1566

Belgium had never seen her brother in such a state before. He was pale and determined as he tore the letter from Spain to pieces. She knew what it had said. It had said that he must pacify William of Orange, or Spain would do it for him.

Spain's fury was familiar, the look of abject anger on the Netherlands' face was new. Though he was an imposing man with a stern demeanor, he was rarely angry. A stranger might read his quiet or his blunt nature as anger, she knew him well enough to know that it was not. This deathly silent man, white as porcelain, with a vein pounding in his temple, was truly angry.

She had wanted to say something to him since he had gotten the letter, but it was hard to imagine what could be said. She cleared her throat and tried, "You should speak to him. Surely he will understand if you go to Madrid."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, and it made her jump. It was the first sound he had made since he received the letter. It only confirmed his deep anger.

Then, he spoke, "I have already told him that his taxes are too high. I have told him that his lack of tolerance for protestants is unreasonable. I have told him so many times that he must respect my nobility. I have said everything to him before, and he still sends me this. No, I am done talking to him."

He held up the pieces of the letter, like she could not already guess what he was talking about.

She folded her anxious hands together so that they would not shake. His tone was worrying her deeply. She said, "But, what else is there to do? He is our lord whether you like it or not."
He fixed his eyes on her, and they were deep and unyielding. Silently, he took the pieces of the letter and threw them into the fire. Then, he took every letter and order that he had piled in front of him, and placed them into the fire.

Belgium gasped and put a hand to her chest. He couldn't mean what she imagined he meant by this.

The Netherlands watched the letters burn for a moment, and then said, "I do not accept his right to rule. I think it is time that we drove him out."

She repeated, shock seizing her vocal cords, "'We?' This is madness! He owns half of the world, and you think you can fight him."

The Netherlands scoffed again, and said, "I know I am small, as David was to Goliath. I will win, because God favors me, and I will slay this giant."

He took the rosary from his neck, the one that Spain insisted he wear, and tossed it into the fire as well.

Seeing the look of shock and horror on his sister's face, he explained, "Antonio is corrupt, and his church in Rome is rotten to the core. I will have no more of either of them."

She put her hand to her own cross, scared that he might take that next. Tears, from fear for him, welled up in her eyes. Her older brother, who had been her companion for as long as she could remember, felt like a stranger to her.

He was past her kind words or soothing touch, and it scared her. Nothing she knew would bring him back to reason. She felt tears coming in earnest now.

He stopped in his fit of destruction, and took her free hand in his own. He said, in the soft voice he had always used when she was upset, "Emma, don't cry. Come with me, and we will make a new Republic for ourselves away from this cruel tyrant with tolerance and beauty."

She felt like she could not swallow past the thick feeling in her throat. Looking at him hurt. She said, tears slipping down her cheeks as she spoke, "I cannot go with you, and I cannot bear the thought of Antonio hurting you. You know what he did in the New World-"

Her voice broke as she thought of the tales of cruelty that they had both heard. She couldn't even imagine that happening to her brother.

Her vision swam with tears as she said, "Please don't do this. Find some other way."

He shook his head resolutely, "There is no other way for me except this."

—

Mid 18th Century

"I find your brother to be a great tragedy, you know."

The observation same unprompted, and with the casual air of a man unconcerned. Portugal looked up from his cards, and across at the table at the Netherlands.

The tall man had spoken like he was making light conversation. Portugal found the topic heavier than that. The thought of Spain was always sore to him, especially since they had become so estranged from him since the end of the Hapsburg rule in his own borders.

He glanced at England, who was the third at the table. The shorter blonde still had his eyes determinedly on his cards.

Portugal decided that it was better to address it than to act like it was unsaid. He replied, "What do you mean?"

He was not sure if he wanted the answer. The Netherlands could be a pleasant enough man, but his judgements seemed to fall harshly. He was informed, it seemed, by his own pious Protestant sentiments. He was somber, sober, and always dressed in black, so it seemed that he was perpetually in mourning.

The Netherlands took one card from his hand and laid it on the table before saying, "He has fallen so far. When I fought him, he was still impressive. The great Spanish Bull."

