Mid 19th Century

America was standing in the corner of the room trying to pretend that he was enjoying himself. But the truth was that he had not been a country for very long, and he certainly did not know how to act at these European gatherings.

It was so strange to stand among them all carousing and feel like he was on the outside. He had never been a part of this kind of politics before his independence, and the transition was difficult.

He found himself standing shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He did not realize that Mexico was right next to him until the man tapped him on the arm and said, "You look like lost."

America turned to him and smiled. He was so handsome, and his teasing tone was charming. He replied, "I don't really like these kinds of things."

He did not want to say that he was uncomfortable with diplomacy, but he had never learned to enjoy this kind of veiled socialization. They were all gauging each other's strength but pretending that it was only social. America had no idea how any of them did it.

Mexico smirked at him, and then hooked his arm under America's. He said, "Come with me. I will show you how to deal with these vultures."

America was not certain if he actually wanted to follow Mexico into the lion's den, but he also did not want to show his own insecurity. He nodded, and decided not to voice it.

Mexico smiled and led him further into the crowd. There was something incredibly charming about the way that Mexico put on a smile and carried himself so proudly. It seemed effortless, and America found himself wondering how he did it.

He said, quietly enough that only Mexico would hear him, "What are we doing?" Mexico replied in a conspiratorial whisper, "The best way to show them that you do not fear them is to start the conversation."

He patted America's arm and added, "Don't worry. I will start you with someone easy."

America realized that Mexico was looking at somebody, but he couldn't see who. He had half a mind to insist that they go back to where he had been standing, but Mexico was already leading him.

Mexico stopped in front of Portugal. America let out a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding. This was at least a familiar face. He remembered seeing Portugal more than once when he had still been a colony, though there had been little contact since his independence.

Portugal smiled at Mexico and said, "Ale, it's good to see you out on your own. How are you finding independence?"

He looked genuinely excited to see Mexico, and America decided not to question it. Mexico smiled graciously, and said, "I'm not completely alone. Do you know Alfred?"

America saw Portugal's eyes turn to him, like Portugal had just noticed his presence. Portugal said, with a cordial smile, "I believe that we have met before."

America felt like this was his chance to say something. He said, "You're close to Arthur, aren't you?" He was sure that was why he knew Portugal. Mexico said, "You could say that." Portugal gave him a look like a disapproving father.

America was trying to focus, but he felt eyes on the back of his head. He turned his head to look, and caught the blistering gaze of Spain. It looked like he wanted to tear America away from Mexico.

America said, quietly, "Spain is staring at us."

Mexico said, without even turning to look, "Ignore him."

America could not possibly listen to that. He wanted to protect himself and Mexico. He said back, "I don't like how he's looking at you."

Before Mexico could respond, Portugal said, "He will not try anything here. I promise you that."

—
After the Second Empire

Mexico was standing in front of the national palace, feeling incredibly antsy. It was the first time that America was visiting him here since the restoration of the republic instead of summoning him to his home.

Mexico wasn't certain how he felt about the idea of having America here. They hadn't spent time together in his capital since America had been occupying it, and the memories were not pleasant.

It did not improve his mood to know that now he was obliged to to be welcoming. Had he been left to his own devices, he would have told America exactly what he thought of him. But, he did not have the choice.

As he let out a deep breath, he closed his eyes and hoped to find some patience on the inside of his closed eyelids. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, and then opened them again.
To his surprise, America had appeared on the other side of the courtyard. It hadn't seemed like he had been looking away that long. But, this also meant that he no longer had time to gather himself.

He put a smile on his face as America strode towards him, and he hoped it looked convincing. America at least looked excited to see him. Mexico smiled and said, "Welcome to my home, Alfie."

America put one hand on his shoulder and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He said, speaking in Mexico's ear, "I'm sure you will be a good host."

He trailed his hand down Mexico's arm, in a gesture that seemed like it was meant to be flirtatious. Mexico took another deep breath and said, trying to sound sweet, "I am here for whatever you want."

