1987

There were only four or five of those devices in the whole country. Suárez got one, Juan Carlos too, and now Spain was the proud owner of a Nokia portable phone. The problem was he had no idea of how that darn thing worked exactly.

"Juancar?"

Nope. Nothing. That thing made weird noises but he didn't hear his king. He had pressed all buttons they had told him to, reread the instruction book, why didn't it work? He didn't want to break that thing, it cost 700,000 pesetas. So he looked at the instruction paper once again and pressed the buttons more carefully, in case he missed a step or something.

But a sudden, horrible feeling inside of his stomach, like if he was burning from the inside, made him drop the precious device and made him writhe in pain, and people around him in the park approached.

"Mr. Spain?"

"Somebody call an ambulance!"

He was taken to the hospital, where the doctors found a third degree burn in the right side of his torso, something incomprehensible because Spain had not been near a stove or any source of fire that day. It was all explained when the news spread and agents from the government came to pick him up and told him the whole story.

He didn't need to see the pictures to know the horror that had happened that morning. He had flashes inside his mind.

He saw the first floor of the parking of the Hipercor mall in Barcelona destroyed by a car filled to the top with hundreds of kilograms of explosives and chemical products anyone could buy at the supermarket...; home-made napalm. He saw a great hole which made a ball of fire ascend to the supermarket. What made him fall to the ground in pain at the park was the shock of twenty one painful deaths, many of them burnt alive due to the ingredients used in the explosion, carefully selected to adhere to the skin and carbonize it.

E.T.A. claimed they warned the authorities beforehand but Spain only cared about one thing: his people had been injured, killed, and none of them were influential or worked in the military or the police. They were just families who wanted to buy groceries.

They were only civilians...

His tears were shared with Catalonia, when they saw each other at the funeral.

"Why does Basque do this...?" She wept in his shoulder.

Spain had to wipe the tears off his face before replying.

"He didn't do it...Some people just don't know how to love nations..."

President González left the pen on the desk and grabbed the papers.

"So, we agree that the terrorist group Euskadi Ta Askatasuna does not represent the Basque nation."

He glanced at Basque Country, who nodded gravely. He looked like he would have spat on those people's face if they had been in the room. The President looked back at the paper and read aloud:

"Also, and due to the abominable actions they have committed, we condemn the methods used to this day, consisting on extortion, intimidation and murder. All representatives of the Basque nation here present will have to publicly reject said actions and collaborate with the central government in the chase and arrest of all members of the band. No political party shall negotiate with the band again. E.T.A. will be required to cease all violence and surrender their weapons immediately."

González looked at both nations.

"Will that be alright?"

"Yes." Basque replied. Spain nodded too.

They should have known the band wouldn't take this pact well.

Spain lost balance for the second time in that year on December, when a car filled with explosives entered a civil guard barracks house in Zaragoza and caused the collapse of one of the building inhabited by families of members of the Civil Guard. Out of eleven casualties, two of them were wives and five, little girls. The youngest, twins, were only three years old. Some of the thirty six injured were left dramatically mutilated.

And those monsters celebrated with champagne shamelessly in the streets, at the restaurants, anywhere...

They celebrated because that meant one less cop, politician or guard on Spain's side. As for the civilians...Yes, the people who were killed had no fault at all, they were often unrelated to Spain's bosses and guardians. But they were still his people. Every time one of them was killed, his heart ached.

They had to make him suffer until he couldn't take it any longer.

But Spain tried...He tried...

The attacks were a burden on his conscience but not the only one. Not having a dime, Franco's ghost talking to him in his sleep, telling him that things were much better before, the pressure, the stress, having to catch up with a world that evolved too quick...

The fairy dust made him feel a little better...

He just had to inhale and everything didn't seem so bad for a while...

He tried to hide it but he couldn't fool everyone. Some of his friends took it regularly. His friend Patricia just chuckled when she found out and told him he was sniffing too much quantity. He didn't want to end up like Paco, who was now mugging old ladies in the streets, or Diana, who had become a trembling, emaciated mess, or Serafín and Alberto, who died, right?

Spain was made of something special and knew that was not going to happen. Not that he looked like Arturo Fernández, but at least he could bring himself to smile at people...

1989

He passed by the remains of the wall, decorated with messages and graffiti, and Spain wondered once again if Prussia would have time for him, if he was still with his brother Germany, making up for all of those years being apart from each other. Had he been separated from his family in such a way, he said to himself, he would not have let go of them in four centuries, at least.

But there was Prussia, in the place convened. And it was funny for Spain to see him dressed in the modern fashion, with jeans, t-shirt and anorak—fashion had changed so much in forty years and only then did he notice. They embraced tightly.

