DISCLAIMER- I do not own Hetalia

This is set in about 1952-ish, just before Stalin's death and whatnot, if this kind of stuff isn't your thing, I am very sorry if it offends you, but please don't read it if you don't like it. There will be more chapters, maybe not as long as this one, but I hope you stick with it and enjoy it!

Please review this chapter, tell me what you think!

Chapter one-

A hiss. The whisper of snow landing on their thick-but-still-much-too-thin parkas. The wind scraping like claws across the parts of their faces that weren't wrapped in rags. The occasional shout from the barracks or a muffled curse from the men above him. The silence was crushing. It curled around their hearts like blankets of stone, it wrapped every still man in his shroud of ice, it howled across the long wood barracks and sat beside every sane man like a companion beyond the veil. There was nothing. No young ones asking to be picked up, no women scolding their husbands or stitching clothes whilst keeping a watchful eye over the children. Not even the bark of a dog. Nothing to remind him that there used to be another way of living before this other than the small piece of cloth tucked into his pocket and the iron shard he kept hung around his neck. And even those were starting to fade, the cloth becoming torn and tattered from the amount of times it had been taken out as he had been searched, the shard showing obvious wear around the edges and the carvings in it had long since rubbed smooth. Just another reminder that his life was slowly slipping away from his memory and that he was still stuck here.

Spreading another layer of cement carefully down over the bricks they laid yesterday, slotting the brick he held in his other hand neatly next to its neighbour. He had to work quickly in case the cement froze, otherwise he would have to chip it off and start again. It was one of the only things he ever took time and care with; smoothing away the cement that had seeped from under the brick carefully with the end of his trowel, making sure each brick was in line with the others. He felt a certain sense of pride when he had finished a layer, but when you've been stuck doing it every day for a month or so, it's the only thing that keeps you from just kicking the damn thing down and making off into the forest. He didn't see why they should be building the walls that would keep them from ever seeing everything they loved again, wasn't that the captor's job? But, then again, he supposed 'true Soviets' were more equal so they didn't have to do any kind of work like that.

The man below him, however, was enjoying laying the bricks slightly less than he was. He heard several curses in what he assumed was his comrade's native language and the clanging scrape of a trowel hitting the wall with a considerable amount of force. He glanced down, trying not to focus on how far he was off the ground, seeing the smaller man scowling with enough force to drive away the winter at a large chip in the brick he'd just laid.

"It was all going so well until the fucking trowel broke." The Finn sighed and tried once more to jam the head of his trowel back onto its handle. The cold was so vicious even some of the tools were snapping, and he was having to constantly tap the bricks in case they had cracked from the inside.

He acknowledged his companion's words with a grunt before descending down his ladder to plant his feet a little more firmly onto the hard-packed snow. Ladders or any other means of aerial suspension which concluded in him being more than his own height off the ground unnerved him, especially out here. If he fell, even into the snow, none of the mumbo-jumbo pills from the infirmary would be able to put things right. Especially in this cold, his bones were liable to crack already. Casting his gaze upwards and seeing the sun sunk low in the sky in a way not dissimilar to the weary expressions they all wore. Another half-hour, just to finish off, then they would call it a day.

His boots, so patched and re-stitched that there was almost none of the original colour left, made no sound on the snow; a little odd, some would say, considering the fact that he towered over everyone who wasn't up a ladder, and even some who were. Taking long strides, his hands shoved into his pockets and his chin tucked into a scrap of fabric he was using instead of his scarf, he walked past the rest of the ladder and turned a corner to see a glow of light in all the greys and whites. Ah, they'd got cold again. He sighed, shaking his head. This was no place for boys. And no place for any sane man either.

"You can stop now." Those were the only words he'd felt were necessary to voice for the whole day, and those four words brought sighs of relief that probably could have been heard in the Kremlin.

A familiar bright-eyed young man wrenched the scarf he'd wrapped his nose and mouth in to stop his breath freezing on the fur line of his collar to one side and flashed him a small smile. Ivan took a second to observe the shorter man, not changing his cold and somewhat blank gaze. Eduard had always been a rather slim fellow, but as of recent he'd been looking a little gaunt. Well, most of them had, since the rations had been cut several times to make room for the hundred or so extra men that had come from down in Romania. Despite his somewhat physical frailty and inability to carry a pickaxe for more than five minutes, Ivan couldn't deny that he was a useful member of his gang. With sharp, clever grey eyes and a mind that was always looking for new ways to bring in more food; he was certainly one of the brightest in his gang, or even in the whole camp. He was constantly muttering about escape and seemed to mock Ivan slightly, in the way a crow taunts a cat. Ivan had learned to put up with his comments or snide remarks, he was one of the lifesavers of the gang, and many a good man would have gone under if it wasn't for him.

