Hey there! I haven't written in a while so I'm pretty rusty, but I still hope this is enjoyable! This story is rated T for cursing and England's eyebrows.

This story includes Hetalia OCs that I can guarantee are researched fairly thoroughly - especially Transylvania - so I hope they're okay! Here's the list of included OCs (with their age appearances since most people age these guys, namely Transylvania and the States, much differently than I do):

Transylvania (26)

Republic of Ireland (27)

Northern Ireland (14)

Scotland (27)

Wales (25)

Iowa (19)

California (19)

Alaska (18)

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The other characters included are:

England (23)

America (21 | hope you don't mind my headcanon. It just makes more sense to me tbh)

France (26)

România (24)

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Disclaimer:

None of the Hetalia characters belong to me.

Transylvania's character, as well as the rest of my OCs and this story, do, however.

If you have any questions regarding this story, my headcanons, my OCs, or anything, related, please let me know!

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Chapter One: Preparation

Crash!

"SHIT-" England exclaimed, watching as his prized porcelain dish crashed all over the floor. After examining the mess, he closed his eyes and thought about his life like an edgy teen.

England heard footsteps approaching from nearby and quickly began to clean up his mess in fear of insult. The porcelain broke through a layer of skin on his finger and he yelped out of surprise. His sudden movements jerked the remaining 20 or so plates in his opposite hand and they began to fall… until two hands came out of nowhere and grabbed them.

"You fucking nitwit, be more careful next time," hissed a familiar deep voice. England turned to see an angry Scotsman shooting a threatening glare at him. Plates were shoved into Arthur's chest and footsteps faded into another room, not caring to give him any room for a response.

Sighing, England stood up and decided to leave the shattered remains of his precious porcelain plate - which was one of his favorites from his collection by the way - out for anyone to step on. About three steps later, he sighed again and put the plates down on a nearby counter, grabbed a broom, and cleaned up the mess. He wasn't about to resort to a shenanigan one of his brothers would pull off, that's for damn sure.

"Oi, when is France comin' over again?" called Ireland from the living room. Another voice emanated from a nearby:

"I dunno," said Wales.

"Wasn't askin' you!"

"About…" England trailed off, checking his wristwatch, "an hour from now. But of course, if I may add, America is either going to be annoyingly late or irritatingly early so be prepared for the latter." After getting a grunt for a response, England continued to sweep up the broken plate. He stopped in his tracks as he remembered something, "And, as per France's orders, stay out of the kitchen."

Scotland groaned. "But I wanted to make haggis!"

"Can it. Being able to make it was the one thing that France demanded from for dinner, so to keep him off my ass, I allowed it." England began to grumble, "I don't know why he wouldn't want my scones, though… I try really hard."

Northern Ireland laughed, "That's true, if you're trying to make people die."

Scoffing, England said, "It's not like your cooking is any better, North."

Shrugging with a sly smirk on his face, North jumps out of his seat and walks off, probably to find Scotland.

England rubbed his temples with a groan and continued to ready the house for the dinner.

Three bold knocks startled the brothers. Scotland, the closest to the door, answered it. "Mon ami!" exclaimed the Frenchman, throwing his arms around the Scot who happily received the hug. Slapping his hands on Scotland's shoulders, France said, "I sure hope you didn't make haggis because I am making us all a grand feast!"

His eyebrow twitching at the underhanded insult, Scotland muttered through gritted teeth. "I didn't."

France laughed and picked up his luggage. The clanging of pots, pans, and more rupted from it, but Scotland decided to pay no mind. It's probably best that France use his own utensils, anyway.

The Frenchman immediately went to work on his cuisine, readying the making of fine dishes such as Cassoulet, Blanquette de veau, Bouillabaisse, and Crème brûlée. As they passed by, the brothers found themselves staring in awe at France's handiwork.

"Wow," North muttered a bit nervously. France's skills sort of intimidated him, though he'd never admit it.

France turned to North and gave him a quick wink before returning to his work. North shivered, feeling sort of creeped out. He was never good around strangers.