America said, keeping his hand on Mexico's arm, "Could we go for a walk? I want to talk to you."

It was an unusual request for America, but he was not going to say no to something so innocuous. He slipped his arm under America's and said, "We can go to the gardens and we can be alone."

America nodded in response and started walking like he had some idea of the direction without being told. Mexico gave him a gentle tug in the correct direction. He knew there was a chance that America might double down on his bad decision and keep going in that direction.

But, he turned the correct direction and tried to look like he had intended this the whole time.

Once they were out of earshot of everyone else, Mexico said, "What did you want to talk about?"

The smile that immediately appeared on America's face made his stomach churn. It didn't get any better when America said, "Now that we are together again like we should be, I want to find a really private place. I wasn't going to ask you to take me to bed when there are other people present."

Mexico was genuinely shocked bu the request. He was not used to anyone being so forward, and America did not use to be nearly this bold. He said, trying to be clever, "Well, we could at least eat dinner first."

It seemed like a good enough way to divert this conversation. But, America said very sharply, "Why? Because you aren't that kind of man?"

Mexico felt himself raise both eyebrows, and he could not hold his tongue. He responded, "What is that supposed to mean?"

America's hold on his arm tightened uncomfortably, and Mexico was sure he would never be able to pull away. The blonde started talking, and there was a worrying angry flush in his cheeks, "Do you know why I wanted to meet you here?"

Mexico was certain there was somewhere that this question was leading, but he couldn't guess. He answered, "Because this is the seat of my government?"

America shook his head, and Mexico could see the red in his cheeks creeping towards his hairline. He said, "I heard that your castle is prettier, but I could not stand to be there because I know you lived with him there."

For a moment, Mexico thought that he was referring to Maximilian. But, he reminded himself that America had no way of knowing about his emperor or Mexico's feelings for him. This was about France. Each of their conversations seemed to circle back to the man. It was so tiring.

America continued, "I don't think I could look at a single room without thinking about him fucking you there while I was busy fighting a war. I don't think I could eat a single meal at that table, because the thought of you with him makes me sick."

Mexico wanted so badly to snap back and defend himself. But, he was supposed to be reconciling with America, and sharp words would not help. He put on a smile that made his face hurt, and said, "I'm glad you are here then."

—
After the Second Empire

Mexico would rather be anywhere than in America's living room waiting for him. He felt like he was being kept waiting just so America could see him whenever he pleased. It made him feel like he was at America's beck and call.

But, this was the agreement he had made so that America would lend his support to Juarez and the new republic. America had been very clear that he wanted their romantic relationship back, and he wanted it to do it his way.

Mexico was in no position to say that he did not want this. He knew the politics of his position, and he could do nothing but he obliging. Juarez had been clear that it was his duty to secure America's support.

He took a deep breath, and tried to tell himself that America was not intentionally keeping him waiting. The man had never been on time to anything.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, America came into the room, slightly out of breath. He said, with a smile that was incredibly charming, "I'm so glad that you are here!"
Something about his genuine, boyish smile made Mexico smile in spite of himself. He had forgotten how cute it was possible for America to be.

He stood up and said, "I promised that I would be. It is what you asked for."

America stepped around one of the chairs in the room, like he was clumsily trying to get closer. Mexico was reminded acutely of a puppy tripping over its own paws. He said, "I asked because I've missed you."

He finally reached Mexico and pulled him into a firm hug. Mexico let out a slight gasp because he had expected some sort of small talk or warning before anything became physical. He managed to say, "I'm here now, Alfie. I promise that I am."

He touched America's face lightly, hoping that the gesture reassured him. He needed America to know that he was being honest. If he needed to be an obliging partner, he knew how to do it.

America said, "You have no idea how happy I am right now. I dreamed about having you back." He then pressed his lips against Mexico's hard. Mexico knew it would make him happy to be kissed back, so he leaned into it and parted his lips to let America deepen the kiss.

