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Chapter Text

England didn't know who's idea it was to begin with (probably America's), or who said yes on his behalf (probably Scotland, maybe France), but he wanted to leave now, thank you very much.

"Opinion controversée, but potatoes are beaucoup mieux than tomatoes."

In theory it was a good idea; house a handful of Nations in a single house and film it. It would show those that still rejected their existence that if you remove the immortality and the other odd caveats, they were just people. It would also allow them to potentially improve their public image outside of Twitter and voice-only interviews.

In practice however...

"Ex-fucking-scuse me?!"

"You did not just say that, amigo."

"They're both very good!"

"Patate are the worst vegetable, pomodori are the best fruit. There shouldn't even need to be this- this-"

"Kartoffeln are sehr gut."

"You're not helping Bruder-"

Housing a quarter of Europe in the same building was always bound to be a disaster, in his opinion. Nevermind the African version of the show. Or any of them, really. The calmest would probably be the one for the Americas, and that had America.

"Tomates are clearly superior!"

"I don't know mon ami, pommes de terre can go well with so many different foods..."

"картофель are better, да?

"Engi ór þú hafkennar, fiskr eru beztrinn matr khoice."

"They are!"

"For once I agree with him."

With a sigh and a sip if his tea (Earl Grey, of course, steeped for three minutes, one sugar cube to help prevent the oncoming headache he was bound to have), England ignored all the other nations he was unfortunately sharing a living space with and settled into the plush couch. It was a new house, built specially for the show, and was built in an old Swiss Chalet style with subtle influences of the rest of the continent. The house was isolated - mostly for secrecy and security, but also because of the multitude of shenanigans they're bound to get into. A beautiful meadow that was home to many fragrant flowers surrounded the house on three sides, with the remainder an old forest England was sure housed many magical creatures. The property was stunning, really, and was something England would want to live on back home. But alas, they were within Switzerland's borders.

"How could any of you think that a shitty lump you have to dig from the ground is better than an elegant, rounded fruit that gives you so many vitamins you won't even know what half of them do!?"

"But that's the point, ja? We don't know what they do. Kartoffeln give you a shit load of minerals. And are super easy to grow."

Turning his attention to the camera crew that were there in front of him in the sitting room (and pointedly ignoring the unintelligible scream of rage produced behind him), he began his introduction.

"Hello, I am the Nation of England, and the usual representative of the United Kingdom at official events. While I do not wish to be here for this disaster, I am-" -cut off with a sudden bump of an elbow to the back of his head. It wasn't painful, of course, but there was enough force behind it to be an annoyance. Oh, his tea spilled. Really, they should've at least waited for dinner that night before getting into any arguments.

He took a deep and calming breath (it didn't work, but allowed him to keep at least some composure), heaved another sigh, placed his now tea-covered cup and saucer on the tasteful coffee table in front of him, and smiled politely towards the humans and their camera. "If you'll excuse me for but a moment."

The immediate cease of activity and the pale-as-sheet faces of the others when they caught sight of his expression gave England a sick sense of satisfaction. Ah, it felt good to have others trembling in fear from naught but a smile. He had almost forgotten the feeling.

Their faces paled impossibly further as his smile stretched wider at that thought.

Nothing to France sounded like a better time than having a large portion of the world live together. Most would say that he was a little too gleeful at the prospect of the chaos it would cause, but France would disagree. He was just the right amount of gleeful, in his not so humble opinion.

The idea, unfortunately, wasn't his. He sorely wished it was, but that achievement went to Amérique. Still, to keep things interesting France naturally had a hand in selecting who would be living in the house Suisse so graciously provided for them.

And lucky him! The chaos had already begun!

"Of all the times to rehash this argument, why did any of you believe this would be a good time?"

He may have incited the argument for the sake of it, and he may have goaded them on, but he swears he didn't mean for anyone to interrupt Angleterre's tea and introduction. Honest!

Aaah but how France had missed that look in Angleterre's eyes. It was passé tracamment terrifiant, sure, but there was just something about it.... A certain je ne sais quoi.

"It does not matter in the slightest if all of you fight over this; it is all up to personal preference. They're both healthy foodstuffs that provide many vitamins and minerals, but that does not mean one is inherently better than the other. Romano, there is no need to yell at everyone over it, Spain, there is no need to be so offended by it, Prussia, there is no need to egg them on."

Well, since his neighbour was settling that, he could take the opportunity to introduce the obvious star of the show; him.

Since no one really knew which of them were which country - they had managed to keep their identities hidden after the leak, Dieu merci - they needed to introduce themselves to the world; their audience. And who was France to deny the people what they want?

"Bonjour!" He cheerfully greeting the camera crew, draping himself over the surprisingly comfortable couch where his favourite little island had just been seated, "Je m'appelle France; the country of l'amour, good food, and beautiful scenery. We're in for a fun time here, non?" Ending his sentence with a wink, France was cut off from saying anything else by a furious Englishman.

"-And you!" Well, would you look at that, it's time to start dinner prep!

"Ciao! I'm Italia Veneziano! I represent the top part of Italy, and my brother-"

"You better not try anything with my brother, Potato Bastard! I'm keeping a close eye on you and your shitty suspicious potato ways!"

