Italy rubs his mouth, dreading feeling the hot sticky dribble of blood. To his relief, he feels only the cold of what might have been mud already beginning to dry onto his face.
He was still in shock about why he felt it necessary to check for blood, namely the fact that Nazi soldiers had showed up to his house demanding to know if he was Feliciano Vargas. Technically, it was true. That was the human name he used. So he'd said yes.
Apparently he'd been caught praying. Italy often forgot that religion was a no-no, but being a nation, he hadn't really thought about it that much. But the Nazi police, most of which didn't know his identity (honestly there were only three, namely Germany, Prussia, and Hitler himself.) had thought very much of it. Enough, in fact, to beat him and slam his face into the ground before shoving his stunned body into the back of the trailer on their truck.
Now Italy sighs and leans against the metal, still feeling a bit sore and unsure. Surely Germany would hear about this? He'd fix this. It's just all a misunderstanding... Right?
-.+
Italy gasps at the sudden stream of light, blinking hard against it. One of the men yell at him in German to get out, which seems a bit unnecessary as at the same time another man was dragging him out. Italy stumbles to his feet as he's pushed into a line, and finally his eyes adjust enough to see the large traincart at the end of the line. Nearby there are other lines leading into other carts on the train.
"E-excuse me!" Italy cries, trying to get the soldier's attention. "I'm not supposed to be here! See, I'm one of your allies-"
"Shut up before I shoot you!" The officer barks and points his gun in case Italy can't understand German.
Italy immediately shuts up, and small tremors of fear begin to make him shake. These men, they were awful! Maybe the reason why Germany was so stiff and angry all the time was because of people like that?
He's quickly shoved into the traincart, and finds that there's no room to even wiggle his elbows. The train starts, leaving Italy stuck in this tight mass of people. It had only been a couple of minutes and he was already feeling very claustrophobic. He moves and is jostled and shifted until his back's against a corner, which in all honestly, could be considered alright compared to being trapped in the unpleasant smelling crowd. Italy shuts his eyes and covers his ears, hoping to block out the sounds of children crying and people yelling over each other.
It was chaos.
After several hours, the smell gets progressively worse as people begin to relieve themselves where they stand or, even worse, suffocate and die. A few unlucky moves by the crowd sends a body toppling over onto the small Italian. He nearly hyperventilates before forcibly calming by reminding himself how this person had probably died, and for the rest of the ride the corpse remains propped against him.
When the train ride is over, they're all ushered out and sorted, then they are sent into buildings separated by gender where they are forced to strip down and change into odd looking uniforms that looked liked striped pajamas. Their hair is snipped shorter by careless hands, and Italy cringes every time the blades near his curl. It was bad enough when it was touched, but when cut? Italy could imagine it bringing a whole new meaning to the phrase Romano had associated with the experience of his curl being played with, "you just can't stand it!" Luckily though, the trimmer manages to avoid it.
They're then lead to another building. Inside, the first thing Italy notices is the inhumane amount of people crammed in there. It takes him a minute to realize that they're on bunk beds.
The people around him are already scrambling for any visable space on the beds and Italy searches frantically for leftover room. His hesitation leaves him with only a tiny spot to squeeze into between two larger men. It's so tight that Italy can feel their breathing and heartbeats, causing him to squirm in discomfort. The men are annoyed by this and one shouts at him in another language, Polish maybe, so Italy remains stiff and frozen for the rest of the night.
Germany with get me out of here! He constantly reassures himself, trying hard to ignore the biting cold stinging his skin. This is all a bad dream! I'll be fine! Germany will help me!
Apparently tears don't listen well though, because they were carrying out an escape down his face.
-.+
Loud German shouts wake Italy, and he sits up to find the people around him stumbling from bed and onto the floor. The German yells to know if anyone can understand him to serve as translator as he explains the rules, so Italy and two other men raise shaky hands. The people around him shove Italy forward, instantly volunteering him.
"Th-the rules are... You will work o-or d-die. There is n-no unauthorized talking, a-and no personal possessions," Italy stutters after listening to the German. The Nazi jabs him with his gun and he scampers back into place.
They're led outside where another soldier takes over. Thankfully, this one speaks English, and shouts for them to line up for roll call. The uniform stripe pajamas do little to shield them from the freezing wind and Italy is quickly shivering almost violently, and mentally he pleads for the soldiers to hurry up, but they seem to be taking their sweet time counting everyone.
Hours pass before they finally finish, and they're led to a field of trenches where they're given shovels and ordered to dig.
After a long while Italy grimaces from the pain shooting through his palms. It wasn't like he never used his hands, he was an artist and chef (and he wasn't too bad at fencing either), plus there was Germany's training with guns, grenades, and self-defense to build his strength. Yet now he could feel blisters forming where he held the shovel.
A series of loud shouts in German make him jump and he frantically keeps digging. His eyes were getting blurry fast and he begins to sniffle softly. He hated this place! Where was Germany? Surely he realized by now that Italy was missing? Where was Romano? Or Japan? They would come to get him out, right?
-.+
It had been a week so far. Italy had faithfully counted, waiting for a familiar face to appear and rescue him.
None had.
Right now he was wheeling supplies in a wheelbarrow, when suddenly a harsh smell makes him stop. Glancing around, he sees the culprit is one of the large buildings a little ways off.
"What is that place?" He murmers to himself.
"Th' showers."
"Eh?" Italy spins around to see a young man with dirty blond hair shaved close to his skull. He was wheeling supplies too.
"Tha's th' showers." The man repeats.
Italy sighs. "I wish I could take a shower. I feel gross."
He turns back to the man at the sound of chortling. "What?"
"You don' wanna shower there." The man gives him a grim smile and adds, "you don' come out."
"What do you mean?" Italy asks with a quiver.
The man sighs. "Those there aren'd real showers. They jus' call em tha' do keep offa suspicion from the vic'dims."
"Victims? W-what are they then?" Italy asks him.
The man's grey eyes flick to him and he grimaces. "Those... Are gas chambers. They kill you there, then burn you in the crema'dorium. Tha's the bad smell. Burning human flesh."
Italy starts to shiver from something besides cold. A sudden gasp comes from him as he watches the building. "There are children going in there!" He shrieks with a stricken expression.
"Uh huh. Can'd work, you die."
Italy watches in horror as more keep coming, old people, young mothers and pregnant women, people who look too sickly and weak to stand on their own. "They... T-they j-just... Kill them?!"
"Yeah. Id's sick."
A hand on his shoulder makes Italy jump, and he turns to see the blond man.
"C'mon. They'll catch us s'daring and kill us too." The man tells him gently.
Still in shock, Italy slowly moves away and continues pushing the wheelbarrow. The man matches his pace, keeping his speed when he could easily be overtaken.
"Wha's your name? I know your I'dalian from your accen'd."
"Feliciano..." Italy whispers, not looking at him.
"I'm Andrew. I'm American, but I was visi'ding a friend in Aus'dria when, well..."
"Wait though," Italy frowns at him. "You have an accent, on your t's."
"'S no'd an accen'd. Go'd kicked in the jaw by them. Broke tha'd and bi'd through my 'doungue. Now I have 'do 'dalk like this."
Italy's eyes widen. "Are you alright?!"
Andrew nods. "Doesn'd hur'd now. 'M fine." He squints and adds, "I think I've seen you before. You 'dransla'ded for tha'd German..."
"Yeah! That was me, ve~"
Andrew smiles. "Then we're in the same building!"
Italy hesitantly smiles back. Perhaps he had made a friend here?