He did think momentarily that it was very typical that America would take a kiss without even bothering to ask. He felt America's hands dip lower on his body. He knew he should not be surprised that America wanted to get sexual so quickly, but this did feel odd to him.

America pulled out of the kiss and started to nuzzle Mexico's nick and leave little kisses. It felt nice, and Mexico was ready to just let himself enjoy it.

But, America paused. Mexico said, "Is something wrong?" America fixed him with a puzzlingly cold stare and said, "Cologne. You didn't used to wear cologne."

Mexico knew what he was referring to, and it was just something he had added to be appealing for this. He said, "I wanted to smell nice for you." His own voice sounded so falsely sweet in his own ears.

America said, "It smells French."

Mexico felt cold at the last word. He knew where this was about to go. He said, "Alfie, don't think-"
America cut him off, "Is it French?"
Mexico sighed and said, "Yes, it is."

America said in an angry growl, "Don't wear it again. You belong to me now."

If Mexico did not have the politics in the forefront of his mind, he would have pulled away. Instead, he said, "I hope you mean that I belong with you." America looked him straight in the eye and said, "I said what I meant."

—-
The Porfiriato

"I know Francis was here a week ago."

America dropped the statement onto the middle of the dinner table, where it sat challenging Mexico to say anything to it. He stared at it a moment, contemplating the tones and the undertones, trying to read what America meant under this statement of fact.

There was accusation in his voice, but that was always present these days. He seemed hungry for something to accuse Mexico of, some wrongdoing or shortcoming.

But, if he knew something about France's visit, he would have said something already. America wasn't usually one to be coy if he felt like he had a conclusion. So, Mexico said, "And what about it? Porfirio invited him."

It was half true. The president had been the one to extend the invitation, but he hadn't objected to it. France's visits were one of the few things that brought him solace.
However, in front of America he needed to be stoic. France could mean nothing to him. It was his president's idea, and nothing more, even if he could still feel a spot on his neck that proved it was not.

He could feel it against his collar, a subtle reminder of his own secret. It was faded enough that unless America looked closely, he would not notice any difference. It was intentionally so, since even an iota of suspicion could destroy the little joy that Mexico still had. If America managed to force him to bed again, he would not notice.

America answered, sinking his fork into his food, "You expect me to believe that your president has been inviting your former lover to visit."

He paused for a moment, and there was the upturn of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. It was enough to turn Mexico's stomach. Then America added, with the affect of a man who had won a victory, "Let alone to visit multiple times."

Mexico could feel his free hand curling into a fist where it sat on his thigh under the table. What he would give to be able to punch that smirk off of that smug face.

He thought, viciously: I hope you choke on that meal I made for you, imperialist bastard.

The feeling of hatred was intoxicating. It felt like taking a sip of wine that he had not tasted since he left Madrid. It was familiar to be so close to someone he hated so fully.

America's eyes were fixed on him, waiting for a response to what he imagined to be a very good point. Mexico said, not allowing himself to sound flustered, "I don't know what you believe, Alfred. But I am telling you that Porfirio likes the French, and enjoys having Francis here."

He knew that he wasn't really lying. Mexico never asked France to visit, but he never really needed to. His president offered often enough, and France was yet to turn down a single one.

He bitterly thought that France seemed to be the only one who really wanted to see him, and perhaps that was only for the use of his body. But, the way France would pull him close and pet his hair until he fell asleep felt more loving than that. It was easy to feel loved compared to America's rough demands.

America said, cuttingly, "What could he possibly like so much about the French? Does he forget that they invaded you?"

Mexico bit into the inside of his lower lip to stop himself from speaking. There were harsh words just on the tip of his tongue.

So did you and Juarez liked you.

He wanted to shout the hypocrisy, but he forced himself to force the words back down his throat. With a false smile, he said, "Can you explain the things your presidents do? Porfirio says that the French are the height of civilization, and if you would like to change his mind about that, you can try."

