A/N: For the lovely ht4eva, I am so sorry for taking so long, but I was enthralled by the concept. This is rather long for a story of mine… but I loved writing it. So I hope you all love it as much as I do.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or any of the characters I pervert in my stories. Those all belong to the creator. I just like to make his characters do the naughty… *nosebleed*

The first time was when we were colonies.

I saw him out of the corner of my eye, like a mirage… I hadn't even thought for a second that he was real. He wasn't as young as me, no; he was already an adult and I was still barely able to stand tall enough to see over the dune grasses. England was tending me carefully, kindly, as if I were glass. He chased away the Netherlands and France from me as if protecting gold and not an emergent nation.

But Spain did not treat him as England treated me. Before I had looked, really looked, he looked just as a dark-skinned young man. But my second glance upon him yielded frightening images. Scars and gashes, cropped hair and a sort of weak limp all assaulted my vision as he was led across the sand. England said derogatory things about him as they passed, scowling and cursing as he was known to. But I watched, curious, worried, and he stumbled in the shifting sands. Spain shoved him forward, disregarding his evident pain, and I wanted to help him even though I was too young to. I gasped as I tried to follow him and tripped over the loose sand. England had caught me, chiding me lightly for being such a clumsy fool but chuckling, yet I didn't care because the only thing I had been aiming for was to follow the scarred man and I couldn't when he was already out of sight.

The second time was when England wanted to use me to become rich. He created a trading circuit between me, him, and the islands south of me. The man was on the shoreline of his home, surrounded by the warm air and salty tang of the sea, his hair longer now but tied back from his face so he could see. His jaw-line was strong, his visage almost majestic. But he saw me and his gaze hardened slightly. He stood tall and straight, with pride in himself despite his condition of colonization. I had spoken with him, but he seemed to have no patience with me, and his agreement appeared begrudging. I suddenly wanted to get to know this man, who had no fear and who made his own thoughts instead of spitting out the thoughts of his controller.

He was Cuba. He was strong and able, with thick arms and a muscled torso. His body was marred with pale scar tissue. He worked with the grace of a king, despite his laborious tasks. I admired his strength, his personality, his will to move along.

And yet part of me found a hidden disgust for him, for his lifestyle and his living conditions. Part of me was repulsed by the darkness of his skin, the curl of his hair, and the definition in his brow. It was just something of that time, I presumed, this racism I acknowledged creeping beneath my skin. It didn't surface often, especially when I felt the stirrings of rebellion in my bosom, but it was there, fervid as a wildfire.

He was wary of me. I was similar to his captor, similar to the men who had fettered him and forced him to serve, and his keen eyes would shift over me quickly before he returned his gaze to his work, or to the sea, or to the gently waving leaves of the cane plants.

"Why are you here?" he asked once, as he rested amongst the almost outdated tobacco plants. Their young stalks swayed slightly as a warm breeze played across the land. "What do you want from me?"

"I want to know you," I said honestly, "I want to know another colony like me."

"I'm not like you," he said, frowning slightly, "I'll never be like you."

He didn't mean it as an insult, and I knew better than to take it as such. But I came to see him and keep up trade with him often, and I loved seeing him survey the fields or walk the beach. He seemed so natural, so relaxed. I was finally old enough to be looked upon as an equal to the other colonies. But he would not look at me as the other did. We were too different to be considered equal, it seemed. And yet, he treated me with a mild respect as we did business. We were almost equals. Almost.

But time passed and we grew up, and though I became a stalwart prospecting nation, he was still under the oppression of his father nation. I vowed to myself, when I got my freedom, when I was strong and independent, that I would save him. Spain didn't seem all that tough anyway.

One day, I was going to be the hero. One day, I was going to unshackle Cuba, and maybe one day, we could look at each other as equals.

A/N: I broke it into chapters to make it easier to digest. :o Like it? Hate it? R&R, vous beaux enfants, because… it helps me and I can keep churning out smut, ouais?