"-And my brother Romano is the southern part. I hope to have lots of pasta and fun! And pasta!"

"Italia Romano. Why the fuck am I even here? Mio fratello is here already, I could be getting shit done back home but no they just had to have both of us-"

"I am Germany, and I just hope that we don't set the house on fire or have a homicide."

"Kesesese, I am the awesome Preußen. I am awesome and so is Gilbird."

"Chirp!"

"Привет, I am Россия. It is good to be here. I want to make lots and lots and lots of friends."

"¡Hola!"

"Oi Tomato Bastard! Why the fuck is your alabarda here?!"

"Ignore Romano, si? I am España, and I am muy grateful to América for coming up with this idea. We should invite some of the others and have a giant sleepover! What do you think, Romano?"

"Fuck no!"

"I am Norway. Why did I let myself be talked into this?"

"Because Tanska was doing drunk karaoke and you heard Islanti was going to be here!"

"Right, that." A critical eye roamed over the crew's forms, "Þú allr hafneir sense ór klothing, ok skulu burn hvat þú hefi."

"I am Finland, and I would love it if everyone could get along and be friends! But mainly I'm just hoping no one accidentally summons a demon."

"Ελλάδα. I like cats. I want to pet cats. Would you like to bet on if Αγγλία ends up sleeping with Γαλλία by the end of the season? Thirty euro says no, one hundred euro says yes, one hundred and twenty euro says yes, but only after Αγγλία is drunk, and three hundred euro says instead of Γαλλία, he'll sleep with Πρωσία instead."

"I'm Iceland, and I'm only here because I was told to. I wouldn't be anywhere near here otherwise."

"Call me bi-"

"I will not call you big brother!"

"Hallo, leuk je te ontmoeten! I am Belgie. If you ask me how I do my hair I won't hesitate!"

"As I was saying," England let out a barely-there sigh of relief as he sat back down onto the couch with a fresh cup of tea (this time chamomile and a dash of milk for the headache he had developed), "I do not wish to be here for this disaster, for I am sure it will become one, but I am grateful for the opportunity to spend some time with certain individuals, as well as avoid others. It unfortunately seems like lady luck is not currently favouring me, as I have to share a house with the Frog and his friend group, but otherwise I have nary a quandary about most others in this house. I merely have two hopes for this venture: That America does not visit, and all but a select few stay out of the basement."

"But seriamente, Tomates are better."

"Oh for the love of-"

It wasn't caught on camera, but the look the camera crew shared spoke volumes on whether they thought the show was a good idea after all.

Chapter Text

It hadn't even been twenty four hours yet, and someone had already died. Germany didn't know how or when, and he didn't think he wanted to know either. All he cared about was that France's corpse was in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, and that the floor would stain. The wall too, now that he looked closer. It was way too early for this.

"Oh! Oh! Germany!"

Sighing, said Nation turned to face his friend Veneziano. "Yes?"

"Can we be detectives?" No, absolutely not.

"No, absolutely not." His thoughts were echoed by the elder Italian brother. "He'll be back up and flirting with everything in a few hours, massimo. If you want to know how he made a scemo of himself just watch the camera footage."

"Aw, but Romano! It could be fun!"

"Si, Romano!" Spain added, "It's not like we have anything else to do."

"My awesome self votes we do it!" Germany's traitorous brother yelled, pushing his way into the group.

He knew he was beaten out when Belgium said: "I think it would be a fun way to pass the time!"

Heaving a deep, deep sigh, Germany acquiesced. "Fine."

"YAY!"

"BUT!" The cheers of celebration halted, "No one is to disturb the 'crime scene' without permission, everyone must travel in pairs, and everyone needs to know where everyone else is. We do not need anyone else dropping dead."

"Sir, yes sir!"

"I've completed my preliminary analysis of the scene and France's corpse," Germany started, "Blood was found on one wall and the floor underneath France's face. The blood on the wall and floor seem to indicate that the blood was spilled at least two hours ago, and the lividity in the body correlates with this, as well as the lack of rigor mortis, showing he died two to four hours ago."

"Ve, but Germany, how did he die?"

"You'd need an autopsy for that, idiota. And that would just keep him dead for longer!"

"Aw Romano, you do care!"

"On second thought lets do that autopsy."

"We don't have the equipment or the right conditions anywhere in the house for it, though." Thank Belgium for being a voice of reason.

"We have plenty of equipment! There's perfectly good knives and I think I saw some paperclips somewhere around here, plus-"

"No!" He was not going to even entertain the thought of that. "We are not doing a DIY autopsy on France. He'll be awake by lunch anyway."

"It should be fine, da?"

"Debería ser. We had to use worse things before, right?"

"Exactly! West, back in our day-"

"Enough!" All chatter immediately ceased, and attention was back on Germany. "We are not doing an autopsy, we are not moving the body, and we are not going starting the 'back in the day' discussion again! We will go through alibis and where everyone was two to three hours ago, one at a time. Do you understand?"

"Da."

""Ja.""

""Si.""

"Whatever."

"Joo."

"Ναί."

