Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I also do not own the song "Gimme Gimme Gimme" by Abba, from which the chapter titles and story title are taken

Toris stood in front of a small boutique in Moscow's west Kutuzovsky Prospekt, brushing sleep out of his eyes and wishing he were there for any reason other than 'business.' While orders-especially ones issued by Ivan Braginski-were always to be followed, Toris couldn't help but despise every minute he spent carrying them out.

He glanced up at the storefront. Hung above the doorway situated between the color-filled display cases was a sign. In freshly redone hues of orange, yellow, and pink, were the words The Phoenix Nest. He raised his eyebrow, wondering why a boutique had a name more appropriate for a bar.

Toris shoved a hand in his coat pocket, scrounging for the scrap of paper he had shoved there before. His fingers finally brushing the evasive sheet, he breathed deeply, and withdrew it. There, in Ivan's large, childish print, was the name of the store he was looking for. The titles were, unfortunately, identical.

With a huff of agitation, he exhaled through his teeth and pushed on the door hoping it was locked. Much to his chagrin, it swung easily inward. A bell tinkled cheerily, and he glanced around, taking in the sea of garments in every color, cut, and fabric imaginable. He gawked for a moment, only to be wrenched away from his thoughts by an idle voice. "The men's stuff is over there, if that's what'cha need. Otherwise, you should probably talk to me, okay?"

Somewhat bashfully, Toris pried his eyes away from the variegated garments, finally realizing he had company seated at the cash register, observing him with interest. She regarded him with half-lidded green eyes, absently tugging on the ends of her chin-length hair. Quickly, he glanced at the nametag around the cashier's neck, which proclaimed the person's name to be Feliks, a distinctly masculine name. He looked back up at her, no, him, noticing with embarrassment the flat chest and Adam's apple. He flushed internally at his own mistake. "I'm going to have something custom made. Could I talk to the manager?"

Feliks peeled himself out of his chair, tugging at a loose jersey that was more than likely taken from the small boutique's inventory. "That's me!" He seemed to brighten immediately at the mention of his newfound authority. "So, whad'ya need?" He grabbed a sketchbook from the desk, its pattern surprisingly plain and simple for such a lively person. His eyes seemed to glow at the thought of the sum handmade suits raked in.

Toris took a moment to observe the man he would be dealing with. He was slightly built, flamboyantly dressed, with deliberately dramatic posture and eyes full of nervous energy that flew to every part of the room that wasn't Toris. He seemed flashy but harmless, and Toris almost didn't take a second glance. Then, he noticed the puckered line trailing from the corner of his eye to his hairline, partially obscured by hanging hair but still visible to anyone trained to observe. His observational prowess was probably the only reason he'd made it this far.

Eyes flickering from pink scar to green iris, he swallowed his suspicion over the lack of eye contact Feliks provided and quickly voiced his request. "Fitted grey suit. Make it appropriate for winter, please."

"No color?"

"No color."

Feliks pursed his lips. "You sure?"

"Positive."

"Why're you here then? Color's what I do." He shrugged "Well, business is business."

He flipped open the sketchpad, grabbing a pack of colored pencils, his 2B already flying across the page. "Can the tie at least have color?"

"Sure."

Toris gave the room a brief gander, waiting for Feliks to finish. His eyes flashed to each of the store's four corners, and once more, the tiny space seemed to smother him with color. "You made all of these?"

Feliks didn't even bother to raise his head form his sketchbook, still utterly engrossed in his work. "Totally. It's, like, my place. Well, it's my place now anyway."

His attention returned to the paper and Toris's to the floor, wondering when he ought to reveal his true intent. The time passed silently, and Feliks's head shot up after only ten minutes. "Done!"

Despite himself, Toris found his interest piqued. "May I see?"

"Nope. I've gotta take your measurements first."

He cautiously placed his sketchbook face-down on the desk, and then began to rummage through its many drawers.

Toris cringed. While the man's mannerisms were obnoxious, he also seemed…not quite genuine, though enthusiastic, to say the least. He was definitely not on the top of Toris's 'people-whose-lives-I'd like-to-ruin' list, which, thanks to his forgiving disposition, was rather barren.

Feliks suddenly arose, measuring tape clutched triumphantly in his hand. "Before you go, I'm gonna need your measurements, 'kay?"

"You already said that."

Feliks scoffed. "Well, you looked like you were spaced out or something. Just wanted to make sure you weren't ignoring me or anything."

Internally, Toris rolled his eyes at Feliks's overly defensive behavior.

He removed his coat and spread his arms as Feliks lengthened the tape to coincide with his shoulders, carefully noting down the measurements. "By the way, I need to know your name to, like, label your order."

Feliks stretched the tape down Toris's inseam, and he squirmed with discomfort. "Toris Laurinaitis"

Feliks dropped the tape and grabbed a pencil. "Long name. How d'ya spell it?"

