Australia stands on the brink of civilisation and faces the person who has dragged him here by the wrist, grip hard enough to bruise. His eyes water and he stands there staring at the person from whom he inherited these brows, the empire on which the sun never sets, and his eyes sting because of the sheer audacity of the man. To drag him to this point once and let him know there are other people like him, those who live forever and embody their nation and then just leave him with this emptiness he can't fill by himself anymore.

This feeling of not being good enough, of not meeting England's standards… or even that of other nations eats at his mind. Then England tells him that he's finally going to be of use and he dresses him in well worn clothes, murmuring something about them being America's old clothes and that it shouldn't matter because he would be a combination of Canada and America and everyone else who went against what he stood for. Who stood against the empire for which the sun never sets. He pats Australia on the head, mutters a few empty yet encouraging words and then pushes him out to see his first settlers embark onto his soil… and it hurts.

It hurts, it hurts deep down. They look at his land and think it is barren. They detest being here. They stare in bewilderment at the wild life and then realise its hostile, because they are. They toil, they kill time and the highlight of their sentences in the land down under is seeing England's boats on the horizon, bringing long needed supplies to people who 'don't deserve it.'

When they are liberated, the first batch of people, it only hurts more. Because they want to leave. They want to drag what little life they have away from Australia and spend it in fertile lands. This continent is a life sentence however… and they have to learn to live with it. So they do, and they fight with those still imprisoned for a semblance of a life. Some of them only had 4 year sentences that have been lengthened to life by his own godforsaken soil. He begins to hate himself for a while because the majority of settlers hate him.

He changes however… and it's slow. It starts with a couple of people… just a few who start cultivating the land and introducing technology he's never seen. The first couple of days the pain eases and he creeps closer, hand held to his chest as he watches them work for independence. They, like him, do not want to be dependant on England. One day they find that work has been done in the night, and by the side are two used candles. The work is done well and they don't question it. The same happens for three nights and on the fourth they find a young boy, no older than eight asleep in what was soon going to a vegetable patch.

They had bandaged his nose and set him in a cot that was used for bouts of exhaustion before then leaving for work. They shake his hand when he wakes up, water him, feed him, thank him and then set him to work. His chest pain is forgotten as he toils, learns the words they use for things he's never seen before and at night they wave him off. He's began a double life of sorts.

He stands at the port in his best hand me downs, shaking England's hand when he disembarks onto his soon to be fertile land. There is a smirk being held back behind the small smile as tea is being offered, and although any connection to the man stood in front of him makes his blood curdle tea is a weakness of Australia's. He entertains the invitation of tea much to England's surprise and keeps his mouth shut about work behind the scene. England doesn't need to know… or more, he doesn't want to tell England what's happening and just provide him with the chance to quash it. His eyes shine with defiance and well… maybe the scorpion in England's suitcase was a step too far but the sharp reminder on his rear whenever he sits down and the raw red skin just detract from that quench of first and that tightness in his chest.

The settlers eventually have children and a couple of generations down the line something clicks in them and they don't refer to themselves as Canadian, American or whatever they could be…. They're from New South Wales and Queensland and the stigma attached to that fact fades because it's not so much a penal colony anymore as a colony for those who want to better themselves and make do with what they can.

One day Australia looks around him and reminds himself of how it used to be. He remembers when he was little and standing at the peak of the Uluru. At how it felt to look around and think, this is everything. His everything…

He doesn't feel the same, standing Sydney. He knows better than that but looking around, seeing the smiles on his people's faces only solidifies his determination and this isn't his everything, this is everything he's been working for placed on one event. The Sydney Olympics.

He stands conflicted, in front of England. His chest heaves with each breath and his eyes fill with contempt for this nation parading as a father figure. He falls to the ground, hand's fisting in his ohh so red dirt and he swears it's raining because wet drops are clinging to the dust and making small lumps of clay.

The older man paces over and a foot is pressed into his shoulder, pushing his face into the dirt.

'Don't you ever complain about my tardiness ever again boy. When I arrive, that is me on time.'

Australia coughs, causing him to breath in a mouthful of dirt. It settles on his tongue, heavy like clay and it reminds him of the pots and plates and jewellery *his* people make. The people who thrived before England came.

'Yes sir,' he replies through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut and adam apple working like the ocean current to hold back that pained cry, that sobering sob and giveaway whimper. He'll break down when England leaves and the pain in his chest will return two fold as the worries of the settlers begin to fester again.' When will the gorgeous, magnificent ships of majestic beauty, sent by the Crown itself return?' will plague their mind. He spits on the ground, and then turns his head to spit on England's boot. There is a pause and then the heel of that glistening pirate boot, shinned to perfection, digs into his shoulder and his knees cave.

He cries. For his people, for his settlers and yet, in the end, he forgets to cry for himself.

His eyes run deeper than the ocean and are greener than his land will ever be. They're aged beyond his years and in his vision he will always see that plaster hiding the little lingering reminder of what England was possible of… of what England condemned in World War 2 but they are sprinkled here and there with happiness and if he smiles just right they glisten with just enough happiness to hide what he doesn't need other's to see.

He pats America on the back, double takes and then hugs Canada, salutes England in a tongue in cheek manner and then promises to drink wine with France. It follows on much like this until all is done and he can step back beside New Zealand who presses close enough to hide the fact that they're now holding hands. The smaller nation looks up at Australia a few moments after the opening to see a single tear trail running down his cheek and squeezes his hand. 'You're being a sentimental bastard Australia.'

Australia sighs in response before squeezing back, a wide grin on his face. 'You're the one holding my hand.'

If you couldn't tell... I maybe ship New Zealand x Australia. I rp it and it's a lot of fun playing on the competitive nature of them both.

And I do not claim to be an expert on Australian History. I've done a little reading and that's all so do not take this all for gospel truth.

Thank you for reading!