Disclaimer:

Of course, I don't own the Hetalia characters. However, the OC and storyline are mine.

Two pairs of vividly colored green eyes locked suddenly, and everything went absolutely still. Judging by the white-hot anger in the held gaze, I would think if you had waved something - a hand, for instance - through the stare, it might end up a pile of cinders on the floor. So never do that, unless you're willing to take the risk...

Ireland stood abruptly, violently, sending a kitchen chair shrieking backwards and slamming her fisted hands into the thick wooden table. Her jaw was clenched tight, her teeth were bared in the most feral, unladylike way, and her long, curly red-brown hair was coming loose from the tight knot she had carefully arranged only a half-hour earlier. In short, she was berserk with fury.

However, England sat there coolly. His chin rested lightly on his neatly folded hands, which perched upon his his arms, which sought support from the tabletop. He remained seated, unmoving, and was only jarred lightly from the aftermath of Ireland's attack on the counter. This only served to infuriate her more.

"You," she spat through gritted teeth, and aimed an accusing finger right at the bridge of his nose, "Brother. Arthur. I am most certainly not getting married, and most certainly not doing it because you told me to, and most certainly not to someone you pick."

"But you are, Caitlín." The straw that broke the camel's back. Caitlín lunged across the table and sunk her well-groomed nails into Arthur's wrist. She hardly noticed that his tea had spilled. On any other day, she would be the one to rush to clean it up without any fuss, but today she was done. Done with Arthur's controlling, constricting, choking ways. She mused for a heartbeat that he was like a weed - stealing the sun that was freedom so the younger plants couldn't live. But oh yes, she was done.

"Did you mishear me? You must have. I said 'I... am... most... certainly... not.'" She enunciated sharply, her grip growing tighter with every word. A taste of his own medicine, eh? She was enjoying it now, the soaring feeling of independence, savoring it. How utterly stupid she had been, letting him lead her around like a child, a blind. She could think for herself - she was doing it now. And it felt... exhilarating. She was staring daggers into his eyes, willing it to be there; the falter of fear. And there it was - fleeting, subtle, but there.

"Caitlín," England began, his heavy brow furrowing from the fingernails digging into his forearm, "I've already announced it. Except-" He paused here and grimaced. "God, let go of my arm!" He tried with little success to pry her surprisingly strong spider-like hands off - or should I say out - of his wrist. She had a grip like a pit bull, a stubbornness much like a mule's. Then he jumped to his feet and tried to tug it away to no avail. As a last resort, he broke into a thrashing run, dragging her behind him in a way that, from the outside observer's perspective would appear quite comical. This should have dislodged her - as he was bigger - but resulted in the same amount of success as his first two attempts.

Panting, doubled-over, and face twisted in pain Arthur turned to her with wide, stricken eyes. She had never behaved in this manner before. "Please, please let go." he pleaded, "A-at least until I finish." Caitlín narrowed her eyes at him, and, for the first time he noticed how sharp they were, and how they betrayed her cunning. Despite her obvious suspicion, she released him. "Alright," he straitened and tugged at his clothes fretfully before continuing, "what I was saying was the actual person hasn't been decided on yet. If they had, I wouldn't have told you so soon." She glowered at this. "I was going to leave it up to you. Mostly. Of course, I will get the final say. I took the liberty of arranging several interviews over dinner, and the first one takes place today."

Caitlín took a step back. She simply didn't know what to make of this. 'Interview' was obviously a euphemism for dating, but she had never paid any mind to it, much less marriage. She realized with a sinking feeling she had hardly even met another country besides the ones closer to her brother, and those very briefly. England suddenly spun on his heel and walked slowly to the door. She thought he was finally going to leave her with her thoughts when he threw a last statement over his shoulder,

"I'll introduce you two later. Wear something nicer." He flashed a last glance of disdain at the spreading pool of tea on the floor and the splatters of it on her otherwise pastel green dress.

"Great. Just bloody lovely..." she muttered darkly, and used a napkin to mop up the mess.

A/N:

First chapter = done and longer then expected. Yes~ x3

Why, 'ello thar! You can call me Cro if you want. I just wanted to quickly warn you before you read that this is indeed my first Fanfic, so please forgive me. D': Ireland - an OC - is the main character and the story has little to no historical significance. And my grammar skills are mediocre, at best. GAH.

I promise it will get a little more humorous later on. I just needed to set the stage for later on...

Okay, now to business;

I need you to send in what character you want to be in the first 'interview.' This whole thing is going to be kind of... interactive, I guess. You can tell me a few details you want to include in the interview, too, and I'll try my best to incorporate them. c: Nothing too mature, though. This is rated T.

'Kay, thanks for reading! Bye~