America was silent for another moment as he ate with gusto. Mexico felt like he had lost his appetite. He reached for the glass of wine instead.

One of America's thick blonde eyebrows raised in a way that was frustratingly smug. He said, "And do you enjoy France's visits? Do you enjoy it like you enjoyed his empire?"

The tone of his voice was accusatory, and it was clear what he was trying to imply. He had not stopped bringing up the second empire since he had become aware of it. He couldn't seem to let go of the idea that France was his great rival, and that the sexual liaisons during the empire had been replete with meaning and emotion. Mexico had begun to suspect that America was scared of a man who was truly better than him in bed.

Mexico let out a long sigh, and replied, letting some of his irritation out, "Why don't you just say what you mean Alfred? Tell me what you think I am doing."

He knew what the answer would be, but he wanted to force the other to say it. He wanted to hear the accusation explicitly and deny it.

America fixed his gaze on him, and said, "Tell me there's nothing going on. I want to hear you sat that you are not sleeping with him every time he comes here."

Mexico could feel the pulse of a vein in his forehead. He knew the words he wanted to say. He knew them well.

I wish you knew what I did, and you would have to look at all the marks. I wish I could look you in your smug face and call you a cuckold.

But, Mexico again forced it down. He could not voice his hate, even if he felt it hot in his veins. He said, "You really think that I sleep with him on diplomatic visits? Are you going to get suspicious of every visitor I have because I kissed them once?"

It was easy to muster the outrage to sound like the suggestion was insultingly improbable, even if it was not. He had anger enough to spare, and hatred in spades.
But, the bluff did nothing to change America's mind on the matter. He said firmly, "Just say those words. Say that nothing is going on."

Mexico could feel his back teeth clenched together in response to the instruction. But, if that was what would make America happy, then he could say it. It didn't have to be true.
He unclenched his jaw enough to say, "Fine. Nothing is going on."

—-
August 14th, 1945

The sun had already set by the time that America came crashing into the command building. Mexico had been checking on the reports for his own troops, but America came in like a hurricane and he could hardly ignore him.

America pulled him into a hug that lifted him off his feet. Mexico was not proud of the little surprised gasp that he let out as the stronger man picked him up.

America said, almost breathless, "It's finally happening!" Mexico said, putting his hands on the America's broad shoulders, "What happened?"

He hadn't seen America like this in years. He had seen him full of vigor and determination, but never beaming and sunny like this. It had been amazing to see him fighting for true justice for the first time. Mexico felt like he had seen the boy he had met so many years ago again.

He could feel a blush rising in his cheeks. America was never more attractive than when he was truly happy. If his feet were touching the ground, that tanned, beaming face might make his knees weak.

American answered with the widest smile possible, "Japan just surrendered! I won! We won!" Mexico's heart beat fast at the answer. He had hoped for this end, for himself and for America and for the little sister he had finally been reunited with. He had told the Philippines that he would bring her freedom one day, and this solidified that he had kept his promise. Even decades later than he had meant it, but he had kept it.

He felt himself smile back at America. The balls of his feet touched the floor again. He said, keeping his hand firmly on America's shoulders, "Well done, Alfie. You really are a hero."

America put his hand firmly on Mexico's face, and pulled their faces closer. Then, without a single word, he kissed Mexico. It was unexpected, but Mexico didn't mind the crush of America's lips against his own.

He had been thinking about doing exactly this for months, and there seemed like no better way to celebrate victory. He pulled himself closer, even more firmly into America's arms.

He heard a purr from America as he did so. America's hands were firmly on his lower back. America broke the kiss and Mexico said, "What was that all about?"
America took a breath and said, "I want you. This is the best moment of my life, and I just want you."
Mexico knew that he should hesitate, but victory was heady and he didn't feel like questioning what he felt. He said, "You can have me."

America sat up and moved to swing his legs off the bed. Mexico propped himself up on his elbow and said, "Where are you going? It's late."