"Good. Any questions?" Veneziano's hand shot up.

Something told Germany he'd be sighing a lot that day. "Yes?"

"Wouldn't we all just say we were sleeping?"

"Наверное."

"It doesn't hurt to check." Satisfied with his answer, Veneziano nodded and put his hand down. "Any other questions?" Somehow he wasn't surprised his friend's hand went right back up. "Yes?"

"Wouldn't Inghilterra be better for leading the case? Oh, and where are Inghilterra, Norvegia and Islanda?" That was... actually a decent question.

"It was probably the Tea Bastard. It is France's corpse."

"Si, knowing Inglaterra it was probably him."

"Anyone want to bet on it?"

"Four thousand ruble on it being Англия."

"Fifty euro."

"Eighty euro."

"I don't know, Englanti hasn't been very hostile with Ranska in the last century."

Everyone was cut off again by the sound of a door opening and closing, accompanied by two very distinct voices.

"I'm just saying that it would've made more sense to sort it hair and eyeballs first, and then the other body parts. Or alphabetical."

"This is the interdimensional standard that's been used for centuries, why change it now? Alphabetical sounds flott, but what language and writing system would we use? There's too many differing ones we could use."

"There is a standard language used, you realize. Just use Standard Fae. Why did they even make that nonsensical system to begin with? Putting nails and hearts next to each other? Why not just have scales next to the dust then!"

The two bickering countries stopped abruptly when they entered the dining area, those gathered all staring at them with a wide range of emotions - from Russia's placid amusement, to the Italies' and Spain's sheer horror.

"Mis amigos, uh, what are you talking about?"

"Ja, and where were you both?"

The two blinked in unison.

"Potion ingredients, and the sorting thereof."

"We've been in the kjeller all night setting things up."

"Speaking of, no one but a select few are allowed down there. They know who they are. No exceptions." England sharply turned to the camera in the corner of the room, and pointed at it. "That includes you America! No going into the basement!"

"So the two of you wouldn't happen to know why France's corpse is at the bottom of the stairs?" Germany shouldn't relate so heavily to England's exasperated expression.

"Of course the Frog croaked it on the first night. What'd he do, ribbit too hard?"

"We don't know, and we can't do an autopsy to find out." Supplied Belgium.

A snort came from both Spain and Prussia. "More like West won't let us do an autopsy."

"Kitchen knives and paperclips are not appropriate tools for an autopsy-"

"Þú're allr stupið. Réttr kheck kamerasrinn."

England looked off into the middle distance, nodded, and walked over to Greece, ignoring the argument happening around with centuries of practice.

"Are you taking bets?"

"Always."

"One hundred and fifty pounds on the idiot tripping over his own feet while walking down the stairs half asleep and slamming his head on both the stairs and the wall. The blood is from the broken nose he got when his face hit the railings."

"Noted. Ευχαρίστηση να συνεργαστείτε μαζί σας."

"You as well."

"Can we focus for eine verdammte Minute!"

England snorted. "This'll be a long," A quick check of his wristwatch filled the slight pause in his words, "handful of months."

"We may as well enjoy the διακοπές while it lasts."

Sitting at the dining table, all countries living in the house with the notable exceptions of France (being a corpse, and still at the bottom of the stairs) and Iceland (who according to Norway was either still asleep, or "saw France and heard everyone arguing again, and decided to go back to bed.") were gathering evidence.

"So with the exception of Norway and England, everyone else was asleep. And the two of you were doing what, exactly?"

"Setting up the basement for any and all magic we plan on doing while here. Including, but not limited to, potions, summoning, various shamanistic practices, and anything to do with the fae."

Everyone was silent for a moment. "...Right. And neither of you left?"

"Nei. We had everything we needed already."

"Ve, so we have no suspects?"

"Si, that seems to be the case."

"We could always do that autopsy-"

"Abgelehnt."

"The real убийство was the friends we made along the way!"

"I told you to check the telecamera at the start of this, idioti."

"I'm just glad none of you are actual detectives. Or coroners."

"Hafengir ór þú watcheð krimer visa?"

"What if we just waited for Ranska to wake up? Couldn't we ask him then?"

"I don't think Frankrijk would say how-" Everyone was cut off by the previously dead Nation stumbled into the room, nose still crooked and blood caked on his face. His expression was half mortified, half faux heartbroken.

"Why did all of you leave me there?! It's been hours. Hours! And I've been splayed out on the floor in mon propre sang! Just the thought of that is dégoûtant!" Before anyone could reply, he stormed off in a huff.

"Who wants to check the κάμερες to settle the bet?"

"Sure."

"Yeah."

"Da."

"I'll come."

"Ve, I'll start cooking lunch!"

Germany sighed once more. What was the point in wasting their morning, again?

Chapter Text

"Since we're all to be living together, the producers have decided to have us do some icebreakers." Groans could be heard from everyone, but primarily Iceland and Romano.

"We've known each other for centuries!" Spain anguished.

"Ah, but mon ami, the audience has not, no? So, we are not doing these brise-glace for ourselves, but for the des gens merveilleux at home."