"L-a-u-r-i-n-a-i-t-i-s"

He scratched it down, muttering under his breath. "Jeez, you must've failed first grade like three times."

Toris chose to pretend he hadn't heard.

He grasped the tape again, wrapping it around Toris's neck. As he tried not to breathe too deeply, he found himself attempting to look into Feliks's eyes. They were not the enthusiastic, constantly darting eyes he had witnessed moments ago, but focused and probing, though they still wouldn't meet his. Somehow, they looked now far more genuine, cutting off his breath. Suddenly, the tape went taut. "I know what you are, so drop the act and tell me why you're here."

Toris froze, as startled by the proclamation as he was by Feliks's sudden change in attitude, and the tape around his neck loosened. Feliks stared warily at Toris's hands as he lifted them slowly over his head in a gesture of surrender. "Let's sit down."

Toris rubbed his neck, still shaken. He appeared to have misjudged Feliks entirely, and he hated himself for his ignorance. He stared at Feliks, reassessing him, and Feliks glanced quickly towards his desk, eyes darting away from Toris's own as his voice regained his airheaded lilt. "Kay, I've got all your basic measurements and stuff anyway."

They both sat down, Feliks still squinting at him suspiciously. Toris breathed deeply, an uncomfortable smile plastered firmly across his visage. "You know who I am, correct?"

"Kinda."

"Okay, I can work with that. I work for the man who basically runs Moscow."

"I'm gonna guess you aren't talking about Putin."

"You guessed right. He's… "

"Bratva, right?"

"Yeah."

Feliks shrank back into his seat. "If you're here to kill me, that's totally not cool with me."

Toris blinked, not entirely shocked, but repulsed by the idea. Thinking fast, he tried to reassure Feliks, who was groping around for the surprisingly dangerous tape. He had a switchblade in his pocket, and would be distraught if he had to use it. " No! No, no, no. I'm just here to collect a little…business fee. For small boutiques, the payment is usually only 15,000 rubles per month."

"Only? Do you know how much I make a month?"

Toris went on. "However, this establishment's previous owner missed almost a year's worth of payments, and eventually his grace period ran out."

Feliks flinched. "I knew he didn't have a heart attack!" He paused, bracing himself. "So, how much?'

Toris smiled sympathetically, wishing he didn't have to say. "This month comes to a total of…120,000 rubles."

Feliks blinked twice, shook the panicked expression off his face, and grimaced childishly. "Oh, ew."

All of his seriousness dissipated and he chortled to himself, snorting in-between giggles and trying not to inhale his cornsilk hair. Toris watched, smiling even as he noticed how forced his cackles sounded, or how their eyes still refused to meet. Despite these observations, Toris decided to maintain the pseudo-light atmosphere. "I still want that suit, though."

Feliks nodded vigorously, reaching for his measuring tape. "Yep, got it." He grinned sheepishly. "You know how I said I had all your basic measurements? Teeny-tiny lie. So I'm gonna need you to, like, stand up and stand still for a few, 'kay?"

Toris complied and stretched his arms out as Feliks measured his arm span. "Thanks, got that."

As Feliks jotted numbers down on the corner of the sketch, Toris thought over his words, or rather the way he said them. "You…you have an accent."

"Yeah. Polish, right? I grew up there, so no duh."

"Really? I grew up in Moscow, though my parents were from Vilnius. Lithuania and Poland are near each other, right?"

"Right. Lithuania is, like, right above Poland."

As Feliks continued to measure him, they chatted, or rather Feliks chatted and Toris listened. "So yeah, the early years were all spent down in Warsaw, but I've always loved clothes, so I came here to make a name for myself. Which I still haven't quite done yet, but at least people are like, wearing my stuff. And they totally come back, too! You've got no idea how hard it is to get people to do that. I mean…"

Over years of dealing with the megalomaniacs that were typically drawn to organized crime, Toris had grown quite adept at tuning people out, and was very surprised to find himself listening to the man's every word, and watching his every move.

Though Feliks would seem quite relaxed to the average observer, Toris was far from average, noticing his introverted posture and tense limbs, all hints that he was hiding something.

"…though of course the guy hired me. I mean, how could he not? I've got talent! He was an ass, though, making me run all his errands and stuff. Can you imagine that?"

Toris chuckled wryly. "Actually, you just pretty much just described my job."

Feliks's eyes widened and Toris could see him mentally put his foot in his mouth. "Um, not that that's a gross job or anything, 'cause it's totally not!'

He smiled uncomfortably, eyes fixed even further away from Toris's than usual. "So, I've got the measurements. Wanna see your fabulous new suit?"

Toris raised an eyebrow at the sudden subject change, but obliged. He leaned over the desk, half expecting something ridiculous. Feliks opened the sketchbook, though the actual work was not yet visible. "Can I get a drumroll, please?"