Scotland decided to quit gawking and to actually get some work done. Peering at the dinner table, he went over the list of guests in his head. His final count came to 12, including him and his brothers. After another quick count, he saw that the dinner table only had 7 chairs, but they were spaced pretty far away from each other, leaving a good amount of room for the additional 5. He left for the basement, figuring there would be more chairs there.

Just as Scotland and Ireland had finished setting the table, another round of knocks sounded through the halls. They were loud, obnoxious, and were followed by some unintelligible shouting coming from a source that the brothers could only pin as America.

After an second of silence, Ireland gave his dear brother a smirk. "Well? Ye gonna get it?" chuckled Ireland.

Rolling his eyes, Scotland left to go answer the door. America barged in, hugging his uncle and exclaiming loudly about something, then ran to the kitchen upon the smell of food. Scotland could hear some faint French curse words afterward.

Three women, likely around 18 or so in appearance, walked inside. One of them, sporting long, wavy hair that blended from brown at the tips to blond starting around her ears and ending with her hair at around her ankles, shot out her hand near the Scot.

"Hello, Mr. Scotland! You remember me? Your grandniece?"

Returning her handshake, Scotland nodded. "California. It's been awhile since I've seen you last; you've grown a good bit."

Laughing in agreement and letting go of the Scot's hand, California turned to two of her sisters. "Here's Alaska and Iowa!" Iowa waved, pushing up her glasses afterward. Alaska seemed distant, not bothering to make eye contact and appearing to be pretty angry about something.

"Do you have a place I could put my luggage?" Iowa questioned, looking down at her duffle bag. It was black and yellow with the silhouette of a hawk's head, which Scotland deduced to be a logo for a sports team of some sort.

He nodded and said that Iowa and her sisters will be staying in a room in the attic and that they can drop their luggage there and unpack. The sisters left to go find it with California enthusiastically leading the way and Alaska trailing behind, slow as a snail.

"C'mon France!" America whined loudly - so loud that Scotland could've sworn that America was right in his ear, "let me have some fooooooood!"

Scotland could almost hear France shake his head (for the four thousandth time), "Non! You must wait for dinner! Now step away before I have to hit you!"

"Lighten up, Fra-"

Thwack!

"Owwwwwwah!"

While Ireland was fixing the coat rack as per England's demands - which the Irishman was, of course, grumbling about - he heard another set of knocks. A small and hopeful smirk crawled on his face - he knew it must be one of two people, or both.

"Hello?" he said, swinging the door open proudly. With a big, toothy smile, he examined the last two people on the guestlist.

The first was Romania who greeted Ireland immediately, "Hello there, friend! Thanks for inviting us! Especially Transylvania, I've been looking for a reason to drag her out of the Hoia Baciu forest." He shook Ireland's hand, ignoring Transylvania's annoyed grumbles behind him.

A smaller figure moved out of the darkness, nudging Romania out of the way. "Move it, fledging," she said with a hint of jest, a Dracula-like accent dominating the sound of her voice. The edges of her mouth curved upward when she met Ireland's eyes. "Long time no see, Irlanda. How have those grudges been treating you?"

"Like a curse that I'm happy to bare, Transylvania," he said. He put out his arms, "C'mere."

They embraced, leaving Romania to awkwardly stand there. "I LOVE BEING THE THIRD WHEEL," he exclaimed and laughed at their reactions, especially Ireland's. Ireland looked embarrassed - it's not like he's used to being affectionate to begin with, but for Romania to imply… it caught him off guard. Transylvania only giggled. "And why didn't I get a hug? Geez, Ireland's an asshole."

Ireland yanked Romania into the hug, laughing as he struggled. Romania began to protest even more as Transylvania gave him a noogie.

"Ahhh! Stop! You're gonna make my hat fall off!"

"Should I leave you lot of polar bears outside in the snow to freeze or are you gonna come in?" England questioned, slightly - but not visually - amused by their hugfest.

With that, they all went inside. Romania and Transylvania stuck by England to greet him and chat a bit while Ireland went into the kitchen to fetch a drink.