"Unfortunately," England cut back in, "The Frog is right. Also we don't really have a choice. It's either we do the icebreakers or-" He shuddered, as if the thought of what would happen would be absolutely horrific- "America comes and does it for us."

The rest of the room shuddered as well.

"As we don't want that outcome, we should start these as soon as possible. I've been given a list of icebreakers, and there's a few of them. We'll want the sitting room, as well as snacks and beverages. Since I'm apparently banned from the kitchen, I'll help set up the room. Try to have everything ready within the hour, and with as few casualties as possible."

Greece did accidentally spilled the juice he held onto some of France's pastries, but all other snacks were spared.

Everyone settled, and they begun.

"The first is Two Truths, One Lie," Everyone groaned again, "Yes, yes, I know. I'll start, and we'll go clockwise around the circle. And no Googling. Understood?" England's stern gaze was met with a chorus of affirmations, and he nodded, satisfied. "Good. I have had seven civil wars, I am good friends with Merlin, and I have an original copy of the script of Hamlet, signed by William himself."

There was a moment of pause, as everyone considered the three statements.

"It'd have to be the one with Merlin, si? He's just a personaje in those tales about that king of yours, right?"

There was a murmur of agreement among the group, but France's eye narrowed in on his long time frenemy-slash-rival. "It is the count of your civil wars." His voice cut over the others, and stunned them to silence. Merlin surely couldn't be real, right? But if it's France - the one who likely knew England best - saying it...

England's face split into a smirk. "Correct," He said, "I have had at least eight civil wars - nine minimum, but I stopped counting at some point."

The reaction was immediate.

"But Merlin would be some ancient human wizard!"

"He can't be real!"

"But what about your King Arthur!?"

"Oh, there was never a King Arthur. There's obviously a wizard named Merlin, and there was a knight named Medraut who was friends with the first Arthur, but Arthur was never a king - he was a Nation."

The resulting silence was almost palpable, and only broken by a sniff from France.

"I have met Merlin a few times. He is very énervant."

England chuckled at that. "He's very unique, but you get used to it after a time."

"And Excalibur?" Came a weak and unidentifiable voice.

"A very useful magic sword. Now, I believe it is Germany's turn."

All attention suddenly shifted to the youngest in the room. "Ah," He cleared his throat, "Ja. My turn. I do yoga regularly, I play the drums, and I use my house's basement as a spare office space."

All three seemed just as unlikely as the next, and only Prussia made a sound as everyone else was thinking. "Kesesese! This one is super einfach!"

"Ve, it's the basement one, right?"

Germany jerkily nodded. "Ja."

"Natürlich! That's where the awesome me lives, after all!"

"It's my turn! Hmm..." Veneziano kicked his feet as he thought, letting out a soft (for him, at least) "Oh!" as he came up with his statements.

"I have a vineyard, I once won an award for my pasta, and I can play several musical instruments!"

"Tch," Romano piped in before anyone else could consider the answer, "You can't play for shit. Except the violoncello."

"Si!"

"Whatever. I'm better at cooking than Veneziano, I used to perform opera, and I also have a vineyard."

All considered the options; those who had tasted the younger Italian's cooking couldn't imagine anyone else cooking better italian food than him, no one could imagine Romano singing, let alone singing opera, but the vineyard option seemed the least likely because it sounded the most like the truth.

Spain lit up, as though he suddenly remembered something. "Didn't you sell your vineyard to buy the rights to the Teatro Valle from your government?"

"Stupid bastards cut the budget and close the damn theatre, but when I try to fix the place and open it again they block me every dannazione time. I hope they rot."

"My turn!" Spain cheered over the sound of Romano grumbling in Italian, "Lets see... Ah! I can fight three bulls at once, Basque and Catalonia sometimes visit my house to complain at me, and I own a tomato farm."

Romano was still complaining about his government, so everyone else had to think about the answer.

Surprisingly, it was Russia who answered. "I think it is Basque and Catalonia, da?"

"No! They come over a surprising amount, realmente. I can only fight two bulls at once." Spain's expression was incredibly smug, having won his round.

"That's still really impressive, Spanje!"

"Kesesese, it is the awesome me's turn, ja? My awesome statements are so awesome you won't be able to see the lie! My Herrencreme is the best you'll ever taste, nobody can beat me at Tischtennis, und I sometimes help out at bird sanctuaries."

"Mon ami, I saw Pologne beat you last month."

"It was a close match!"

"Oui, if you say so." France sniffed haughtily, "But it is my turn now, non? Ah... I have a collection of paintings I made in my house in the south, I was once turned into a grenouille by Angleterre, who had to kiss me to turn me back, et mon favourite Disney movie is Beauty and the Beast."

Almost all in the room looked over to England, who's furious blush proved that the second comment was true. But which of the other two was the lie?

They all sat there contemplating, when a calmed down England grumbled something under his breath.

"Yes, Angleterre?"

"I said your favourite is The Aristocats."

A soft smile graced the elder Nation's face. "Oui, that is correct!"

Everything was silent for a moment, where most expected Greece to start his turn. It took a moment, but he seemed to recognize this. "Oh. My turn. I like cats, my favourite food is Tyropita, I work out every other day."

