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Australia got to the front door of the old country house, and frowned.
The door was open. It wasn’t even locked. And Hutt River had yet to make his customary appearance to assert the dominance of his country (Micronation? Piece of land that was technically his but not? It was a bit hard to define the terms, especially since his government was a bit ‘lax on the rules for these types of things- probably why he had so many of the little shits-) over Australia.
Still, either way it was unusual for Hutt to not greet him at the front of the property, and small tendril of unease wormed it's way into Australia's stomach. Were was the boy?
Shaking the feeling of foreboding off, and reassuring himself he had probably just gotten distracted (despite Nations, and even mirconations always knowing when another Nation was within their land) Australia pushed the time worn door open and forged ahead.
And ‘forged’ was the correct term for it, because Australia had never seen Hutt River’s house this cluttered before. The living room, where Australia had just entered, was full to the brim with what appeared to be random stuff.
However, Australia could clearly see Hutt's personality shine through the items piled in the room, with his delicate tastes becoming more obvious the more you looked (which Australia had always mocked him mercilessly for, because really, they weren’t in Buckingham Place with the old man).
Australia snorted as he picked his way through the clutter towards the kitchen to check for his missing micronation, making his way past delicately engraved bowls and fine china plates that Australia just knew Hutt had gotten from Ikea to make himself seem fancier.
A pale chair in the back of the room caught his attention, and his eyes widened as he shifted his position in the room to get a better look at the wooden chair, his throat uncomfortably tight and he recognised it. It was the gum tree piece that Australia had carved for Hutt back in the 70s, a few years after meeting him for the first time on a dusty summers day, this tiny entitled upstart micronation that had taken one look at Australia and declared himself independent.
Which was... damn. A long time ago, at least for micronations. For an actual Nation, 50 years was laughable, and yet micronations rarely lasted that long. Hutt was the oldest of his brats, after all.
Still, it reminded him of why exactly he had taken the long (very long, now that he was thinking of it why exactly didn't he take a plane?) drive from his home in NSW to be here in WA.
In The Principality of Hutt River, he supposed.
He’d been busy with bureaucratic bullshit recently, and hadn’t kept track of the time as much as he should of- especially with this pandemic thing going around.
And so it had been Snake Hill who had demanded (quiet loudly at 3:00am in the morning, who raised these kids?) that he “Checked up on the snotty bastard, cause we need to get ready for the prank wars, and if you think that I’m letting that cunt Wy recruit him after last year you’ve got another bloody thing coming.”
Which had led him here. To an open door that didn’t seem to be locked and a room that didn’t seem to have Hutt, but a bunch of junk instead. Which was decidedly not Hutt’s style.
Australia was drawn out of his musings by a soft thump from upstairs, coming from roughly where Hutt’s bedroom was located, and he relaxed slightly at the noise, moving to and up the stairs as he resolved to question Hutt on his odd decoration choices.
However, as he stood in the doorway of Hutt’s room, all the questions on the tip of his tongue died.
After all, it wasn’t everyday you saw the boy you once had to care for look like a living corpse.
Hutt was situated on the bed facing the window out looking the farmland that made up his country, unmoving and breathing shallowly. His normally groomed and put together appearance was in shambles, with his cheeks a sickly pale colour and his ordinary bright green eyes that mirrored Australia’s own an almost see through colour.
His fancy clothes that had been the subject of much debate by Australian micronations everywhere (mostly about who could get Hutt to start screaming about proper clothing etiquette first) were lying about on the floor in piles, and even that ridiculous cape that Australia himself had given him as a joke on his 20th birthday and that Hutt had been more attached to then his own mother (if he had had one, that is) was spread on Hutt’s legs to provide warmth, although there were suspicious stains and tears in it.
The room smelt like sick, and Australia was still in shock when Hutt River stirred from his position on the bed and turned to meet his startled eyes.
“Oz. Was hoping you wouldn’t come, mate. At least not ‘till it’s over.” The statement was punctured by a small coughing fit, and Australia found himself crossing the room in a instant to rub circles into the boys back, tucking himself onto the edge of Hutt’s bed once the fit was over as he looked at the micronation in bewilderment, and then slight anger.
“You… I don’t understand. What the bloody fuck? Hutt, if you’re sick and need someone -and don’t even try to tell me you’re fine, bullshit- fucking tell me! I’m not a bloody mind reader, and most of the time I’m in NSW with the others, not freaking WA. How hard is it to pick up a phone and call!? You were the one who was practically born with this tec, anyway. Not me. And what do you mean, until it’s over?!”
The last part was hissed at the micronation, and Australia wasn’t quite shouting, but he was speaking loudly enough that Hutt flinched and leaned slightly away from where Australia was sitting, and Australia softened his voice. Angry or not, Hutt was still sick.
Hutt took a shaky breath and laughed jerkily, like Australia had said something extremely funny.
“You have no fucking clue, do you? About death, I mean. None of you do. Not really.”
Australia stiffened, his voice harsh and angry. “I’ve seen people die, Hutt. Been in the wars. Seen people be shot just for the colour of their skin. My people. Gallipoli, even fucking Darwin. How dare you, you, sit here, and tell me I don’t have a fucking clue-“
“You don’t!” Hutt’s voice was vicious as he responded, cutting Australia off. “You don’t, because each time they put bullets in you and gas you and bomb you, you come back. You look human, and sound human, but you’re not! You look around at the death and destruction around you, and you, I don’t know, feel sad? Guilty? But not for the reasons they do. You look at your people, the people carrying your name and banner and love them, yes, but it’s conditional. You do not look at other Nations people and see humans worth saving and that’s why you don’t understand. To be human is to love unconditionally, and to be human is to die.”
Australia stared at Hutt in shock, his eyes wide and all protests dying as his anger faded and an uneasy feeling set inside his stomach.
“And what, exactly, would you know about that? Your still one of us, remember? Unless you see any other 50 year olds that look 16?”
The attempt at humour fell flat, but Hutt blinked in surprise. “Your telling me you haven’t figured out yet, Oz? That you’ve seen me like this,” here he took a sweeping gesture at the crumpled mess in the room, “and heard me talk of death and humanity, but still haven’t figured it out?”
Australia’s tempered frayed, but he reined it in. Something about this whole setting was making him on edge, and Hutt’s odd behaviour and quiet derision wasn’t helping.
“What, Hutt? No more guessing games.”
Hutt smiled, a trace of his old haunty self coming through as he bested Australia at this, at least. “I’m dying. I’m dying, and I’m human for the first time in 50 years.”
And Australia forgot how to breath.