"Oh, Ireland!" France said, "I haven't had the chance to properly say bonjour to you. Or Wales for that matter, but I'll put that aside for now," the Frenchman wiped his hands off with a dishcloth. "How are you doing, my old friend?"

"Still a bit pissed about 1798," Ireland said, "but other than that I'm okay." He laughed loudly as France glared darts at him.

"I thought you were over that!"

"I'm still not over the things that happened to me when I was a kid, and that was about… 3 thousand years ago now, give or take?"

France was amused, "I keep forgetting you're so much older than I. It's strange for me, since I'm usually the eldest in these small get-togethers." Francis seemed to daze off for a few seconds before continuing, "Ah, but I had something to ask. England put you in charge of the sleeping arrangements, oui?"

"He did, but he would've been much better for the job since he's the one that actually lives here," Ireland scoffed, folding his arms. "Why?"

France chuckled and Ireland shivered - he had a bad feeling about whatever question France was going to ask due to that… laugh. "I'd like to know where everyone is sleeping so that, if I hear any… sounds… I know where they're coming from." He winked.

Ireland raised an eyebrow. "You're not planning anything, are ye?"

France was shocked. "No, of course not! As much as I adore love making, I outright refuse to do it in England's home!" Ireland laughed, stating how he agreed completely. "Oh? So you do not plan on anything?"

Ireland was set back by the question. He hadn't done anything like that in… a while, and hadn't thought about it in… well. "Hell no."

"Not even with Transylvania?"

"WHAT?!"

France's laugh was a roar in response to the flabbergasted Irishman. The way Ireland's face turned red, his shoulders skyrocketed upward, his eyes widened, and how his body stiffened - it was of the utmost hilarity. France lives for this. "Mon ami, calm down! I only jest! Although, your reaction makes me have second thoughts~!"

"France, I swear to God Almighty, I will piss on your doorstep." Ireland grabbed two cans of Guinness, which he brought 3 whole 12-packs of just in case, and quickly exited the room.

France shook his head. Ireland will never change, that's for sure. France looked at the clock, surprised to see it was only around 18 heure 08. Despite his shock, he was very relieved to see it was so early as he looked at his progress on dinner.

About a half hour passed and everyone, excluding France, were sat around in the living room chatting away. There were a few harsh words passed between the UK brothers and Ireland, but that's to be expected.

England got back from a brief check-in with France. "Dinner isn't quite done yet, so I did some thinking. Is anyone interested in going on a Haunted London Tour? It starts in around…" he checked his watch, "30 minutes. But if anyone needs more time, I can make a special reservation… I've done it before."

Transylvania slammed her fists down on a table. "HELL YES!"

"So that's one 'no,' how about anyone else?" Ireland gained a couple laughs and a playful smirk from Transylvania. "I'd like to go."

Iowa, Wales, California, and a hesitant Scot perked up and offered to go. America shook his head wildly, saying he had something else to do. Everyone knew that was a lie and Transylvania said, "Mhmm, yep. I'd bet."

Out of nowhere, Northern Ireland ran into the room, out of breath and excited. "I heard ghost tours!" he exclaimed, then quieted down once he met the eyes of the others in the room. He can be very forgetful when he's excited. He looked down at his shoes and cupped his hands behind his back while attempting to hide his face.

"Wait," Scotland said, looking at Ireland, "I forgot that I had something to show you."

Taking a millisecond side glance at the woman sitting next to him, Ireland looked at Scotland. "Can it wait?"

The Scot shook his head. "No."

Ireland narrowed his eyes, "Really?"

"Yes. And you've gone on this ghost tour a million times, so who cares if you don't go?"

"I care. And what? Are ye tryin' to chicken out already? Are ye scared or somethin'?"

Scotland laughed nervously, "No, I just," he gritted his teeth, "need to show you something."

Getting suspicious, England inquired, "What exactly did you have to show him, Scotland?"

"A new TV show. It comes on at seven."