"Ve, you like dormire heaps!"

"My favourite is Keftethakia."

"My turn, da? I have coffee with milk, I have thriving garden at home, and I have pet dog."

"Garden."

"Jardín."

"Tuin."

"Nyet. I have coffee with two sugars. No milk."

"My turn! I love vadelmahillo, coffee, and waking up as the sun rises."

Norway and Iceland both shuddered, breaking out into a cold sweat with eyes wide from fear. "Do not wake Finnland unless it is a dire emergency."

"Make sure you have kaffe if you do need to wake him."

Most just looked concerned, but took note of the words of caution.

It was Iceland's turn next, much to his dismay. "I play games with Hong Kong sometimes, I own three puffins, and one of my museums is a practical joke."

Norway narrowed his eyes at his brother. He knew, of course, that he was good friends with Hong Kong, and that he owned at least one puffin. He wouldn't put it past Iceland to commit to a joke that thoroughly.

"I have only seen you with one lundefugl." He settled on, and his little brother nodded.

"What is the museum?" Spain was curious, and by the faces of most of those present, almost everyone else was too.

"The penis museum." 

Spain and Prussia's laughter drowned out a couple of the others' giggles. 

"My turn!" Belgium clapped, face still alight with mirth, "My favourite alcohol is mead, I remember when Rome tripped over his own shield trying to flirt with Ancient Egypt, and I've gone for over 500 days in a row without an elected government within the last two decades."

Everyone present - with the sole exception of Russia - could remember when Belgium led the EU without a government of her own, but that left the other two options. Both seemed just as likely (at least, for those who met Rome).

"Tch," Sounded from Romano, to the surprise of most, "I remember when Grandpa did that. It's the mead."

"Ah, that's right. You were there too! Yes, my favourite is beer."

"Ve, that sounds like Grandpa."

"Next game," England was once again cut off by groans, but he ignored it, "Is called Line Up. We have to line up without discussion in a predetermined order. First is," He squinted at the paper in his hands, as if in disbelief, "Population size."

Italy's hand shot up. "Yes?"

"What about Romano and I? We're the same country, but different parts."

"In that case you stand together, I guess."

"Any other questions?" Silence. "Alright, lets start."

Russia and Iceland were the first to stand, and silently made the two ends of the line. The rest, however, had a bit more strife. There was pushing and some frustrated gesturing - Spain was almost knocked over at one point, too. All eventually found their way to their places in line, with minimal bruising to boot.

Germany and Prussia found themselves next to Russia, and France next to them. Surprising most, the Italys were next in line.

France sent England a questioning look over their heads. England just shrugged and made a vague motion with his hands to indicate his family. Somehow, France understood.

Spain sulked next to England, nursing his freshly acquired bruise, Belgium and Greece stood calmly after him, and Finland and Norway had settled on Finland having a slightly larger population.

A moment more of silence, before anyone spoke.

"Great," started Romano, "What was the point of this?"

"No sé, but it was fun, no?" Spain answered, before letting out a pained wheeze as someone knocked into another bruise.

"Next category is age." Said island read from his note. "It doesn't say whether they mean physical or how old we actually are, though."

"Physisch is boring! Let's do tatsächlich age!"

"It would make things more interesting."

"Let's do that!"

"Alright, alright. Line up in order of actual age. Go."

Belgium had been right; the ordering process was certainly interesting.

They of course knew that Germany was the youngest - not even being two centuries old - but there was a lot of confusion in the middle. Belgium and Spain remembered when Rome became an empire, so they were obviously at the beginning of the line. Romano stood next to Spain, and started picking at his fingernails.

France and England ended up next, sandwiched between the two Italys. Norway, Finland, Russia and Iceland settled their heated not-discussion and stood in line, finally ordered. Prussia remembered when Greece first appeared, so he was next in line.

"Are there any other ways to line up, or are we onto the next game?" Asked France, starting to sound bored with the activities.

"There are, but I don't think they're appropriate."

Their day continued in a similar manner, until they all got bored enough to just play once of France's movies.

Most fell asleep on the couches.

Chapter Text

It was Sunday morning, and Iceland was making himself some breakfast when he noticed the clay rabbits. They were about twenty centimeters tall and mostly anatomically correct, except for the fact that one was painted yellow with blue eyes, and the other albino with a little yellow blob on its head. Another odd thing about them was that between them were clay flowers- crocuses, he believed- decorating the windowsill and the rabbits.

Not the weirdest thing Iceland had seen so far in the house, but definitely out of place.

No, the egg-decorated branches in the living room were definitely weirder.

He didn't want to deal with any of that, so he was off to play more games with Hong Kong.

If anything, the week kept getting weirder.

What started with the odd decorations, continued with the realization that certain members of the house hadn't been eating as they usually would. The Italy brothers weren't eating meat nor drinking wine, and Russia and Greece weren't eating meat either, or anything dairy.

Spain had also once taken to wearing a large cone hat and carried an olive branch around the house.

The weird trends culminated on Thursday.

"What is that." Prussia and Germany both looked up at him as he stood staring at the pot on the stove.

"This?" Prussia pointed to said pot and tilted his head.

