A/n: I hadn't planned on deanoning this. However, since you've already seen All Because of Glasses, this will be taking my attention for the next few weeks, and I am a shameless attention whore, I thought I might as well post it here anyway. Hope you like it!
England's first surprise came on the first day when he first saw his "little" colony again. He had been expecting to find the little boy that he'd left, once scarcely higher than his chin. America was still clearly a boy, but nothing like little anymore. He was even taller than England now, and although he was still gangly it was plain to see that he was already starting to fill out. It wouldn't be long until his chest and arms matched those broad shoulders. His voice didn't even crack. England wondered how long he had until everyone took him for an adult, probably not very judging by the ages at which his people tended to marry.
Once he got over his initial shock, he found himself somewhat sad. America was easily his favorite colony. Because of that he'd become somewhat of a special project to him. There was something about America that had drawn him in, made him see potential in the boy. Maybe it was that he saw something of himself in America, what he could have been if he had lived a life free from his brothers' abuse. Whatever the reason, England had wanted to be there for America through his awkward adolescent years.
"Come on, England! I did so much work to the house, you've just gotta see this!"
Of course, it was hard to stay melancholy when he seemed so excited about and proud of the things he had done, the ways he had grown. England felt as though he absorbed part of that energy as he allowed America to point out everything he'd done. It was all good workmanship. It seemed he may have had a real reason to be proud.
It seemed that even in his absence England had managed to raise him alright after all.
He was going to be quite attractive once he was fully grown as well. England could see it already: the hard, masculine lines of his face hidden behind the last traces of baby fat, the strength his body would have when he decided to grow out now that he was likely done with up. And then, of course, he had his soulful blue eyes, his soft golden hair, and that energetic personality.
Maybe in a decade or two, England thought, he'd be ready to take. He hoped he could be there for that too, but for less innocent reasons than the transition he'd missed. It wasn't as though America was his child. He was a nation, and although they may have referred to each other as family, they didn't possess that sort of bond. America was more England's student than his son. He took care of himself as they all did; he simply had more guidance than most.
Family was different. It was very, very different. He pressed a hand against his stomach, thinking of all the children he'd carried over the years. Not many compared to other nations, only five, but he had loved them and watched after them until they didn't need him anymore. Even now he had a Twenty-two-year-old son back in London. He was old enough to be independent, with a wife, one child of three years and another on the way. Actually, Jonathan was the reason he hadn't come back earlier and the reason he left in the first place. He fled across the sea as soon as he knew he would go into heat. He wanted to wait until he was home and then choose the most suitable "father" for his child, but unfortunately he couldn't wait the whole voyage and convinced the best man on the ship to impregnate him.
That was how it worked: there were times when nations became fertile, either because of crops or a population boom or for a multitude of other reasons no one understood, and they became pregnant. There were no exceptions. If they resisted the desire invaded their minds, driving them mad until they were no better than impoverished whores, begging anyone who produced sperm to fuck them.
It wasn't always that bad. Most of the time they had children with an ally or even just a human they'd grown fond of.
(Two of his children were Portugal's and one had been from a kind but lonely man he lived next door to when he was in Kent for a short time.)
(The other one was France's, a sort of peace treaty to end the 100 years war. He didn't love Mary any less than the others, though. There had been nothing French about her in the slightest)
"Hey, old man," America said, turning back to him and grinning, "You alive in there?"
"America, I don't bloody care that you're taller than me now," he snapped, startled and therefore inclined to shout, "I am your superior and you will address me as such."
He shrugged, "Other stuff wasn't getting through. I was asking if you wanted to go for a ride. I know a place not far from here that's really pretty in the afternoons."
England rolled his eyes, "Well, alright. I suppose I'll allow you to drag me out into the wilderness since I haven't seen it in so long."
"Awesome! Come on!" America grabbed his wrist and led him off to the stables.
England shook his head. He could see he had his work cut out for him if he as much as hoped to have the boy act properly again.