'I am mum. I need no other label or prefix.'
Mother.
It's a word that defines a part of him, some might call it a big part, others might say it is non-existent. At first it was spoken by young voices, accompanied by the patter of tiny feet as they run - or waddle - towards him; Ignoring the strange looks he received from his men as their fierce captain became something else entirely, when he laid eyes on his children.
Despite not birthing them, in some cases not even being directly related to them, England feels strongly for those he raised. It's a feeling he imagines a human woman would have when she first lays her eyes on her child, the first rush of affection and amazement at the fragile life she has created. Except for him it's a never ending rush and sometimes it's so strong he is sick. "Morning sickness again?" France would tease, often earning him a head through a briefcase or a chair to the face.
England isn't quite sure he would define France as father (because that would mean admitting that the Frog means something to him, and he'll never do that on his bloody English pride, dammit!) but the children do. "Papa! Daddy!" they call delightedly as he walks through the door, sashaying into the living room where England is doing his embroidery in relative peace, with Australia dozing in his lap, cuddling a toy koala bear.
"Honey, I'm home," he trills, eyes gleaming wickedly as their children hang off him, most notably tiny Canada squealing happily as he clutches his father's shirt from where he is hanging. England will only grumble lightly if the older ones are in the room, and won't react at all if the younger ones are there, instead smile and laugh with practiced ease while his eyes promise death.
It's a label that is tattered, beaten and faded with time and age and heartbreak. But it's still there and England knows that the small print is gaining a new name - Russia. Ivan. His heart feels whole again, beating impossibly loudly, and there is that rush again, so impossibly strong, stronger than anything he has ever felt, he is physically sick in the middle of the meeting. France meets his eyes knowingly as he is sick into the toilet, America throwing burgers at his head and Australia baiting Hong Kong with a snake (he tries to tell the Frog to get them to calm down but he can't get a word out in heaving up his gut).
He knows the rush is stronger than ever because he sees Russia as someone who needs to be looked after. England knows he had a bad, terrible childhood, that he's isolated and in desparate need of care. Sometimes, in his quietest moments, a thought drifts towards him, unbidden, of travelling east and not west, of struggling through the frozen tundra, and finding a small boy with violet eyes, small and emaciated, shaking with fright, who cries out for mama...
But it's too late, and even if he could change time, would he give up on knowing America, raising America? Guiltily, he thinks not. He holds onto the experience of raising America - any of his colonies really - like a high he can't recreate. The tears, the thrills, the laughter, everything - it's so important to him, and he hoards those memories greedily, like a banker might do to money, or a child might do to sweets.
He's still denying it, but his heart is already planning a new room in his house (bloody ridiculous, when will he ever stay with me?), it's noting what Russia's favourite foods are (he wouldn't eat anything I give him anyway) it's screaming when he sees Russia sniffle or yawn (I will not give him another blanket dammit). His heart is whole and beating again, the rush of life familiar and comforting. Is this what pregnant women feel?
"Angleterre, really, you should just eat my food. I mean, even you can't stand your own food," France says pompously, twirling a piece of hair between his fingers.
England scowls as he finally looks up from the toilet bowl. "America, stop throwing those grease traps! Hong Kong put those fireworks away and Australia leave him alone. Canada - what on Earth are you doing here? Go back to the meeting room sweetie."
Canada appears suddenly, making America scream and run out. "But maman, you're sick," he protests softly.
"Non," France disagrees. "Angleterre is not sick. Just preparing, I think."
"Preparing?"
France - damn frog - smiles at England. "I think your mama will have a new child very soon.., and we will be parents again, right Angleterre?"
"I'm not letting you near him, he doesn't need your idiocy," grumbles England, before leaning back over the toilet, and continuing to be sick.
26/09/18: I've written up to chapter 25, just need to sort them into an order now...