He paused to stare pensively at the array of cards on the table. It occurred to Portugal that it was his own turn to play a card. He tried to think of which one to use, but his mind was still too fully on Spain.

Without his prompting, the Netherlands continued, "He has every advantage in the world: Rome's blood, Rome's looks, and half the world to call his empire."

This prompted a reproachful look from England, who looked like he would very much like to stress the size of his own empire. But, there was not enough time for him to cut in before the Netherlands said, "But, look at him now. He's mad with lust for that Aztec boy, and he's grown fat and indulgent on luxury."

Portugal felt himself ball up his free hand. He did not want to hear this, even if there was some truth to how much Spain had let himself indulge in his comfortable position. He said, feeling himself gritting his teeth, "You should not speak about something you do not know."

He knew enough about the bloody conflict between the Netherlands and Spain to know that the bad blood ran deep, and the Netherlands was relishing in this. His enemy fallen so far brought him joy. But, it stirred Portugal's stomach uncomfortably.

The Netherlands replied as England made his own play, "I may not know everything. But, I do know that he spurned Austria for his New World lover, and divorced him to free up the space at his side. I hear that now he makes love to New Spain quite shamelessly day and night, and everyone in his court knows it."

There was an edge to his voice that sounded like a kind of gleeful malice that he could not possibly be capable of. Portugal felt sick at the talk.

It got no better when the Netherlands said, "It is a pity that your church doesn't discourage such lasciviousness. Don't you think so, Arthur?"

He turned expectantly to the other Protestant in the room. England swallowed hard and said, "This is not a matter of faith."

Portugal cut in, sharply, "With all of your piousness, you should know that the Proverbs warn against gossip."

He threw down his cards and said, "If you will excuse me, gentlemen. I do not wish to poison myself with this tonight."

With that, Portugal stood and left, closing the wooden door with a bang.

Once he was gone, England gave the Netherlands a hard, reproachful look. The tall blonde said, still seemingly unbothered, "It seems that the truth was too much. Antonio is a lecher."
He picked up the cards that Portugal had thrown down, like he wanted to assess how good his odds had been to win the game. England said, not hiding his irritation, "You speak too freely, Johann. Much too freely."

With that, he laid down his own cards and left to find Portugal.

_

Madrid

Spain watched his sleeping colony with a smile on his face. New Spain's arms were wrapped tightly around him as he slept. The hold made Spain supremely happy.

He brushed back a piece of New Spain's hair from his face, and took the time to stare at the young man. His face always looked so sweet when he was asleep, almost innocent, almost virginal. If Spain didn't know better, he might have assumed that no sin had ever touched the boy.

But, he could also see the dark spot blooming on the skin of New Spain's neck. It was his own doing. He loved how exquisitely beautiful marks looked on New Spain's perfect copper skin.
He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on New Spain's collarbone, his thanks for a sweet night. New Spain stirred sleepily, but did not wake.

Spain was sure that the excesses of the night were more than enough to keep New Spain very soundly asleep. He loved these moments, when he could appreciate the spoils of his empire.
He moved the blanket down New Spain's shoulder far enough so that he could kiss the crest of his shoulder. That earned him a sleepy groan from New Spain.

Somewhere, perhaps, they mocked him for doting on New Spain like this. But, he thought as he kissed the boy's sleeping face, it was worth it. If he could have this, then he did not care.
He said, softly, "Good night, my prince."

—

Modern

The sky was an expanse of blue, and the flat horizon made it seem like it went on forever. There were a few clouds passing overhead. It was pleasantly warm to Mexico, which he knew meant that it was unseasonably warm for this time of year.

He was not used to the usual cold grey that plagued this part of the world. In his present state, he was sure that he would be acutely aware of the cold. It would hang in the air like a mist. It would cling to him like an unwanted lover, with that kind of oppressive discomfort that he was so familiar with.

But, there was no cold here to touch him, just the rays of sunlight, which felt like the afterglow of a loving kiss.

He turned his eyes away from the clouds, and looked around. He was not the only one who seemed enamored with the reappearance of the sun after the grey of winter. There were people scattered around on the green expanse of the Rembrantplein, many just sitting and enjoying the weather.

