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He didn’t notice it at first. Or rather, he chose not to. America had a habit of ignoring things that didn’t serve him, things that made him uncomfortable, things that didn’t fit into the neat, self-assured narrative he had constructed for himself. Mexico was just Mexico—fiery, stubborn, reckless. An enemy when it suited them, an inconvenience when it didn’t. They had always fought, sometimes with guns, sometimes with words, sometimes with an unspoken tension that lingered in the air long after the battles were over. And he had always thought of her as unyielding. Something that could break but never truly shatter.
But then, in the quiet moments between their conflicts, he started noticing things. Subtle at first. The way she moved, slower than before, like her limbs were weighed down by something heavier than exhaustion. The way she stood, no longer with the same defiant tilt to her chin, but as if she were conserving energy she couldn’t afford to waste. The way her clothes hung just a little looser, the sharp angles of her collarbone casting shadows where there had once been softness.
He never said anything. Not when he caught glimpses of her leaning against walls as if she needed the support. Not when he heard the strain in her voice, a quiet rasp that hadn’t been there before. Not when her hands shook slightly, just for a second, as she reached for something.
It wasn’t his business.
They weren’t friends.
She hated him.
And he—well, he wasn’t sure what he felt anymore.
He should have felt satisfaction, maybe. Should have seen it as proof that he was winning, that the relentless pressure he had placed on her was finally doing what centuries of war and resentment couldn’t. But when he saw her now, something in him twisted, knotted itself into something tight and unpleasant. She was thinner. Weaker. The fire in her eyes was still there, but it flickered, like a candle burning on its last bit of wax. And America, despite himself, felt something close to unease.
It wasn’t pity. He didn’t pity her. That would be insulting. Mexico would never forgive him for something like that. But it was something else, something worse in a way, because it made him hesitate. It made him watch her for too long when he should have been walking away. It made him think about things he didn’t want to think about. Like how she was still standing, still fighting, even when the weight of it all was dragging her down. Like how he had always underestimated just how much she could endure.
Like how maybe, just maybe, he had been the one starving her.
He caught her once, in a rare moment where neither of them had anything sharp to say, sitting alone with her head tilted back, staring at the sky like it held answers she’d never get. She looked smaller like that. Fragile, though he knew better than to ever say it aloud. He didn’t know why he spoke at all, why he let the thought slip out before he could stop himself.
“You look like shit.”
Mexico didn’t flinch. Didn’t react right away. Just exhaled, slow and measured, like she had expected him to say something eventually. “Good. Then maybe you’ll finally leave me alone.”
There was no bite in her words. No fight. And that was the part that bothered him the most.
He should have let it go. He almost did. But something ugly curled in his chest, something that made him restless, that made his mouth move before his brain could tell it to stop. “When’s the last time you ate?”
She turned her head slightly, eyes half-lidded, unfocused. “Don’t remember.”
It wasn’t an answer. It was avoidance.
America knew because it was the same kind of answer he gave when someone asked him something he didn’t want to admit.
It shouldn’t have mattered. She wasn’t his responsibility. Whatever was happening to her, whatever was eating away at her, she wouldn’t want his help. And yet, the words came out before he could stop them, quiet, almost unsure in a way that made him hate himself for even caring.
“Come inside.”
Mexico scoffed, but it was weaker than usual. “And do what? Let you pretend you give a damn?”
His jaw tightened, fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I don’t pretend anything.”
A humorless chuckle. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
And then she was pushing herself to her feet, swaying slightly before she caught herself, as if even that much effort was too much. He didn’t move to steady her, didn’t reach out, even though something in him told him he should. It wasn’t his place.
But as she walked away, he knew, deep down, that he would be watching. That he would keep noticing, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.
And that no matter how much he told himself otherwise, a part of him would care.
“Until next time?” He wanted to call out, but by then, Mexico had already been long out of his reach.
——
It had been a long day, more or so stuffed with the usual meetings hosted to keep nations upright. America sighed, he had been rather caught up lately, no time for him to attend a meeting where plans would never be set in motion.
The meeting had long since fallen into its usual rhythm—arguments, complaints, forced diplomacy wrapped in thin patience. Alfred leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, chewing lazily on a piece of gum as he half-listened. Most of it was background noise. He was used to this. Used to being the center of criticism. Used to them piling on whatever latest scandal or controversy his government had stirred up.
Nothing new.
Then, of course, Francis had to open his big lousy mouth.
“So, about America’s new president…” His voice practically dripped with amusement. “Your dear Donald Trump, non? Quite the interesting choice. Racist, egotistical, entirely lacking in tact—he certainly suits you.”
There was laughter, quiet but sharp, the kind that made Alfred roll his eyes. Right. Because the rest of them had never elected anyone questionable before.
Then Ludwig spoke, and his voice carried a weight the others lacked. “This isn’t just about his character. His rhetoric is dangerous. Especially concerning Mexico.” A pause. “And outright racist.”
The room shifted. A few glances flickered toward her, but she remained silent.
Antonio straightened slightly in his seat, expression losing its usual carefree ease. “Sí,” he said, gaze finally landing on her, though she didn’t return it. “The way he speaks—como si ella y su gente no fueran nada. And you let him?”
Alfred exhaled, unfazed. “Not like I voted for him.”
Arthur scoffed, unimpressed. “And yet, he’s in charge. How convenient.”
“You let him win,” Ludwig added, words clipped and firm.
Alfred shrugged. “I’m not his babysitter. Politicians say stupid shit all the time. You think I control everything that comes out of his mouth?”
“You could condemn it,” Francis mused, swirling his wine glass idly. “Or do you just not care?”
More voices layered over each other—Germany’s strict logic, Spain’s uncharacteristic sharpness, England’s biting remarks. Alfred tuned most of it out. He had heard it all before.
But then, his eyes flickered toward Mexico.
And for the first time in the entire meeting, his shoulders tensed.
She was stiff. Too still. Hands curled into her lap, fingers gripping the fabric of her skirt too tightly, like she was grounding herself. She wasn’t looking at anyone, barely even reacting, just staring down, jaw locked, shoulders wound tight enough to snap.
She looked tired. Not just physically. It was deeper than that.
Antonio noticed, too. His voice softened. “Mexico.”
She didn’t look up right away. There was a pause, a flicker of hesitation, before she finally blinked and forced a response. “Estoy bien.”
She wasn’t.
Alfred knew it. And judging by the slight furrow of Antonio’s brows, so did he. But neither of them called her out on it. Not here.
Something twisted in Alfred’s chest, something he refused to name.
Because he had heard the things Trump said. Hell, half the time, he brushed them off. It was just words. It was politics. It wasn’t his problem. But now, watching her sit there in silence, gripping onto her own damn clothes like it was the only thing holding her together, it didn’t feel like just words anymore.
It felt real.
And it didn’t feel good.
The conversation continued, voices overlapping, but Alfred barely heard them. His fingers tapped against the table, restless.
He wanted to say something.
But what?
An apology? A defense? A meaningless, half-hearted dismissal?
Mexico was already ignoring it.
And somehow, that made it worse.