England slowly nodded, not totally convinced, "Alright. Well, we'd better get going, so if anyone needs extra time to prepare, let me know."

Confirming that everyone needed no time to get ready, England led the small troupe of nations and the latter outside. The wind, light but cold, blew the small crumbs of snow into mini tornados, some of which hit a few of the nations. California giggled.

"I hardly ever get snow where I'm from, at least everywhere except for the north; it's so exciting to see it!" She picked up a chunk of snow and patted it into a sphere. She chucked it at Iowa who staggered in surprise.

"Hey!" she laughed.

England groaned, "Please stop that." He heard California mumble something to Iowa but decided to ignore it. "Ireland!" England shouted to the house, though careful with his volume to not disturb those neighboring his London townhouse. "If you're coming, you'd best hurry up!"

As if on command, Ireland stormed out of the house as if he were a bat out of hell. He was bouncing on one leg and nearly fell off England's small, elevated doorstep. He was cursing to himself in what everyone figured or knew to be his native tongue. "Alba!" he said rather loudly, ignoring England's attempts to shoosh him afterward. "Give me back me damn shoe!"

From behind the door, people heard a faint, "No!"

"Fuckin' 'ell," Ireland hissed, balancing on a metal rail. "I'm not stayin'!"

Another faint, "No!"

"What the hell has gotten into ye?"

England sighed. He was clearly pissed off at this point. "Scotland, give him his damn shoe back!"

There was a second of silence before Ireland's shoe came flying out from behind the door, slamming the Irishman square in the head. "FUCK," he exclaimed, holding his pounding head.

Transylvania walked over, picked up Ireland's shoe, and kicked the door. The audience, now entertained by these events, heard a loud thud. England figured it had hit Scotland's knee or something to that extent. Hopefully his head, England thought to himself.

"Ow!" said the voice from behind the door.

Transylvania offered to rub Ireland's head. "Nah, sham, I'm ok. Thanks though," he patted her back with a smile.

Grumbling to himself, Scotland walked over to the couch where Wales was sat reading a book. North was next to Wales, playing with his flat cap.

"Hey, Scotland. What did you want to show Ireland?" Wales asked, looking up from his special edition copy of The Lord of the Rings.

Scotland sat down and cupped his hands together in his lap. "I found something in England's basement."

"Was it a huge mound of inedible scones?" North excitedly asked.

Scotland shook his head. "I wish that was the case. What I really found was… well, among the intense pile of old suits, tattered and torn clothes, his pirate outfits, and a couple boxes labelled 'Punk Phase - Do Not Relive,' I found a couple of copies of old treaties that I specifically remember England said he would discard of."

Wales raised an eyebrow. "So what?"

The red-head shrugged. "I don't know, it just rubbed me the wrong way. Surely the official ones are locked away somewhere or had already been rid of, so why would he have his own copies? And well, I also found a few other official orders that England claimed to never had sent out… and something about," Scotland took a breath, "Cromwell."

The color ran like rivers off of North's face. He hadn't heard that name in a long time and wished to forget it completely. He kept silent and clung to Wales' arm.

Recovering from his brief flow of memories, Wales insisted, "It doesn't matter, Scotland. The past is the past and it's time to move on. And hell, why instigate? Why show Ireland? There's no point and it won't end well if Ireland is reminded of Cromwell, not to mention the other things he might find down there." He put his book on his lap and leaned closer to Scotland to make direct eye contact. "Please, for the love of God, do not show Ireland anything in England's basement."

Scotland remained silent and looked to the floor. He felt compelled to show Ireland - he needed to know that England was still holding onto the horrible things that had transpired. It just… wasn't right. It was a wrong that Scotland felt needed corrected. Maybe Ireland could help with that. But on the other hand, what if Ireland completely loses his cool? He has been known to do that. Scotland looked back at Wales whom was still staring him dead in the eyes. North was still clinging to him, his face drained and eyes widened. It was a face that simply said, "No."

"Alright, fine. Then we need to do the opposite of that, then."

Wales nodded. "Yes. We need to keep Ireland away from that basement."