America had initiated it and he was suddenly trying to leave. It was irritating to Mexico, since he was already tired and wanted to sleep. America paused before he said, "I shouldn't have done that."

That was even more frustrating. Mexico sighed and responded, "Usually I am the one who says that. What do you mean?"
America shifted his weight nervously on the bed and said, "I am still dating Arthur."

Mexico resisted the urge to point out the irony of America being unfaithful. Instead he replied, irritated, "And what are you going to do right now? Are you going to go call him?"

America shook his head. Mexico continued, "Is getting out of bed going to make it so you didn't just fuck me?"
America said, "No, but-" Mexico cut him off, "Then get back in bed. I want to cuddle."

America quietly got back under the covers. Mexico cuddled up against him, and tried to close his eyes. But, America was apparently not done talking. He said, "You have no idea how much I have missed you."

He punctuated it with a kiss on the forehead. Mexico decided not to reply to that. But America continued with his train of thought, "I still love you so much. If Arthur takes this the way a normal boyfriend would, we aren't going to be together much longer. Would you be willing to date me again?"

Mexico closed his eyes and tried to summon an answer. America had been so much better during the war, so much like the man Mexico had fallen for years ago. But, the question felt so sudden and he had no idea what to say. He said, closing his eyes, "Let me sleep on it. I'll decide in the morning."

—

Modern
It was a hot summer day and the meeting room was sweltering America pulled at his tie in an attempt to make himself more comfortable. It had been a terrible idea to have this meeting in the middle of the summer in the sweltering heat. He was so uncomfortable and already wanting this meeting to be over before it even began.

Other countries slowly filed in, with looks of annoyance at the weather. America glanced at his watch and then at the empty chair next to him. Mexico had yet to arrive, but it was usual for him to be late.

It took a few more minutes for his boyfriend to walk into the room, sweeping his hair out of his face with a look of annoyance. He sat down at the only available chair, which America had guarded for him. Mexico immediately pulled off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. He said, annoyance obvious in his voice, "It's too hot for politics."
America responded with the best scolding voice he could muster, "We have to have this meeting."

Mexico undid the first button on his shirt and said, "Do you know what I would rather be doing right now?"
America suspected this was a ploy to get something out of the conversation, and he cut the other off, "Don't start with-"

Mexico talked right over him, "I could be at home wearing almost nothing."

He unbuttoned the second button on his shirt, displaying more of his chest, and America caught a glimpse of the gold necklace around his boyfriend's neck. He felt a different heat on his skin at the idea of Mexico wearing nothing. The thought was distracting and he tried to push the thought away for the sake of being able to run the meeting.

But, Mexico continued, "You can imagine it, can't you? I could go for a swim in my pool wearing nothing."

America could see it in his mind's eye and he knew that his face was turning bright red, and he knew that Mexico wouldn't believe that it was from the heat. His boyfriend leaned even closer and said, his voice now intentionally sultry, "I could be naked and all wet right now, if we didn't have to be here."

America was half convinced to call the entire meeting off and go back to his boyfriend's house. He looked over and realized that Mexico's shirt was halfway unbuttoned now, and that was not helping him focus. The other ran his finger down the side of his own neck, and it was incredibly enticing.

Then, as America opened his mouth to say something, Mexico leaned back in his chair and said, "But politics are politics, and duty is duty."
America voiced his immediate reaction, "Hey, you can't do that!"

Then he was aware of the fact that they were in a room full of other countries. He looked around and saw all the eyes on Mexico. France and Spain looked like lions contemplating prey. America said, trying to hide his own blush, "What are you looking at?"

—
Modern
He was standing on the hill of Chapultepec with smoke in the air all around him. Mexico turned, trying to find somewhere to focus the attention. He had known the war was lost already before the battle was fought, but there was no way Mexico was going to concede to Alfred in such an unjust war.

He turned to see America approaching him. He raised his sword, ready to defend himself.