"Yes. It looks like England tried to cook cow's vomit." A snort from the elder brother and a sigh from the younger came before his answer.

"It's soup. We eat it every year on Gründonnerstag- Maundy Thursday in Englisch" Ah, right, that was today, "Want to try some of meine tolle Suppe?"

Iceland watched as small, dark green bits floated in the bubbling grass green concoction. No way in hell he was touching that.

"No thanks. I'll just. Grab the biscuits I came for."

Prussia just shrugged, "That just means more for us!"

Iceland grabbed the whole packet and left the room as quick as he could without actually running, and almost walked right into Russia's back. He caught himself just in time, though, which he was eternally grateful for.

"Look at them." Iceland jolted at the sound of Russia's voice. "It is nice that they can have fun like this." Curious, he looked around the giant.

England and France were arguing. Again.

"I won't do it." The island was crossing his arms, obviously getting annoyed at whatever it was that the argument was about.

"But mon ami, it is tradition, no?" England furrowed his brows at France's point. It looked as though the two had been going in circles for a while.

"Maybe, but I'm still not doing it." Seeing that his frenemy(?) was turning to leave, France pleaded once more.

"Come on, please!"

"First of all," England started, going into criticism mode, "I don't have a costume here, and by the time one arrived it would be too late. Secondly, it requires more than one person. So unless you-" He pointed his finger into his rival's face, "-want to join me, I will not be doing the Morris Dance. If you want to see it, you can watch it online." He finally walked away, but not without a whining France following, saying something like "Then teach me how to do it!" Iceland wasn't sure.

He couldn't wait for Sunday. At least then he'd have his chocolates.

It was finally Good Friday, and Iceland was woken by an earsplitting scream, followed by a shrill "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

He didn't really want to deal with that, but his stomach urged him up. Down the stairs, he finally found the source of the commotion in the kitchen.

"I told you that you're banned from cooking!" France and England, back at it again.

"You were the one who said you wanted, quote, 'The full Anglais Pâques experience!' Part of that is hot cross buns, so shut it and wait for them to finish baking. Ah, Iceland," The previously glaring Nation softened his gaze as it slid from his frenemy to Iceland, "I apologize if this buffoon woke you up. I've made enough buns for everyone, if you are interested."

"Uh-" Iceland was cut off from denying the offer by a previously unseen Norway.

"Unlike most of his cooking, the buns are actually good."

Ignoring the grumbled "Je le croirai quand je le verrai," Iceland figured it was at least worth a nibble. His brother was many things, but a liar was not one of them. If he said the buns were edible, then they were edible.

"I guess I'll have some, then." Satisfied (and with a twinge of a happy smile), England turned his attention back to France.

"You can either have some or not, but they're already baking."

The next half an hour found all other Nations coming downstairs and waiting for the buns, all somewhere between excited and suspicious. Finally, though, they were ready.

"Alright," England started, looking over the other twelve, "They should be ready now. You can eat them as is, toast them, and or butter them. Three each."

Iceland decided to just butter his, and loathe as he was to admit it, Norway was right. They were good.

Saturday found Finland wearing an oversized hoodie Iceland swore was Sweden's, and a large headscarf.

"Why did you use eyeliner to dot freckles on your face?" There was that, too.

"In Finland today is when people believed witches would roam and cause mischief! Children today dress up as witches, and I thought I would too."

"And the feathered birch twigs?" Added Spain from where he was playing a card game with France and Prussia.

"Also part of the costume!"

"Kesese, make sure nothing gets caught in the bonfire tonight! Or the fire wheel!"

"Oui, that would be bad."

"I'll be sure to be careful, then!" And with that, Finland left to presumably prank a few of their house mates. Iceland was about to leave as well, when Prussia's words caught up with him.

"Fire wheel?"

Switzerland was going to kill them. Iceland was sure of it. They had found a hill, and the bonfire was nice. Norway had brought a book outside with him, seemingly getting started early with his crime fiction that year.

But then the German brothers excitedly - or, more accurately, an overwhelmingly excited Prussia and a reluctant Germany - brought out a large wooden wheel, stuffed with straw.

Prussia then lit it on fire, and rolled it down the hill.

Iceland was already typing his will to Hong Kong.

"I'm just glad that there's a lake down there."

"And that Suisse lives on the other side of the country."

"That too."

They were all glad of that, Iceland thinks.

Finally, after one of the oddest weeks Iceland had experienced in probably the last century, it was finally Easter Sunday. Iceland could finally indulge himself in his chocolate eggs and roast lamb.

The german brothers were cooking breakfast for everyone. Thankfully no green soup was on the menu.

Chocolates abound, as well as regular painted eggs, everyone eventually seperated to do their own things. Only after an egg hunt, though. The fight that happened afterwards is probably best left unmentioned, in Iceland's opinion.

Dinner had enough lamb to feed an entire wolf pack, frankly. Almost everyone made their own versions of the cuisine.

"Fufu," Russia giggled (giggled!) after everyone had finished their food, "In few weeks, we can celebrate again."

"That's right, Orthodox Easter follows the Juliaanse kalender, right?"

"Ναί, that's right."