He paused expectantly. "Drumroll?"

Toris sighed, but, being used to dealing with eccentrics, indulged the designer, tapping out a drilling rhythm on the desk. Dramatically, Feliks turned the sketchpad. Toris strained for a glimpse, and, when he finally caught one, found himself underwhelmed.

It was a grey suit, like all other suits before. He glanced up at Feliks's glowing face, and tried to feign enthusiasm.

As he peered back down at the sheet, seeing the sketch more fully, he began to notice things. He noticed little things, like how the tie wasn't just plain green as he had thought before but covered with barely palpable designs stitched in gold, or how the trousers took on the tailored look of the skinny suit without emitting the immature vibe such suits often gave. Now that he was looking closer, the suit wasn't even one shade of grey, but a multitude of polychromatic threads woven to form a large work.

He drew back, wondering how Feliks had imbued the work with so many minute factors in such a brief period of time. Once more, he let his eyes drag over the page, observing how the details worked to form something bigger, something greater than the sum of their parts. "It's beautiful."

Feliks grinned, preening. "Thanks."

Toris nodded and glanced down at his watch. He had been there for almost twice as long as the hour he had been allotted. "I'm nearly two hours late! The suit is wonderful, though. I'll pick it up along with the payment."

"Don'cha wanna know how much it costs?"

Toris shrugged unthinkingly. It was Ivan who'd pay for the suit anyway, and he was tired of all the talk of money. "No, I'm fine."

Feliks eyed him with a combination of wariness and awe. Just having a suit custom-made was ostentatious, but to disregard the price was absurd.

In an attempt to dispel the discomfort on Feliks's face and put an end to their meeting, he extended his hand to Feliks, who shook it firmly. Though his hands looked smooth and delicate, Toris could feel the man's calloused flesh against his own skin, no doubt hardened by making the endless supply of garments the store seemed to possess.

He went to extract his hand from the viselike grip, only to be stopped by Feliks. He glanced away from their intertwined hand, puzzled, and was startled to find Feliks looking back.

For the first time, their eyes met, and there was something in Feliks's gaze that froze Toris where he stood. Still maintaining their eye contact, Feliks spoke, and Toris could feel the smaller man's hand shaking.

"I don't have the money."

Only two mornings later, Toris returned, bearing coffees and good news.

Pushing the front door open with his forearm, he swigged from his own coffee and glanced around, looking for Feliks. Unable to find him, he called out his name and, receiving no response, proceeded to lean against the edge of the desk, fully prepared to wait.

Glancing down at the mess of paper that was Feliks's desk, he supposed that it would be rational to just write a note. It was so rare for him to bring anything other than woe to people and he desperately wanted to talk to Feliks face-to-face, and so, he silently damned his logic and decided to continue to wait.

He was about to give up on his one chance at a smile and some pleasant banter and write a note when Feliks came waltzing out of a small backdoor, a fully-clothed mannequin under his arm and a tired but cheery expression on his face.

The second their eyes met, Feliks's entire posture changed. He lost his relaxed slouch, and his loping gait tightened into stiff, robotic footsteps. Nervously, he glanced up at Toris, speaking in a tone that seemed too forced to be casual. "I've only got, like, your suit's jacket done. If you come back in a few days, maybe…"

When Toris didn't turn to leave, Feliks continued, fear apparent in every line of his body, yet still standing firm, looking resolutely at something to the left of Toris's head. "…maybe I'll have the suit ready."

He looked back at Toris, eyes terrified, and once again the eye contact froze Toris where he stood. "The money won't be ready for a long time, though. Like, on infinite hold long time."

Toris handed him a coffee and grinned at his bewildered expression. "That's the thing; I've got good news."

Feliks's eyes lit up with fresh hope. "It was all a mistake and your boss owes me 20,000 rubles instead? 'Cause that would be amazing."

Toris's grin dimmed a few watts, yet seemed just as joyful. "No, I'm not that good. I did, however, get my boss to remove 5,000 rubles off your debt…" Feliks gasped "…if you are willing to give anything free of charge to anyone who says they're from Braginski."

Feliks didn't even contemplate rejection, but grasped Toris's hand in his own and shook it vigorously, despite the fact that Toris had never offered a handshake in the first place. "It's a deal!"

He plopped back down, gesturing giddily for Toris to sit across from him. "Thanks! That'll be a huge help." Here he hesitated, the ecstatic glow peeling away to reveal suspicion.

"Now, how did this deal come about?"

Toris had hoped that this line of questioning would be obscured by bliss and never arrive. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Feliks continued to peer at him, suspicions clearly not annulled. "Seriously, how?" He persisted.

Wearily, Toris gave in. "I asked Ivan for a small favor." He had gotten on his knees and pleaded until his pride was spent and Ivan had granted his request just to be rid of him.