Eduard, followed by his subordinate, Nikolai, who seemed to be his shadow as of late, widened his smile. "Nikolai says it's going to blizzard tonight again, Ivan, do you think we'll get let off the wall?"

That was the other thing; he seemed to speak for others, especially shy little Raivis who, from what Ivan could see, had been sent to the infirmary again. That had been the fifth time that week; Ivan was starting to worry for the boy. Not that he cared, just so they wouldn't go under inspection and be separated, or worse. Ivan had heard from some of the survivors from camps higher up in the wastelands that the Tartars made them dig pits then lie in them, waiting for death, but he wasn't sure if that was entirely true or not. They couldn't be that bad, could they?

Eduard's eyes flicked up to meet his and he held his gaze, not moving. Eduard's eyes were dull with pain and exhaustion as much as everyone else's were, yet they still shone a little, almost in the way a magpie's does. There were dark circles under his eyes, one slightly darker and more purplish from where a Tartar had cuffed him around the side of the face when he had been defending Raivis or something. Yes, that was the other thing, he seemed to care for that boy like a brother- and even though they were only several years apart in age, Eduard seemed to worry for the Latvian like a mother fusses over a child. Ivan found this quality a little odd for someone he'd always considered to be one of the 'survivors', one of the ones who would fight through anything just to see the end of it. No-one with any emotional attachment ever survived very long.

Ivan broke his stare with Eduard, bending down to pick up a broken trowel that someone, probably Tino, had dropped, and tucked it into the hand-stitched pocket of his overcoat before any of the guards saw. "They'll send us out anyway." Unlike Tino and some of the socially gentler inmates, Ivan wasn't fussed about hamming everything up, saying everything was going to be alright, when he knew damn well it wasn't. It wasn't long before they were going to start dropping like flies, he'd seen it before and it was no different here. The weakest ones would go first, then even the strongest man would fall. That was how they had ended up here in the first place; those with families and things they loved went easily as not to put anyone at risk, those with nothing to lose fought bitterly until they had to be dragged there. It was easy to pick out the fighters from the 'squealers', and normally the two groups never mixed.

They trudged through the snow in silence, back round the wall to the cluster of barracks which, unlike the neat rows in some of the other places he'd 'visited', seemed to have no sense of order or formality. Hah, that was the way of the Russians. All shambolic and nonsensical until they had a target to meet, then they wouldn't stop.

Several grumbles and groans sounded from the men that marched in an almost militaristic fashion behind him , and he knew it wouldn't be long until one of them started getting out of hand. None of them seemed to know their place, and would rant and rave until they were given a good talking too, or most of the time, given a good clout around the ear. It was like training dogs, but then again, not one of them was exactly a man anymore. They were just shadows ploughing through the snow, leached of any light or happiness they may have possessed previously. Ivan could see it in their eyes, the deep crushing sadness he held in his own chest, the way their eyes would glaze over as they stared into space during conversation. There was nothing left for them anymore, yet the will to keep going still dragged their sorry corpses up at reveille and laid them to rest again at sunset.

They had a little while longer before they would be searched again, and for Gang 24 this time was heaven on earth. Ivan entered the barracks, flanked by Tino and Eduard, and immediately swung himself with remnants of grace onto his bunk. He overshot a little, but the sawdust-stuffed mattress cushioned his fall slightly. Slightly. There was only so much falling Russian a mattress could support, and Ivan heard the offending bed creak several times as he settled himself. The majority of the men tended to eat their remaining bread ration, if there was any left, or try and get a little more sleep before the guards came in to bark them off to their evening meal. Ivan preferred to just sit and observe, or occasionally mend his boots when the stitching started to loosen again. Damn boots. The ones he'd owned before could have walked themselves to Berlin and back without a single scratch.

"I swear, one more fucking brick and I'm going to throw myself off that wall." Came a heavily accented voice from the bed below him. A round-ish face poked itself over the edge of Ivan's bed, wearing a mixture of a grin and a scowl. Ivan often had to guess his mood, as the Finn was twice as unpredictable as the rest of them put together.

