'The jewel of the sky is the sun; the jewel of the house is the child.'
The sun really was something, England thought, wearing a straw hat and rubber gloves as he began to dispose of the burnt plants from their front garden. The white post box remained untouched, back in place after France had risked a fiery death to retrieve it from the gate (he would never admit how grateful he was for that). He chucked the last of the plants (rare breeds too, he lamented) into the bag and dragged them to the pavement. The rubbish trucks would be here soon, and they would take them off his hands. He swiped his forehead of sweat, sighing. It really was a miracle the house hadn't burnt down, although the living room had suffered a lot of scorching courtesy of Exploding Snap and Hong Kong's fireworks. France was currently cleaning that up with Paris and Northern Ireland (England would not let children roam over a potentially flammable area).
He heard a burst of laughter from the house and smiled with nostalgia. The house used to be full of sounds like that. England visited his colonies abroad, but he also brought them all home to bond and get to know one another. He remembered he them being so excited for sleepovers and stories, jumping all over the place and each other. Tiny Canada being shy around his boisterous brothers, Seychelles taking her first steps towards France, giggling... He shook his head as the house fell quiet once more. It suddenly seemed so dull; even the house had lost it's glitter and life. It always was like this after they left, the first time and every time after that. The ache of seeing them go, the anxiety of seeing them go never faded.
He went back inside, seeing the living room mostly cleaned, and France repainting the walls to hide the scorch marks. Northern Ireland shrieked with joy on seeing him and jumped on him happily. "We painted the walls! Look look look!" And it was true, little green and red handprints lined the bottom of the blue walls, courtesy of Paris and North. England smiled.
"They're very pretty," he complimented, "But I think someone's got sticky green hands now!" he threw the boy in the air, who laughed happily as he landed back in England's arms. England put him down and sent the two younger ones off to wash their hands for lunch.
"Are you ever going to tell Aidan that you're not his mother?" asked France casually.
"Are you ever going to tell Adrienne that I'm not her mother?" England shot back, kneeling beside him and helping him paint.
"Touche," France said. "I suppose it would just confuse them. They're so young, the wouldn't understand - even though they are older than normal."
"Actually, Aidan is coming onto his first century soon, in a couple of years in fact. Maybe we should plan something special?" suggested England.
"I'll get Paris to -" France ducked as she zoomed by on a broomstick. "Paris! Arrêtez en vol que chose infernale!"
"Papa, mais ç'est amusant!"
"Vous allez enlever la tête de quelqu'un!"
"Your father's right, you'll kill someone flying that fast, it doesn't matter how much amusement it brings you," England said sternly, "I said I'd take you to the flying pitches later, so go and play with your brother."
"Maman, je suis 16, Aidan n'a même pas 6 ans!" complained Paris.
"Then set the table will you? We'll have lunch in a minute," England replied. Paris huffed and left. "That girl..."
"She has been around since we were teenagers, young teenagers at that," France said, amused. "She's older than America." England grumbled in response. "But you wouldn't have it any other way, would you? Without our little diamonds... and another one that I possess, although it's a lot bigg-"
"No one cares, you cheese-eating monkey!"
"Honhonhon!"