Characters: Russia, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Ukraine, Poland, Belarus, England, the Nordics and lots of others.

Setting: Early 1980s – during the time of the Soviet Union, location – numerous.

Authors Note: This is an antidote to all the Rapetruck Russia fics out there (not that I've anything against the authors), some swearing, some mild violence, lots of fluff. Most of the characters will be in character unless they're not (much like us I think). Some gender bending. Also please note that I've used the 1980s name for St Petersburg which was Leningrad – just to clear that up.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia obviously; all these characters were created by the magical, marvellous Hidekaz Himaruya.

Chapter 1

The sun beat down warmly on Russia's face; he loosened his scarf, unbuttoned his Red Army greatcoat and lay down in the soft grass. How lovely, even better as warmth flooded his chest as his cat landed on him and purred at his master. No wars, no snow, no blood, no-one telling him to do that, order the troops this... if only all days could be like this...

"So we reinforce the border at ... Mr Russia, are you listening?" A hesitant voice broke into Russia's reverie. Not polite. Russia jerked his head up and opened his eyes. Bloody hell, were they still at it? Didn't these humans have anything better to do? Surely they only lived for 70 years if they were lucky, he, Russia, was over 1000 years old and he still couldn't see why they wasted their lives in meetings. If he thought he only had 70 years to live, he knew he would be outside in the sunshine, sleeping, reading, eating chocolate and drinking vodka. Why waste your precious lives on war. Stupid humans, stupid government officials.

Russia growled and looked out of the window at the Leningrad rooftops and the falling snow, "I'm assuming that's the end of the meeting, gentlemen. If there's anything else you wish to tell me then you know my telephone number." He could still get home within an hour and throw snowballs at Lithuania.

The ten officials ranged around the table looked nervously at each other. They were designated to meet their Nation once a week at a minimum and pass on information it was felt he should have (after Stalin's death, Russia's influence on his government's dealings had increased –but only because the bosses didn't wish to lie next to "Uncle Joe" in the Kremlin mausoleum). However, the role did not come without its dangers and after Russia had slammed one former delegate's head so hard onto the table that he suffered head injuries and "helped" another down the stairs – all for being "impertinent" - then the current delegates trod very carefully around their Nation. The presence of KGB Special Operations Agents outside the door was no consolation, Russia frequently trained with the Spetsnaz and had often kicked their arses and handed them back in a Tupperware box. So, unsurprisingly after a two hour meeting which – for Russia – was a marathon in concentration, they decided to call it a day.

A nervous, shy looking young man sat with his back to the wall behind Russia, he pushed his glasses up his nose, sighed and checked the notes he'd made of the meeting. Estonia was relieved the meeting was over, he'd started to get a crick in his neck and his hand ached. Although his Russian was fluent, his shorthand was not as good as it should be, but Russia insisted on Estonia attending the meetings and keeping notes. Estonia knew it was because his boss's concentration wavered and his memory was generally bad, and really he didn't mind it. The information he gleaned from these meetings was too useful and valuable to his own plans. Meticulously, Estonia jotted a few notes in his notebook in his own coded shorthand – you couldn't be too careful, he knew the symbols would mean nothing to Russia if he happened to look, but he wasn't sure about the KGB – and smiled to himself.

At the other side of the city, standing back from the main thoroughfares stood a large 18th century mansion. There were several things unusual about this house – not just its size and outward opulence which gave it the look of a museum but the fact that it had survived the war, the bombings and the subsequent terrible siege. Any casual observer would think that it was just another government building, a little tatty around the edges, in need of a lick of paint, some shingles missing from the roof, whilst a more perceptive person would see a double eagle on a coat of arms above the huge doorway – a symbol of the old Russian empire, whilst a hammer and sickle bearing the motto CCCP engraved in metal on a wooden board lying in the huge porch.

The inside of the house was just as tatty and careworn as the outer. With over 50 rooms in the building (it was a former Russian prince's abode), numerous staircases, attics and basements, the house was draughty and cold in all seasons. At the present time (early winter) the heating was on and the fires were banked up as the temperature outside dropped to -5 degrees. Russians liked their central heating, they may have to queue for bread and other food, but they liked to be warm. And Russia, for this is whose house it was, liked his warmth. The cold nation felt perpetually cold – his body regulated to whatever temperature his country had at that time and, as Siberia consisted of 77% of Russia's landmass, Russia was often cold.

In the large kitchen a young man with a kindly, worried expression was kneading dough – chocolate chip cookie dough to be precise. He'd already baked fresh dark Russian rye bread, prepared some meat stew for dinner, but was now practising his American recipe that he'd acquired on a visit to the American nation some 70 years before. Lithuania guessed that his boss would be tired and angry when he came in and so the cookies were a salve for his temper. The brunette shook his hair out of his eyes, dug a hand inside his apron pocket, took out a small pill bottle and carefully took a few of the tablets out. Crushing them with a spoon, he added the crushed pills to the dough. "This batch is especially for Mr Russia," he thought before rolling it out and placing the cookies on the baking tray, he smiled softly. "That should keep him quiet."

Meanwhile, upstairs in one of the many attic bedrooms, the youngest of the Baltic nations was reading and making notes to a large bundle of paper.

"This must be the longest one yet," Latvia thought, "I wonder if this will get published like the others? Only time will tell."

Latvia's thoughts were interrupted as Lithuania called up the stairs – his voice just reaching the fourth floor where Latvia's bedroom was located, "Hey Raivis, the boss'll be back soon, get yourself down here."

Raivis called back in a slightly high-pitched voice "I'll be down in a bit, just sorting something out..." Latvia carefully lifted up the loose floorboard at the side of the bed, took out the large tin hidden there and placed the manuscript inside before replacing the tin and gently tapping the floorboard back into place. Raivis would post the manuscript to the publishers tomorrow the young nation decided and with that that thought, the young Baltic skipped downstairs to join Lithuania.

A/N: I know this chapter was all descriptive and not much dialogue, but that will change in subsequent chapters, I just wanted to set the scene. Feel free to read and review.