Disclaimer: Simply put... All the characters and plot in relation to Axis Powers Hetalia belong to Himaruya Hidekaz and I make no money off this. The OCs, however, belong to me, as does whatever plot that shines through.

Warnings: Angst. Other than that, all spelling/grammatical errors are my own. If you spot any, mention them and I will fix them. The same goes for wrong or misinterpreted information or events.

Time to Heal

Australia distantly remembers being a clear-faced child. Sure, he'd been tanned, sunburnt and quite dirty, but he's sure it hadn't been there in the beginning. But nowadays it's started to seem like it had always been there; a little wart-like something on top of his nose.

He stares at it now, almost glaring at his bathroom mirror, stooping to take an even better look. He takes in it's rough texture and the not large, but obvious-enough size. It's tough skinned and even though he's never cared about his appearance, it's ugly. It makes him cringe to see it there, to know it's there, for everyone to see. He's so used to hiding it; under zinc, in the shadows of his hat, with blood, mud and sweat - anything so long as it's not his audience's key interest. He's embarassed to have it there. He's ashamed he's had it for so long.

The muscles in and around his eyes begin to ache, he's staring so hard; the rest of his reflection is a blurry mess, all smeared brown, gold and green. His emerald eyes - usually filled with mirth and shining as brightly as the sun he worships - are dulled down into something scarily akin to that he'd had during the first World War, when he'd been surrounding by mud, snow and had been starving.

He's also afraid of the future, of accepting the things he's done in the past. Australia's afraid to take responsibility, because unlike everyone else at the assembly or watching on the telly, he's seen it through from start to finish and his own actions sicken him. But he understands he must take responsibility, he must admit his wrongs and ask - beg, if he has to - for forgiveness.

Australia takes a deep breath and lets it out heavily whilst standing himself up as straight as a rod, in front of the mirror. His reflection is cut off a quarter of the way down his dark tie. He takes in another deep breath, thinks about what he's set to face once he leaves his bathroom and suddenly he feels ill again. Everyone will see it later that day. He will bear it for the world to take notice of. Australia doesn't like being afraid.

But this is good. Him and his people - both those that have lived off his body for centuries and those that have migrated to his home in search of paradise - have been waiting decades for this. He's promised to not make them wait any longer; he has the go-ahead, now he must start down the road - charge if he has to, because he's never been good at being quiet - and it's with that set in his mind that he turns to glare at the door's handle.

Despite how much he's shaking and how numb his legs feel and how absolutely terrified he is, he will do this; his people - the original custodians of his body - deserve an apology. They have for a long, long while. He will not have them waiting because he is running scared. Though he thinks about it on the way.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

To them he is a simple political lapdog. He copies files, fills in reports and gathers statistics and whatever other crap nations are forced into completing. His people don't realise who they're talking to when they push passed him, cameras flashing and microphones at the ready, towards his bosses.

He's somewhat thankful today, as Australia stands rock rigid behind his boss, feeling jittery and nervous as all hell, staring as the seats in front of him are filled. He's checked on multiple times, asked if he'd prefer to sit down and offered tea, coffee and whatever else they can get their hands on.

Australia refuses each one. He doubts he'd be able to stay in his seat, even if he felt it were right to, and his stomach is feeling heavy and slishy-sloshy all at once.

He's never forgotten the people who had taken care of him before England, who'd lived off his land, and taught him to hunt and take care of himself. Since then he has hated them, shunned them, tried to fix and educate them, tried to save them by stealing them, killed them... But he has never forgotten them. Not once. They are his people, his original people, his Aborigines...

All too soon they've started and the building - his entire continent - is hushed and silent.

He bites the inside of his cheek as the pleasantries are taken care of, before his boss begins to read aloud the speech they'd both spent weeks creating and checking over - Australia's never checked any document more than that one over for spelling, punctuation and whatever else the Pom had hammered into his head before. Even if the people he's apologising to will never lay eyes on it.

Australia doesn't need to see the paper to lip it, as he sweats like a pig and forces his eyes over the congregation of people gathered in front of him, again and again. He can feel the tears prick at his eyes as his boss (still so new to his post) recites his apology, and Australia feels millions of pins trail uncomfortably across his skin.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He sits in his living room later that afternoon, after the media rush, and his boss and mates have dissapated to do whatever they feel they need to. Australia's quietly going over what he's just done. It's only felt like minutes as he wanders through memories and wonders if his apology is enough. He idly realises he might be in shock.

It's when he realises he's hungry that he looks up to find himself surrounded by darkness. He rocks himself onto his feet - they're bare and he's only wearing a singlet and shorts; it's too hot for anything else - and looks towards the kitchen.

But then Australia is striding towards the toilet, his eyebrows furrowed as the door slams shut and he turns to the mirror. Much like he had that morning, he starts staring at the monstrosity on his face.

It's still there. It's still glaring out at the world. It's still ugly and shameful.

Then his eyes dip a bit and he finds himself smiling shakily.

His nerves are fried, his hands are cramping and body aches from being clenched and held upright and steady - but he's relieved now. It's taken the entire day, but he's realised it's true. He's still shaking like a newly hatched emu taking it's first steps, and he's still afraid and he's still guilty of all he's been charged with - but he feel his usual optimism returning, because he's done it, he's jumped the first hurdle and the rest of the race is waiting for him. The butterflies have settled a bit, his blood's been flooded with so much adrenaline he can hardly keep himself one place. He's determined to make it up to them.

Australia delves around in his bathroom drawers. Scrambles through a mass of ear buds, cotton balls, bandages and several different painkillers until he finds his first aid kit. He extracts a band aid, as wrinkled as it is. It's plain and water-resistant. He then reaches for the little tube tucked snuggly in his trouser's pocket (the first he'd bought seemingly ages ago, when the need to apologise had first begun to nag at him. He's been replacing it religiously since, aching for today).

There is no ceremony as he tears off the protective, milky white sheets and tosses them in the general direction of the bin, though he does take care as he dabs wart remover on the little patch of cotton and carefully flips the bandaid back over. He stares hard into the mirror, leaning towards the dusty glass as he places it on top of the rough bump on his nose and pats it down.

Now he and his people can heal together.

Woffy: This is really different to the version I posted on the kink meme (and I feel really bad for posting the version I did! Forgive me, OP!).

Concrit is appreciated. Your own theories on what Australia's band aid could represent are also (as I doubt it really does represent The Apology). I think I'm leaning towards Uluru if it's not this...

Tidbits

- Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, officially apologised to Indigeous Australians at 9:30am on February 13, 2008.