"I'm so glad to see you again..." Spain muttered.

"They fed you well, I see." Prussia observed. "Good! Last time I saw you you were a walking skeleton—no, no, wait: you couldn't even walk."

"You are a walking skeleton." Spain chuckled. "What? Russia didn't treat you well?"

"Shut up! I don't want to hear that name as long as I live!"

"Bah! Don't worry about it! You only need three things: cocido, callos and jamón. They will make you both recover the lost weight and remember what food is."

"I got no idea of what those things are, but I really don't care. I trust you. I just want to eat till the buttons in my pants burst!"

Spain wrapped an arm around him. "Don't worry, my child, Papá España will feed you. You're going to put on a lot of weight. I'm making it my mission."

And the two of them walked together through the streets of Berlin.

Prussia went through so much worse...It gave him perspective.

1991

Spain was half asleep in front of the television when he got a call.

"Yes?" He answered, his eyes still glued.

"Antonio. It's me, Felipe."

"What Felipe?"

"What Felipe?" The voice mocked him.

"Ah, yeah. Sorry. I've met so many Felipes before...Did something happen?" He thought he was alright, but those days he wasn't sure about anything...And once the effect of the fairy dust vanished, he was left like he had ran through traffic...

"It's good news, don't worry. France is going to collaborate with us to find these E.T.A. terrorists."

Did he hear well? No, if couldn't be. It would have sounded much more plausible that a UFO had landed in the middle of Seville.

"Is he?" He asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Yeah, don't you know?"

"I haven't talked much to France these last decades."

"Funny because he..."

Ding dong!

"Wait, wait a second." Spain told Felipe.

He left the phone aside and rushed to answer the door. And who was there?

"...is here. I had a meeting with him this morning. Antonio?" González kept talking.

Spain gazed at France for long.

"...France..." Was it a question? An exclamation? Was he happy to see him or kind of angry? France couldn't read the tone of his voice.

"...Hello, Spain..." France also gazed at him with his hands inside of the pockets of his suit. "...May I come in?"

"Uh, sure..."

Spain walked to the phone, said to González he would call him later, hanged up and welcomed his guest as he deserved.

"Sit down, sit down. Uh, sorry about the mess. If I had known you were coming, I would have cleaned a bit...Yeah, that's my underwear, give it to me. Thanks. Sorry. Do you want something? I've got...let me see...orange juice, beer, soda, coffee..."

"No, thank you. I just had dinner." France replied, taking off his jacket and sitting down.

"I've got crackers. If you want something to eat..."

"No, no."

Since his guest didn't want anything, Spain returned to the living room and sat by France's side.

"Felipe just told me you came to offer your help against..."

"Yes...Uhm...I am really ashamed. Those who did what happened in Zaragoza...They were people from my house. They think I am not going to do anything to them because you have no jurisdiction in my territory...But I will find them and give them what they deserve."

"Are you serious?"

"Uh-huh. I...saw what happened the other day, to that little girl..."

"Ah. Yes."

"They didn't mention on the news if she survived in the end..."

"Yes. She's fine. She lost her legs and some fingers, but she's alright. And her mom too."

France nodded, glad to hear that. "I really hate murderers...specially those who harm children..."

Spain couldn't help remembering when he didn't hesitate to order his people, children included, be executed—but he supposed those were the kind of things everyone did at war, so he didn't hold it against him. He was not going to spoil this strangely nice initiative. "...Gee, France, thanks a lot. That's a huge help." He said instead.

France gazed at his own lap, then glanced at Spain.

"...How have you been? I mean..."

"Good, good...Well, you know, the recent events have left me a bit...scarred...but it'll get better, I know. Now that you guys let me join the European club I feel like a big boy, and I am so excited."

Spain kept talking and he didn't notice how France's frown grew as he spoke.

"...Get to know people I have never talked to, hang out with friends, to important stuff..."

"Well, this is enough. What are you playing to?"

Spain hushed, staring at France blinking with confusion, his smile fading.

"...Pardon?"

"All of this you are doing." France snapped. "You know very well that I didn't want you to join and tried to convince everyone to leave you out. I turned my back on you when you most needed a bit of sympathy. I have not respected any pact we've made. I have done to you the vilest things I could come up with ever since the day we met. And you know what? I don't regret it. Not one bit. And what do you do? You welcome me in your house, offer me coffee and crackers and talk to me like we were lifelong friends. What are your intentions? You can't be stupid enough to just overlook all of that. If I was you, I wouldn't have even opened the door. I would have refused any help."