But, the reality of the battle seemed to bend around him. He was surrounded by soldiers, but he had to keep his attention firmly focused on America. If he could just do some damage, then he would at least have his pride.

But, as he did so, searing pain slashed across his lower back. It was so agonizing. This couldn't be what America wanted. He said that he loved Mexico, and he had sounded like he meant it.

But, as he met America's eyes, there were so little emotions behind the blue eyes. Mexico sank to his knees, succumbing to the terrible pain. The betrayal was far more painful than the injury. His vision went black as he looked up at America, who did not have any remorse behind his eyes.

Mexico jerked awake, breaking out of the memory of an old war. For a moment, he felt like he was still in that black despair, until he looked around the room blearily. The sliver of light coming from between the curtains told him that he was not laying on the battlefield.

That did nothing to banish the memory. His mind slipped back to the bed where he had woken up in a cold barren room in Chapultepec. The failure and misery of that moment laid on him like a weight on his chest.

Mexico turned his head to the side, trying to find something to dissipate the feeling. His eyes found the man next to him in bed, sprawled comfortably. It was the same face that had looked down on him on that terrible day. The same blue eyes that had been so impassive.

Mexico could feel his chest tightening and his heart started pounding. He drew in several shallow breaths, attempting to breath over the rising feelings. To keep the gulping breaths quiet, Mexico put his hand over his mouth.

The heavy misery was evaporating, turning to urgency. Mexico couldn't place all of his feelings, but he knew that laying next to America was making the pain of the slash that brought him down play over and over again.

He needed to be anywhere but here, anywhere that would allow him to distance himself from these feelings. He felt like he couldn't pull in a full breath. Each shaking breath brought that same old phantom pain across his lower back.

He sat up as quickly as he could, even through the pain.

America let out a sleepy mutter as he turned and felt around blindly in the spot that Mexico had just left. Mexico was not concerned at all with whether America missed him or not.
He got up with the single-minded thought of leaving and walking until the memory stopped clinging to him. His footfalls, which he made no effort to hide, were enough to wake America, who opened his eyes. He said, sleepily, "Where are you going?"

Mexico couldn't trust his voice to be level, but he couldn't leave the question unanswered. He took a painful deep breath deep into his lungs and said, "Don't talk to me."

His voice came out shaky, betraying everything he was feeling. America recognized it well enough. He reached out and attempted to take Mexico's hand, but Mexico pulled it away forcefully. He could not stand the thought of America touching him, not with that memory so fresh in his mind.

The quick steps he took away from the bed felt like an escape.

America refused to be denied. He stood up and walked after him. When he reached Mexico, he took him by the shoulders. His hands on his skin sent a jolt of pure panic through Mexico's entire body. He did not want to be anywhere near the man, but America's hold was firm and it wasn't easy to turn away.

America said, "Alejandro, it is alright. He isn't here. You're safe."
Mexico felt the panic turn to anger. He snarled back, "It wasn't Antonio. It was you!"

With both hands on America's chest, he pushed the blonde as far away as possible. Mexico continued speaking, unleashing only some of the rage he felt, "You're just like him! You couldn't be happy that I wanted you in my bed! You had to own me just like everyone else!"

America's hands slipped away, and there was a look of genuine shock on his face. The blonde said, in a weak attempt to be assertive, "That was a long time ago. I wouldn't hurt you."

Mexico stepped away, shaking his head. He couldn't see anything genuine in those words. He couldn't even think of a response to such empty words.

But, he couldn't separate his own feelings from the sheer panic and anger. The longing to be anywhere else grew stronger.

He turned away and grabbed a shirt on the way out. He slammed the door behind him and hoped that America could take it as a clear enough sign that he should go back to be.

Mexico had to walk until these feelings were exhausted. He was certain of that. If he was able to blunt these acute emotions, only then could he decide if he could stand to return to bed next to America.

He turned and started to walk with no goal in mind.