There was the commotion of voices speaking in a language he did not understand, the careless hum of causal conversation. Even if he could not understand it, Mexico enjoyed the cadence of the words. It was pleasant in its own way, a kind of music that he could still enjoy.

The occasional sound in the back of the throat was charmingly guttural. It reminded him of the growl of an enthralled lover, the kind that could send a shiver down his spine so effortlessly.

It sounded so different from the silken smoothness of French, or the comfortable familiarity of Spanish. The closest he could compare it to was German, the kind of German that Max spoke.

Which reminded him of Maximilian, and the long nights they had spent trading phrases in German for phrases in Nahuatl. The memories were warm and very comfortable. Perhaps that was why he felt a kind of natural affection for this cousin language.

He continued to look around, taking in the bustle around him. Next his eye was caught by the sun glinting off of the bicycles by the canal. Just beyond the path where bikes moved like the constant energy of a stream, there was a place where bikes were leaning against the railing, like disorganized metal soldiers.

The sun glinted off the metal of the frames. If he stared long enough at the overlapping pieces of the bikes, they started to look more and more like a tangle of metal vines. The locks almost looked like they were moving between the bikes and the side of the canal, snaking their way between metal branches.

Mexico blinked and tried to will his thoughts to focus on something else. It felt like grabbing at smoke. The thoughts kept slipping between his fingers, no matter how he tried.
He tried to focus on something tactile, and present.

He could feel the Netherland's lap under his head. It was far more comfortable than the ground. The man was tall and angular, but his lap was proving to be perfectly soft. There was also something so inexorably comforting about him.

Mexico opened his eyes and looked up at the Netherlands. He was temporarily blinded by the sun behind the man's head after the darkness of the inside of his eyelids.

He blinked several times, and his companion quickly came into focus. Mexico could see his fair complexion and his blonde hair, and the rolled cigarette between his lips. There was a red tinge in the whites of his eyes that hinted that it was not tobacco.

There was an easy smile on the man's lips, and it made him look very handsome. It always puzzled Mexico to hear other people describe the Netherlands as cold. With that look on his face, he seemed positively sunny.

And every memory he had of the man was of kindness, even when Mexico had been a small boy newly arrived from the Americas. The Netherlands had been kind and understanding to him. It was so strange to think that anyone could find him foreboding.

The Netherlands took a long drag from the cigarette and then blew out a cloud of smoke. Then he said, his voice sounding slightly thicker from the smoke, "Do you want more?"

It took a moment for Mexico to even process what the man had said. He heard it, but he was more enraptured by the rise and fall of his voice on the Spanish words.

Mexico found himself wondering what he looked like through the Dutchman's eyes at the moment. He must have been quite the sight. His hair splayed out in the man's lap, and a smile on his face that could only come from intoxication. It was still a handsome sight, he was sure.

He wondered, would it be the same as the face he saw in the mirror, or would it be the opposite?

Slowly, the thought dawned upon him that he had not answered the question, because his mind had seized on another subject and wandered away. He focused back on the question, and answered, "Yes."

The other smiled indulgently at him, and said, "Are you sure? You look like you're feeling good already."

There was a hint of bemusement in his voice. It sounded like he was repressing a laugh. The Netherlands could tell how far gone he already was just from the way he must have been looking at him with a careless smile.

The thought somehow seemed impossibly funny, and he chuckled. He said, still laughing under his breath, "I do feel good."

He reached out to take the cigarette, which the Netherlands relinquished to him. Mexico added, with what he hoped was a cheeky smile, "But I could feel even better."

He could feel the words in his mouth. The consonants felt round, like they rolled around on his tongue.

Trying to focus enough, he put the cigarette to his lips, and took a long pull from it. He felt the effect almost immediately, warm across the roof of his mouth. Then the warmness blended into the pleasant sensitivity of the rest of his body.

With his free hand, he ran his fingers through the grass. It felt softer than he had imagined it. It was lush. It must have been all the rain that fell constantly; it fed the grass well.
The Netherlands gently took the cigarette from him, and said, "I think that is enough for you."

Mexico conceded that he might be right with a shrug. He only ever did this when he visited Amsterdam, so the feeling was rare. It was easy to forget what was enough and what was too much. So he could allow the other man, who was so much better versed in this to say when he should stop.