Iceland just hoped that neither of them rolled flaming wheels down hills. (He was pleased to find out they didn't, but almost had a heart attack at the fireworks Greece lit. He didn't want to know how he got his hands on them.)

Chapter Text

Waking up, France knew that that particular day would end in disaster.

Well. More disaster than usual.

He didn't know how or why, but he had learned to trust that particular instinct long ago.

A quick run through of what could be causing alarm bells in his mind brought up very little possibilities. It couldn't be a major attack - not many knew where they were, and even fewer would want to attack them; it couldn't be something back home - that would be a slightly different instinct blaring. It would need to come from France's housemates, or the producers.

Or both, he mused, finally rolling out of bed. Both is always an option.

Of all the housemates, the ones most likely to cause so much chaos would be... Himself, Angleterre, the Italie brothers, Prusse, and Espagne. Norvège might, but France would sooner blame Angleterre for any magical mishaps.

Heavens know what those producers could have them do. France has seen many reality shows. He knows some of the shit they're forced to do.

Placing it from his mind for the moment, France made his way downstairs. It was his turn to cook breakfast, and he had already lost a few minutes being caught up in his musings.

It was as he closed the oven door and looked out the window that he saw it. The pavilion. It was large and white and all of France's warning bells went off just seeing it there, unassuming in their yard.

"Angleterre?" The other was usually up around that time, reading a newspaper at the table as France cooked. Terribly domestic.

"Yes France?" As expected, the sound of his arch frenemy answered.

"What is that pavillon doing there?"

The sounds of a newspaper folding and a chair scraping the ground preceded the appearence of the blond man in the corner of France's eye. He squinted at the overly large tent, and a few seconds later his expression shifted to one of realization.

"It appears we are to have a cook off today, and that will be our venue."

Merde.

"Welcome to the House of Nation's Cook Off! I'm your host, John Smith." France was already prepared for the day to end, "Unfortunately while there are thirteen of you, we only have six cooking stations. So, we've grouped you up!"

S'il te plaît, sois seul, s'il te plaît, sois seul, s'il te plaît, sois seul-

"The groups are: Russia and Finland," The two smiled at each other, neither smile quite reaching their eyes, "Belgium and Greece," A cheer rose up from Belgium as she skipped over to her partner for the day, "Germany and Norway," They shared a silent nod, "Prussia and England," A near silent swear from both parties went almost unheard - almost, "France and Iceland," That couldn't be too bad, right? "And finally, the two Italies and Spain."

France looked to his side at his friend. "I will miss you dearly, mon ami. I will be sure to give you a tomato themed funeral."

"It couldn't be that bad, si? I know both of them well. It'll be all bueno."

"Your challenge is to make a three course meal for our judges today. You will be given six hours of prep time, and then service will start. Half an hour between courses. So lets meet our judges!"

France couldn't tell who of his friends was more fucked: Prussia, or Spain.

Everyone had seperated to their work stations, and given a notepad with two pens.

"I am thinking that we combine traditional flavours and ingredients from both of our places." France suggested to his partner. Said partner just shrugged.

"Sure."

"So, what are some traditional foods from your place?"

"Lots of lamb and seafood. We have a jógúrt called 'skyr', we eat a lot of ice cream and black licourice, a special rye bread, and a few other things. If they have it we could use lava salt."

"Plenty of soupes I imagine?"

"Yup." Iceland said, popping his 'p'. "That's the better tasting stuff, at least."

France paused. "The 'better tasting stuff'." He didn't think he wanted to know.

The younger of the two shrugged, again. "Unless you wanna eat fish shits, fermented shark, or a sheep's face, I suggest staying with what I mentioned."

His shrill indignation cut above the rest of the chatter in the tent. "You eat fish shits!?"

"Like you have any room to talk!" An answering yell from the other side of the pavilion called, "You eat snails!"

"And you eat ox tongues!"

Before France could rip into dear Angleterre's cuisine choices, Iceland caught his attention again.

"Not like I have a choice, what with the lack of sunlight, but yes. Now can we get back to meal planning?"

"Yes, yes, of course," He turned back to the notepad, "What is that 'skyr' like?"

"It's technically a cheese, but it's more or less a milder Greek jógúrt. We usually eat it with cream, berries, jam, fruit, stuff like that. It'd take too long to make, but I'm sure I could get Noregur to speed it up for us."

France nodded along, writing notes on the pad. "And that special rye bread?"

His partner winced. "Rúgbrauð - traditionally - is made in a pot or crate you bury in the ground next to a hot spring or geyser," France winced too, "Nowadays we bake it in an oven. Takes anywhere from two to eight hours, depending on the recipe. It's dense, spongey and sweet, and you can eat it in a million different ways. But," And here the younger got uncharacteristically serious, "Do not eat too much at once. There is a reason we call it 'bread of thunder'."

"Noted." Diarrhea is not something they wanted to give the judges. "I am thinking for the hors d'oeuvres we-"

"Salsa di pomodoro e frutti di mare!" An almost apoplectic voice raged from a station behind them.

"No! Salsa cremosa e vitello!" A second voice - this one almost in hysterics - cried from the same station.

