't push him away.

"I would like to still be your friend, Senor America," he said instead, and brought him forward into… into a hug.

And Alfred broke.

Arthur would never love him, and Alfred knew that. But he couldn't use Mexico to soothe his own desires for the unattainable nation. He wasn't good enough for Arthur, wasn't strong enough or… romantic enough, smart enough. Arthur needed something more than a lost little boy with a crush.

He had France, anyway, and though Alfred felt lost and cold and broken down into pieces, he could still force that smile onto his face when Arthur told him how happy he was with France.

It wasn't fair.

And he had hurt Pablo, and hurt himself, but Arthur was so blindingly happy…

And Alfred gave up.

I quit.

I could ache for your touch, kill for your love, but I cannot watch you be happy with somebody who will only hurt you in the end.

I love you, Arthur.

I quit.

Pablo held him. Alfred cried.

A/N: I love this pairing way too much, even if it's only in my imagination. Up next: Jump, in which America sees a very infamous play with a very famous president.