After a moment of silence, the smile returned to Spain's lips.

"I'm just silly. I am really, really silly. The silliest person alive." He chuckled.

Still smiling, he sighed.

"Of course I remember all of that. How could I forget. I still have some scars—mostly here." He pointed at his forehead. "And you know why it hurt so much? Because, despite everything, I have always considered you my brother. I still remember the times when all I had was you, a little girly boy called Gaul. I know those times are never going to come back...The times when we were just Hispania and Gaul, two provinces no one cared about, who only had each other in the world. But holding grudge eternally...let me tell you something about grudge, France...it only takes you to very dark places...I've lived in the dark for too long. Now things are different. I have the chance to get to know nations who used to be so far away, I was angry at for a piece of land or a different belief...I have friends, I am no one's puppet anymore...I feel like I can be myself at last...A new me, a me who has learned a lot of valuable lessons...I know you, and some others think I am a fool, a clown. Yes. I know. But that's because I want to be happy, okay? It makes me happy welcoming people in my house, cooking for them, dancing and singing for them, showing them around my cities, swimming with them in my beaches. Even you. It doesn't make up for many of the things I did, but it does make me feel better. France...I don't know if you are jealous of me, or you think I am a second-class nation, or what, but I can't help it: you'll always be a very important piece of me. So every time you come here, I will greet you with coffee and crackers, and smile at you, and talk to you as if we were friends. You think I want to keep fighting you? Part of me, yes. But...what for? I'm tired. I just want to enjoy. Do what you want, say what you want, but I just want a little bit of peace."

France lowered his head and Spain couldn't see his face with the hair. When he raised it again, he saw a big grin on it.

"You are right. You are the stupidest person who ever lived..." He took deep breath and closed his eyes. "Don't act like you are the victim here. You also took every chance you got to hurt me...And it hurt a lot, some times..."

He got closer to place his hand on Spain's cheek and kissed his nose with affection. Spain returned the gesture embracing him.

1992

Spain only lived with Juan Carlos and the royal family at the Zarzuela palace when he had to stay in Madrid, he also still owned his little house in Barcelona, but he lived most of the year in Seville ever since Franco died. When asked why, he simply shrugged and recited the song: "Seville has a special color". Furthermore, he didn't live in a villa, or a detached home, not even a duplex. His apartment was so simple he didn't seem the nation but one of his millions of citizens. It was situated in a residential neighborhood, near the cathedral, a building with white and yellow facade.

When he and his visitor returned home after picking him up from the airport, the neighbors soon came out to gossip.

"Antoniooo!"

They didn't stop calling until he opened the window connected to the patio.

"Good morning, ladies!" He greeted them.

"You didn't come alone, you rogue, let us see!" One of them said, Puri, who had curlers on.

"You always bring home the most handsome men in the world, we want to feast our eyes!" Another one of them, Camino, who was smoking a cigarette, said.

"Oh, what will your husbands say?" But Spain obliged and soon a second person was seen by his side. "This is Cuba."

Cuba waved his hand to the ladies who greeted him with an exclamation of delight.

"¡Cubanito!" Puri exclaimed, biting her under lip.

"No surprise Cubans are so handsome, with such a nation!" middle-aged Trini said.

"You have the same nose, and the same smile!" Camino observed.

"Isn't he cute?" Spain patted Cuba's back, showing him off. "He's the most beautiful thing in the world!"

"Hope you and your cubanito come visit us!"

"Hahaha, see you, ladies! More good-looking nations on the way!" With that Spain, closed the window and kept chuckling for a while. "Ah, these ladies..."

"So nice." Cuba smirked.

"Don't worry, they won't bother you. They are just curious—and a little bit horny."

"It's okay, you know people back home are quite similar."

"So, yeah, what was I saying? ...Ah. Yep. You can keep my bedroom, I will sleep in the sofa."

"You don't need to do that, it's your home..."

"But you're my guest, and my little brother, so if I say you're keeping the bed..."

"Okay, okay, alright. If that makes you feel better..."

"Good! I want you to be comfortable. You're my guest."

"You sure love having guests, I see..." Cuba observed, looking at the framed photos on the shelf. Posing with an inexpressive Sweden in Benidorm, in a concert with a barely recognizable England, both him and Spain dressed like they were rock singers, in a terrace with America, so relaxed they would have gone against the 'no shirt, no service' rule if Spain had actually cared about decorum, having dinner (and lots of alcohol) with France and Prussia in that same room...

"Hospitality links the guest, the host and God. That's what a wise man taught me once." Spain said, serving a couple of beers.