It felt pleasant anyway, being able to feel and see everything so clearly. There were even the beginnings of images dancing at the edges of his vision. He wasn't sure what they were, but they often came when he indulged. If he went further, he knew he could see even more, and see those little bits of the past and future.

It was better to ignore them though, he had learned that many times over. Seeing the little pieces never made sense anyway.

He responded, "If you say so."
The Netherlands said, in a way that was charmingly assertive, "I do say so. I'm not letting you overdo it."

Mexico felt himself smirk as he said, "But you are letting me do it."
There as a sparkle in the blonde's eye as he said, "I know. I am allowing you a little indiscretion."

An idea struck Mexico, and he felt the mischievous itch to act on it. He put on a strong Castilian accent and said, "But what would God say?"

It had the intended effect and the Netherlands immediately started laughing. The chuckle turned into a hard laugh. It took him a minute to catch his breath enough to say, "You sound just like him when you do that."

The imitation of Spain always seemed to amuse the Netherlands, and it was nice to see the man laugh. Mexico absentmindedly twined his fingers in the grass as he said, "I had to listen to him for three centuries. The least I could get out of it is a good impression."

He didn't want to dwell on those years, but this was lighthearted enough, and it was much easier to laugh in this state. He added, "Tony would be quite displeased if he knew."

He said the word "displeased" in the same strong Castilian. It made the other laugh again, and this time the laugh was infectious. Mexico laughed too, far too heartily than he knew he should. But it was so hard not to laugh when the Dutchman was laughing; his joy was too good not to join.

The blonde put out the cigarette and said, "Fuck him. Come on, let's go back to my place."

Mexico pouted, "I am comfortable."
The Dutchman seemed unmoved. He said, "I'll buy you something chocolate on the way."

It was bribery, but Mexico did not care. He said, "You are good at negotiating."
The other chuckled again and said, "That's the secret of my success."

Mexico was sitting on the slightly worn couch in the Dutchman's living room, eating a waffle covered in chocolate and strawberries. He was trying to be careful enough to not get chocolate on either his face or the couch.

It would have been easy if he was sober, but he needed all of his attention at the moment. It tasted fantastic, far better than it would have otherwise. He was distinctly aware of the tartness of the strawberries in contrast to the sweetness of the chocolate and the dusting of powdered sugar. The waffle was soft and subtly sweet. It all blended together well to be sublimely satisfying.

He finished off the waffle, and then felt a slight melancholy at its absence. Food was such a short lived pleasure, rather like sex. But, he knew which one he would choose if he had to.

He placed the empty container to the the side. The apartment was so cozy. It was decorated in warm colors, and filled with comfortable furniture. There were pieces of blue and white porcelain on a few of the surfaces. They were very beautiful, and delicate in a way. It showed a level of taste that one would not guess that the Netherlands had.

He looked towards the windows, where there were window boxes full of tulips. The color was a nice touch, it added something cheery.

For a moment, he saw the shadow of something. A tall man looking out the window, with a phone in his hand. The person on the other side was saying that Rotterdam would only be the first if he did not surrender.

Mexico blinked and it was gone.

It was just a shadow of the past, just a passing shadow.

He drew in a breath and closed his eyes for a moment. He felt a strange pang at the memory, even if it wasn't his own, and he was willing it to go away.
The thought was interrupted by a voice, "I think someone wants to say hello to you."

He turned to see the Netherlands with a large white rabbit in his arms, which he deposited in Mexico's lap. He said softly, "Miffy, say hello to Alejandro."

Mexico pet the rabbit and said, in the voice he usually used on his own dogs, "Hello, little one. Aren't you adorable?"

The rabbit's pink nose twitched in response. The shiny black eyes seemed so knowing, and Mexico wondered for a moment if an immortal rabbit was capable of understanding him.

Perhaps their pets learned what they said after so long. He hoped that she knew that he was complimenting her.

He pet the rabbit's soft head, and added, "You're very cute. And you have a very good owner."

The Netherlands said, "Are you happy?"
Mexico looked up at him, and responded, "Yes, I'm very happy"