Ivan let his composure go for once, and his blank look lessened into something a little less cold. He leaned back, supporting himself on his elbows, casually regarding the state of degradation his overcoat was in. Half the time he wondered whether there was even any point wearing it, it didn't seem to keep off much of the cold, and was tattered and blackened with soot from the time their gang had spent mending the single boiler that only heated the guard's quarters. "They'll leave you out there to freeze, you know." There, his cold voice was back now. "They did that with those two Latvians who went on strike." Tino smirked a little, Ivan knew the Finn regarded him as a bit of an insensitive bastard, but he really didn't care what he thought. They would all be dead soon anyway, it didn't matter what they tried to do. The ticking of the clock defined their lives until the moment their own wheels stopped turning, the ice slowly setting in until their graves were frozen shut.

"Some of the men say you turn warm before you die" Tino mused wistfully, fiddling with a frayed hem on his sleeve. He laughed a little sarcastically, and his frown all but disappeared. "It's a better way to go then having bullets rammed into your chest by those meatheads over there." A slight jerk of his head, just the tiniest twitch, towards the two guards smoking outside the barracks notified Ivan of whom he was speaking about.

His eyebrow raised and he glared enviously over at the guards. It had been a long time since he'd had a smoke, and even though he was getting out of the habit, it wouldn't have been bad to feel the hot smoke warm his chest again. Many members of his gang smoked almost religiously, one of the reasons for why Eduard was so affluent in his ways, and most of them had been sent to the camp for 'disciplinary measures', or whatever they called it nowadays. It was just a load of rubbish, they wanted them dead, and that was all Ivan cared about.

"Bullets are quicker though." He stated gruffly before turning away from the Finn, indicating that the conversation was over. He heard a cynical chuckle from behind him but thought nothing of it. Their short and really very not substantial conversation had dredged up a number of thoughts on his reason of still being around. It would be so easy just to lie down in the snow and not get up, so calming just to stay there until he could no longer think. And no-one would care. They'd just drag his body to wherever they dumped the others and leave him for the wolves and whatever other hellish creatures screamed in the night.

Tino let out a sigh which could have been a laugh. "You would rather meet your end at Soviet metal?" Raising an eyebrow, the Finn pulled himself fully up onto Ivan's bunk, resting his chin on his palm as he observed the Russian. It was near impossible to know what Ivan was thinking half the time, and Tino could only really identify the extremes of his moods.

Ivan shifted a little as Tino sat beside him and let out a cold bark of laughter. Swinging himself off the bunk and landing with a loud creak on the floor, he grinned at Tino. His eyes remained cold as ever, piercing the confused Finn with the chill of a bird of prey. It was almost sick how he smiled, how he could pull off the expression so easily while his eyes stayed fixed in ice. The grin slowly died down into a smirk as Ivan stuffed his hands into his pockets and began to walk away.

"I don't care" He called above the racket of the other men. "I'll be dead."

And thus, he walked away, leaving Tino frowning confusedly in his wake. He took a few moments to assert himself, shook his head, and climbed back onto his own bunk. "Russians." He muttered to himself before slamming his head down onto the single sawdust-stuffed pillow and closing his eyes.

Men fell silent as he walked past, some carefully tucked away their saved rations, some took a chance to point and mutter at him when he wasn't looking. Ivan could have lashed out. He could have selected one of the many victims and made an example of the bloody mess which would be the result of pissing him off. He could have done that all too easily. He had the strength, the authority, and not to mention the fear to back him up. He could have them, all of them, even the hardiest of ex-soldiers, whimpering at his feet and begging for mercy. Every time he turned his head a guilty face shrank back into the darkness, muttering apologies and threats in garbled languages. He'd lost count of the times when his rations had been stolen in an attempt to starve him away, and couldn't remember a time when he hadn't woken up missing his boots. Even some of the members of his gang struck out against him in fits of pain and frustration and everything else one goes through when they are ripped away from everything they know and love and are placed under the order of a tall, imposing Russian with cold eyes and cold hands and cold words.

As he walked past them he saw a number of familiar faces. Dmitry, Petryov, Alexandr. He nodded at them in an almost polite way and he watched their heads jerk up and down in return like their lives depended on it. It didn't really matter that everyone despised him, they would all be dead soon anyway, including himself. It wasn't his job to make them suffer more than they already did, he didn't even have to bother keeping them alive. He just had to maintain some kind of authority over them to stop everything falling into chaos.