"That's a nice teaching..." Cuba said, sitting on the sofa to drink with Spain.

There was a moment of silence, Spain avoided looking at Cuba.

"...How have you been doing, Cuba?"

"...I've been okay..."

"Ah, good..."

"You've been watching television, haven't you? And talking to the other guys." Cuba stared at Spain, taking a cigar out of the pocket of his shirt. "I don't know what you've been hearing but..."

He paused to lit the cigar. Spain finally looked at him.

"...I've been okay." Cuba concluded, taking a long drag.

"...Sure...Still...You know I'll always be there if you-"

"There is no need for that, Spain." Cuba interrupted him, and Spain looked away again, scratching his hand.

Another pause. Cuba took a few sips at his drink and smoked in silence.

"...But thank you..."

Spain looked at him with a little smile.

"No problem."

"...You know...I know I've been talking shit about you, just like the others..."

"It's okay, Cuba. There's no need to go over old ground."

"We've always known you cared about your little brother Romano more than anyone in the world, but..."

"Is that what you think?" Cuba glanced at Spain. "Funny. Because...let me tell you something, and I hope you don't tell Romano, but he's always been my little brother, yes, but for me you guys...you guys have been my children. And don't tell anybody, but...specially you."

Curro, the bird-like mascot, waved his hand at the group as they passed by.

"Everybody! Please! Come closer! Don't disperse!"

It was kind of hard to control that group of twenty children, but Spain thought he was managing well. Those boys and girls were so eager to see everything around them, so many colorful pavilions with music, food, dance and singing. He was excited too, but their teachers had put him in charge, so he had to be responsible.

"Do you hear that? That's Senegal, playing his drums! Let's go see!"

The children, cheering, followed Spain into the African Plaza pavilion. Right after coming in, they were met by a dark skinned man with little hair in his head who was playing the strangest instrument the children had ever seen in their short life.

"Heya, Senegal!"

"Hello, Spain, children" That nation had a very soft and sweet voice, and the children gazed at him fascinated.

"What is that instrument you're playing?" Spain asked him.

"It is called linga." And he played a few more notes. "We sometimes use this as a way to communicate between ourselves."

"How?" A little girl with ponytails asked.

"It is a bit like Morse."

"Can I try?" A boy with glasses asked.

"Of course, come here."

Senegal welcomed the boy and gave him the little mallets he had used to produce the sound.

"Mmmmh!" He hummed, listening to him hit the wooden object. "Not bad!"

"Can I, too?" A fat boy raised his hand.

"Very well, come here." Senegal replied, gesturing him to approach.

"That nation over there, the one who is speaking at the conference," Spain said to the children after saying goodbye to Senegal, "that is Congo. He's a very smart guy, I'm telling you. And this beauty here, she is Kenya."

"Oh, Spain...How do you say 'you rascal' in Spanish?" She chuckled.

"That pavilion over there is dedicated to Morocco, let's go!"

"Wow, it looks like a palace!" A girl observed.

"I know, right?" Spain smiled. "Morocco always liked pretty things. Ah, look who's here! Hello, Egypt!"

"Ah, hi." Egypt stopped for a moment.

"Ohh!" A few children exclaimed, gazing at him in awe.

"Are you having a good time?" Spain asked him.

"Yep."

"Talkative as always. Have a nice day, see you! I'm leaving with my ducklings here!" Spain let him walked away and resumed his walk too. "He doesn't talk much, but he also has a great brain. And you have no idea of the treasures his house holds..."

"What is that, Mr. Spain?" A boy pulled Spain's shirt to attract his attention to a big block in the distance.

"That's Finland's pavilion!"

"It looks so dark!"

"Yep, it was built to resemble the Throat of the Devil, in his home!"

"He must be a pretty dark person as well!"

"Absolutely! Oh! Here he is! Finland! Come here for a second, will you?"

The children were surprised to see that the pavilion was dedicated to the nicest-looking person they had ever seen.

"Moi!" Finland said to the children. "Where I am from, it means 'hello'!"

"Moi! Moi!" The children started repeating, making Finland giggle.

"Are you being good boys and girls? Because Santa Claus lives in my house, and he's a friend of mine!"

"Sure, we are!" The children replied to him.

"Ask him why he didn't bring me the remote controlled car I wanted this last Christmas!" The tallest boy of the group said.

"And if he is friends with the Three Wizard Kings!" Another boy raised his hand.

Finland giggled again.

"I have to go now, see you, Spain!" He said, waving his hand at him.

"Bye, bye, Fin! I hope you're having a good time!" Spain said to him.