France just sighed, sparing a glance at Iceland's look of concern behind them. "I did warn Espagne. Those two are both chefs incroyables, but they cannot agree when it comes to this."

"Spagna è nella nostra squadra, quindi usiamo i pomodori!" Romano boomed.

"Ma la panna e il vitello sono nettamente superiori!"

"They'll be at it for a while-" An incoherent scream of rage cut France off, and he skillfully ignored the scuffle that followed- "So we may as well continuez. I was thinking for the hors d'oeuvres-"

"No frogs legs today?" Angleterre piped in, leaning on France's bench.

France scoffed. "I eat more than just cuisses de grenouille and escargot, chérie." The other twitched his brow at the term of endearment. "Unless you have forgotten, I am paired with Islande. He has some say in what we cook too. Besides," He sniffed, "It should be I who asks you if you are serving any of those rocks you call scones. Or perhaps some of your poisson et frites?"

"We are serving neither, actually. And there is more to British cuisine than fish, chips, and scones. Perhaps I should have made some pottage-" France cringed- "just to spite you. In fact, I'm sure they won't mind that I use some of the untouched ingredients they so graciously provided us. We have just enough time to do it properly; scrap-like food bits and all."

"The thought of any pottage made by you is enough to provide fuel for my nightmares for years to come."

"You're welcome."

"Should you not be over at your own bench, cooking? Or at least what you consider to be cooking."

"It'll be fine," He waved France's (quite warrented) concern off, "My attention won't be needed for at least half an hour. That said," He sidled up to the pot on the stove, "Are you making navarin?"

"Oui, with lava salt. We are combining flavours and dishes from both of our countries, that way it is fair to both of us."

Angleterre blinked. "We're doing the same, actually. Though obviously not with navarin."

"Oh?" To think they would both think to do the same thing... Great minds, and all that. "I can't wait to see what the two of you make-"

"Idiota! Non si tritano le cipolle così!" Veneziano's voice almost echoed through the tent.

"In quale altro modo dovrei tagliarli, eh? Facendo una verticale!?"

Before any fists could fly, Espagne came racing around the counter and away from the Italians.

"Amigo, I am lo sentimos mucho, please let me hide here."

"Of course, mon ami. They are a handful in the kitchen at the best of times. But when they're like this..."

"Forse se lo facessi, li taglieresti correttamente!"

"Forse se ne facessi uno vedresti che li sto chiaramente tagliando nel modo giusto!"

They all winced as a ladle went flying.

Putting the finishing touches on the entrées, France let out a sigh of contentment. He was happy with how it all looked, and he would trust Islande on the taste.

"Alright everyone, time's up! Everyone step away from your starters. Judges will come around and taste each one."

His companion fidgeted nervously, looking around at the other competitor's first dishes.

"It will be alright Islande, our dish looks très magnifique, and it is not as though we served any of those-" France had to suppress a gag- "Fish shits."

Iceland huffed a laugh. "I guess."

"Belgium and Greece, you have made oysters for your entrée. Lets see what the judges think."

Thankfully enough there weren't any explosions or fire alarms by the time all the dishes had been cooked. They also didn't have to do cleanup! France didn't mind doing so, himself, but it was still convenient.

They were all in one of the living rooms of the house, waiting for the judges' verdicts.

"Thank you all for waiting patiently," The host started, silencing everyone and capturing their attention, "The judges have deliberated and have decided on a winner. They'll now go through the groups one at a time and give you your scores. Judges."

"Thank you John," The first judge said, "We'll start with Belgium and Greece."

France tuned out. Oysters, bla bla bla, conflicting flavours of Belgian and Greek, five out of ten overall; Antipasto, pasta, and cake, also conflicting and cofused palette, objectively good, seven out of ten; two completely seperate sets of dishes and no cooperation between Finlande and Russie, four out of ten; great combination of Norvégien and Allemand flavours and dishes, eight out of ten; same for Angleterre and Prusse, surprisingly, and a nice touch with the parsley, ten out of ten - that was what snapped France out of his daze. Dear Angleterre - Angleterre! - getting a ten out of ten!?

"And finally France and Iceland. You served for your starter rúgbrauð with skyr and berries. Excellent taste of all components of the dish, and all flavours worked well together. I only wish there were more of the berries."

"For your main, you served navarin of lamb with lava salt. A creative way to combine the flavours of both your homes, and the lava salt really gave the dish a fresh twist. There was just a little too much of it."

"Your dessert was apple and almond crepes with honey. The crepes were cooked perfectly, the apple and almond uplifting the crepe flavour without making anything overpowering, and the honey a perfect compliment."

"Overall, everything was incredibley well cooked, but while everything was nice and balanced, it was all a little basic. Overall, we have decided to give you a nine out of ten." France was happy with that score. It was the first time he had cooked with lava salt, and he had left the hors d'oeuvres almost entirely to Islande.

Wait, but if France had gotten nine out of ten, that would mean-

"Congratulations ENgland and Prussia! You win the House of Nation's Cook Off!"

There were tears in Angleterre's eyes, and even if he denied it, there was video evidence.

France couldn't keep the smile forming from on his face.