He lowered his head so he didn't hit the plank of wood above the door, stepping out into the cold afternoon air. It was starting to get dark already, and Ivan had to pull his scarf over his mouth to stop his breath freezing on his collar. A pair of guards were sharing a cigarette a couple of paces away from him, and he greeted them with a glance.

There was a sharp ker-chak and a softer noise followed by a loud exclamation of 'fuck' as one of the guard's bayonets dropped off the end of his rifle as he tried to load it. The guards seemed to have a habit of loading and reloading their rifles, as if one of his gang was stupid enough to try and make a run for it. It was silly how often a shot was randomly fired into empty air during the guard's (usually drunken) patrols of the camp, and Ivan knew none of the men under his command would treat any such weapon as merely a plaything.

Ivan regarded them with disdain for a few moments before stooping down to almost delicately pluck the blade from the snow. He rolled it over in his palm, noting that it wasn't really a bayonet, and just a thin knife someone had drilled a hole in. He'd expected that, no-one was going to waste any money on actual weapons to keep them in order; they were too busy churning out Mausers for men on the front line. Holding the bayonet by the blade, he handed it to the nearest guard.

The man, who he assumed was Russian by the patch on his overcoat sleeve, narrowed his eyes almost mockingly, "What's this? The mighty Tin Man creaks his joints to help a mortal?" The other guard snickered and took a long drag on his cigarette, muttering something in Russian that Ivan couldn't quite catch.

Ivan took this opportunity to let out the anger he'd been packing up like straw bales in the corner of his mind. His lip curled into a sneer, and he let the bayonet fall into the guard's hand. "Hardly. Just wouldn't want anyone too accidently hurt themselves."

The guard stiffened and scowled, spitting into the snow by Ivan's boot. Ivan knew he had hit a sore spot, the guards blamed the shooting of many an innocent man on 'accidents' which seemed to happen just a little too frequently to avoid suspicion. "Go scrub some floors." He growled, turning on his heel and stalking off into the swirl of snow, closely followed by his companion who really didn't look like he wanted to stay around Ivan alone for very long. Well, not many people did, only Death seemed to like following him everywhere.

Ivan smirked again and watched them leave, the wind blowing swirling patterns in the snow around him. There was a snort behind him and he turned to see the lead guard leaning against the wall of the barrack. He kept his surprise hidden from the stoic man, setting himself into a more casual stance. He folded his arms, watching the man carefully as he continued to chuckle and pulled out a bent cigarette. He then proceeded to light it and take a long drag, pausing only then to look up at Ivan.

"Want a smoke?" The silence was broken by the guard's voice, sharp and scratchy from too many cigarettes, the result of becoming good friends with Eduard. Ivan didn't even shake his head; he just remained silent and stared at the man. What was his name? Nikolas? Nikolai? He didn't know, something like that. He wasn't as tall as Ivan, but just as imposing, with a moustache and beard that almost seemed to take over his entire face and a figure that, from a distance, could have been mistaken for a bear.

Ivan declined the offer which some men would have starved for with a dismissive shrug, watching the guard's sharp, clever eyes meet his own. From what Ivan had heard, he'd served a long time fighting in Germany, but had defected and had landed a job as a prison guard. Despite having warm meals twice a day and being able to nick a smoke of the inmates from time to time, the sadness in his eyes was still present. It angered him that a man who had so much more than the rest of them did assumed that he could just leach off everyone else for information and smokes, but considering he was the only thing separating Ivan from the snowy wastelands beyond the barbed wire, he was in no position to voice his complaints.

The guard blew smoke before coughing and breaking his gaze with Ivan. "They want you at the gate." He muttered, wrenching his hat a little further down his head so his eyes were almost obscured. When Ivan gave him the blank look of 'I am not breaking up any fights', he let out a mix of a huff and a laugh. "Now, before Mikaelovitch has us both in the cells."

Ivan relented, and swept past the guard without a word, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck and tucking his chin down as he moved away from the shelter of the barracks. Occasionally a torch flashed at the edge of his vision but he had no need to turn and look, it was just other men doing their business, he had no need to intrude. Even though he had tried his best not to look surprised and worried in front of the guard, he couldn't help but wonder what the reason was for his summoning to the gates. There apparently weren't any new arrivals until the snow cleared up, which shocked Ivan a little considering that a year ago they hadn't cared about throwing new men straight from the wagon and into the snow.