"Why?"

That simple question even Toris himself didn't quite know the answer to.

"Well…" he started, grabbing a cheap ballpoint off the desk and tapping it slowly, anything to prolong the answer, to find a way around the question without sparking a panic.

Feliks looked impatient, and Toris relented. "…you seem like a nice guy."

Feliks remained skeptical. "And?'

The tapping's tempo increased. "I really don't want to kill you." He glanced away. "Or anyone, for that matter."

"You'd have to kill me?"

"Yes. Can we not talk about it? It's a very real possibility."

There was no appropriate way for Feliks to respond to that, and so the tension remained thick in the air, seeming just as out of place as their talk of death in the whimsical room.

Abruptly, Feliks nodded a silent thank you. It wasn't the utter bliss he had been hoping for, but Toris supposed it would have to do as he watched the tautness ease from the Pole's shoulders.

They remained there for a moment, slurping their coffees appreciatively, and Toris pretended almost wistfully that that he was just an ordinary guy with an ordinary job, relaxing with a man he had met more than once, and probably would never have to harm.

Draining the last drop, he glanced up, rousing himself from pointless daydreams and getting straight back to business. "How much will my suit cost?"

Immediately, Feliks stiffened up the way he always seemed to, as though he was expecting to be struck at any minute. "10,000 rubles. That suit's not, like, part of our little deal, is it? 'Cause I need that money."

Toris sighed, wondering if Feliks was always flighty, or if Toris just put him on edge. Either way, it saddened him. "No, that suit was ordered pre-deal. " He switched topics. "How much do you make a month?"

" 100,000. Yeah, it sounds like a lot, but most of it goes to, like, leasing the place and providing it with electricity, as well as materials and my basic living expenses. Why?"

"I just wanted to see how much money we had left to go."

Feliks raised an eyebrow, confused. "We?"

"Yeah, we. I'll be helping you out, when I can."

Feliks didn't respond, just stared at him, unsure of what to do or say. He spun on his heel, striding towards the door from which he came. "I suppose I, like, owe you a sneak-peek of suit, don't I." He chirped. "Wait right there while I go get it."

Toris watched him go. It felt almost odd, speaking in more than the formal orders from Ivan he so often quoted or the clipped sentences intermingled with awkward silences he occasionally exchanged with Eduard or Natalya. Though he had more than ample time to observe Feliks, the man remained an riddle, a many layered, continuously morphing thing that itched at the inside of Toris's brain, begging to be solved. He knew that the ditz-like persona was just that, a persona, but when it was peeled away, he couldn't tell what lay beneath.

Feliks was clearly cautious and quite a bit cleverer than Toris had originally given him credit for, yet he showed no consistency, constantly shifting between an edgy caged animal and a hardened, prideful young man with pleading eyes. Unused to such confusion, Toris found himself fascinated and strangely drawn into the enigma that was the eccentric Pole.

The aforementioned Pole emerged and raised a single finger silently gesturing for Toris to join him. Equally silent, Toris obliged and Feliks, still solemn, handed him the jacket, which he promptly slid into.

It flowed onto his body like silk, though the fabric was sturdy and fitted. It reminded him somehow of a Kevlar vest, pliable, yet strong. 'It won't be much help when it comes to stopping a bullet, though' he thought.

Feliks gave him a slow once-over and smiled. "I'm brilliant."

Toris tugged at the jacket, his mind flowing with the threads as they cupped his body, interweaving with thousands of others similar but not identical to themselves. "You are."

Feliks stuck his tongue out and pretended to blush. "Oh, you flatter me so!" he cooed in a faux falsetto, cackling madly at his own hyperbole. To Toris, it seemed that the man could not spend a day without dissolving into hysterics at least once. As he chuckled along, he found he didn't mind a bit.

Once the laughter just wouldn't come, Feliks grabbed for the jacket. "You can't wear it until I'm, like, done with the whole thing, 'kay?"

With more than a little remorse, Toris pried the suit jacket from his form and grudgingly returned it to the designer, who smirked at his expression of loss. With even less enthusiasm, he bid Feliks farewell, pledging to help him raise the remaining sum, and trotted down the streetlamp-lit Kutuzovsky Prospekt, bracing himself for Ivan's wrath.

He glanced down at his watch and flinched. He was almost five hours late.

Notes: Bratva=Russian term for mafia.

Rubles= Russian currency.

So…Cliffhanger! I've been working on the outlines for this whole big project for months, and it's been eating my life. You have no idea how glad I am to have this chapter out. This will be part of a series, though each story will be able to be read on its own. Thank you for the support, everyone who read Maple Street, Kay, my fabulously honest beta, and especially JustPlaincarl, whose life goal is to be my number one reviewer, and to whom this story is dedicated. Reviews motivate me!

-fanningfireflies