"Terrific so far!" Was Finland's response before running away.

They got into Greece's pavilion first, and there the children listened sat on the ground around him the stories he knew about Zeus and the old gods and goddesses, which had his little audience in awe, paying so much attention Spain found it hypnotic. Then, they visited New Zealand's, who showed them the Maori dances they did at his house, and even instructed a volunteer in them. After that, they followed Japan, who wanted to show them a show with typical Japanese instruments and explained to them afterwards what their names were and how they were played.

"Look, that's Cuba's parade!" Spain pointed out.

The children, excited, ran to see it closely. He didn't know if they were learning much, but if they were having a good time, he was glad. He was enjoying this so much, too.

"Hey, Spain!" Estonia attracted his attention. Latvia and Lithuania were by his side; the three of them were eating ice cream.

"Hey, guys! How's it going?" Spain smiled at them.

"Thank you for inviting us, we just came from taking a walk around Seville and, wow, it's so, so nice." Latvia said.

"Thanks to you, for coming. You'll be attending the Olympics next month, right?" Spain asked.

"Sure! You can count on us!" Lithuania smiled.

"I always wanted to see Barcelona, after Russia spoke so much about making it his private resort when he conquered you..." Estonia commented.

"Come on, Estonia, what did I tell you? Don't speak about him! I don't want to hear about him! Let me eat ice cream in peace, without having to remember..." Latvia was complaining while the three of them walked away.

Spain chuckled and was about to join his children when something made him stop. Near there, there was a solitary stand, made of wood planks, not very well built. He approached with an eyebrow raised.

"Hi?"

"Hello, sir! Visit Sealand!" A little boy dressed in a very old-fashioned way, blond, with think eyebrows and blue eyes, gave him a flyer, which was evidently hand-drawn.

"Sealand?" Spain smiled. "Ah! I think I've heard about you..."

"England probably told you about me. All lies! He says I'm not a real nation, but I am!"

"Hehe, sure..."

"There are millions of tourists here, and I'm going to sell my merchandise and promote my house. I'll become a touristic attraction, and get big and rich, and I'll kick England's butt for-"

"I've been told a boy dressed like a sailor kicked the ass of one of our Curros...Do you know what I am talking about?" Spain crossed his arms.

"No idea. But that guy probably deserved it."

"...Okay, you can stay..." Spain felt in an excellent mood, so he just walked away, smiling.

In late July and the beginning of August, the Olympics started, and Spain had the chance to see his international friends once again, this time in Barcelona. From the tribune, he saw that all preparations were worth it: it was perfect. Simply perfect. Well, he was so sad Freddy Mercury passed away and he couldn't sing with Montserrat Caballé at the show, but he was glad he had seen them together in 1988—it felt as if God's angels had descended to earth to delight them. But as for everything else, it was simply fantastic. That moment when Paralympic archer Antonio Rebollo lit the flame with a burning arrow? Simply swell.

And, in spite of the threat, E.T.A had not spoiled things yet. Perfect.

"Holy cow, America is beating our asses in everything." Romano complained.

"Almost everything." Spain smiled at him.

"Oh, yeah, Germany's also stealing all medals."

"Hah! Take that, you assholes! I am the golden boy!" Prussia yelled, flipping off everyone around him.

"Shut up, pasmao, your brother is winning all of them, not you, you're not even a real country anymore!" Cuba mocked him, an arm still around Spain.

"Your mom's not a country..." Prussia frowned.

"Hey, not to my little brother, man, eh?" Spain shook a finger severely. He then turned to the track to cheer for England. "You did great, pal! 5th is not that bad!"

"Wow, China is doing an amazing job too, did you see?" Cuba commented.

"True! Fourth place! Not bad!" Spain nodded.

"Hey, Spain!" China tapped Spain's shoulder with his finger. Talking about the devil. "Before I forget, when the competition is over you and I have to sit and talk about business, okay?"

Spain was handed a card he gazed at with a smile.

"Oh! Did you have a good time?"

"Yes! Thanks a lot!" China raised a thumb and winked before disappearing again.

"Look at you, Mr. Popular..." Romano crossed his arms and legs.

"Are you jealous, my boy?" Spain chuckled, squeezing his face, making him look like a fish.

"Leave me alone, cazzo! Nobody likes you! We're only here for the cheap alcohol and the weather!"

That was probably true, but still, this was being the best summer of Spain's life. Surrounded by so many amazing people, learning from them, teaching them about his culture...That summer, he felt a warmth he had never felt before.

When he realized, he hadn't touched the fairy dust in so long.

He just didn't need it.