After a while of concentrated trudging and trying not to look up at anyone, he reached the black double gates which seemed to him like the gates of Hell- he was the soulless demon, peering out with hatred at everything else beyond that gate. A truck had rolled in some time ago, and already snow had packed up around its wheels. Ivan scanned the area for any of the camp overseer or whatever they called him nowadays, and saw naught but a figure slumped between two guards which seemed twice the size of it.

"Braginsky" One of the guards rumbled, his thick Estonian accent immediately notifying him that he was one of Eduard's affiliates. However, this guard didn't seem like a particularly nice affiliate, as after a while of glaring at Ivan he smirked and jabbed the slumping figure in the back, forcing them to collapse into the snow. "Happy Birthday."

Ivan's arms shot out almost by reflex and he hauled the fallen person roughly to their feet, holding them up by a fancy-looking army jacket which he almost accidently ripped in his haste to keep them standing. As the figure turned, spitting curses, to face him, Ivan saw that it was a man. A not-very-happy man, but a man nonetheless. He was considerably shorter than Ivan, and had a slightly leaner build than the average Russian. He didn't look Russian either, his face was too angular and his eyes were a peculiar shade of red. As he continue to struggle against Ivan's grip, his hat slipped back a little and Ivan caught a glimpse of short silvery-white hair. He guessed he was one of those albinos, one of those strange sorts who couldn't go out in the sun. Well, he would have no problem coping out here then.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The man hissed, and Ivan let his hand go limp to allow the distressed man to shake himself away and stumble back, muttering all kinds of Russian obscenities mixed with another language which, if he assumed correctly, was German. That would explain his odd accent then; his words were too sharp, his Russian didn't flow like it should, his voice was too harsh.

Ivan immediately adopted a more defensive position, fists half-formed in case it got nasty. He looked over to frown at the guard, who seemed to be enjoying himself quite a lot. The guard held back his laughter for a second to shout over at Ivan. "A new playmate for you, let's see if this one escapes the iron fists of the Tin Man, eh?" If Ivan had been Tino or Eduard, he would have probably said something snarky about the fact that he wouldn't actually have iron fists as he was indeed the Tin Man, but he just glared and huffed. The guard spat in the snow and gave Ivan a look which blatantly told him to move on, and he added something quietly which Ivan didn't catch but it made the panting man in front of him turn and bellow in a different language.

Once the smaller man had calmed down- well, calmed down as in he'd stopped shouting and was glaring up at Ivan with obvious distaste- Ivan took a chance to observe him a little better. He was dressed in a sort of greyish-blue army uniform, which judging by the slightly lighter patches had been ripped of all rank and regiment, and was bloody on one side. Something reddish-brown was streaked across his cheek, but Ivan couldn't tell if it was blood or dirt. Ivan looked down, and his eyebrows rose. Those boots looked a little too shiny to go unnoticed, and judging by the heel and point they were pretty darn good boots. Ivan knew several men who would commit a murder for a pair of boots as good as those.

His accent was a little peculiar, and Ivan was certain the language he'd been speaking in was German. From the look of him, he was fresh off the boat, and his face didn't show any lines yet. He looked young, maybe a little younger than Ivan himself, and was about the same height as Eduard. His build was a little different to Eduard's though, as unlike the Estonian, this man looked like he could hold his own in a fight. Well, maybe for at least a couple of minutes.

Gang 24's new arrival remained standing still as Ivan started to walk off, his eyes cast down and fists clenched. Ivan turned back to see if he was following, and had to hold back insults as he saw the man standing like a stubborn mule in the snow. With an exasperated sigh, Ivan walked back over to him and gripped the back of his uniform, shoving him forwards to unfreeze his legs. "Move." He growled, letting go of him as soon as the man choked out a profanity and began to walk. Ivan strode ahead of him silently, not checking back to see if he was following. If the man wasn't going to cooperate, they he could be left to freeze in the snow for all he cared. Not that he cared in the first place.

"Aren't you going to ask my name?" An indignant voice called behind him, making Ivan hesitate a little but not making him turn around.

He continued walking. "No."

"Aren't you going to tell me yours?"

"No." He was beginning to get a little pissed off with the new man.

"Fucking…" Ivan heard him trail off into a string of quiet German.

"Well if you're going to get that worked up about it, then your name must be something important." Ivan drawled, giving in to the urge to be a little bit snarky.

"Shut up." Was his answer.

Gosh. Any Russian with that attitude would be six feet under the snow before they could kiss goodbye to their bread rations and borrowed boots.

Apparently their conversation wasn't as finished as Ivan had hoped.

"It's Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt."