Unnecessary disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or the 1920s.

Just as the clock hit five the sign sitting in the front window of Kirkland's Bakery was flipped to 'closed'. This was done by a young man, petite in stature and not much older than twenty four years old. He then tied an apron around his waist, picked up a broom from the corner, and began to sweep up the dirt customers had tracked onto the wooden floor. As he labored cheerfully a light hum vibrated from his lips. Soon he was singing to himself, tapping his shoe to the rhythm.

"It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing. Doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah~"

Even though the young man, whose name was Oliver, was the owner of the small business he did the majority of the work himself. The income his shop brought in was fairly steady, and he could afford to pay quite a few workers, but he only felt the need to hire one person.

In a tiny back room of the shop which acted as an office sat another young man who was just a few years Oliver's junior. He was hunched at a rickety table of worn wood, gazing at papers from over a pair of slightly bent bifocals. After checking a record of the day's sales and seeing that everything was in order he proceeded to sift through the mail that had been delivered earlier. There were a few bills and a monthly catalogue for baking supplies; the usual. At least that is what he thought until he discovered a scarlet envelope at the bottom of the stack.

"Oh shit," he mumbled under his breath. The sight of the thing caused the young man to feel cold dread run down his spine. He took pride in being a tough sort of fellow but somethings… somethings were enough to make him more than nervous.

With slightly shaking hands he ripped open the top of the unmarked envelope and removed the precisely tri-folded letter. The palm of his hand smoothed the thick parchment out on the desk as he took in the delicately penned words. Dear Allen Jones… began the letter. That was him. His jaw clenched tighter and tighter as he read on, his teeth grinding together as he processed information.

Time is up. "No shit," he mumbled.

Requested meeting, "Ain't that polite?"

You and your employer, and evening of the seventeenth. Allen quickly recalled that today was the seventeenth. It was a date that stuck out in his mind. For months Ollie had been pestering him for a night out at a club and he had finally consented after countless puppy dog looks and 'Please oh please, Allen?'s. If he were to cancel now his boss would not only have his head, but he would become aware of the situation at hand. Missing the "requested" meeting would mean pleasing Oliver… but inadvertently pissing off another boss. A different kind of boss. A mafia boss. Decisions, decisions…

"Al, poppet," Oliver chirped in a cheery voice as he stuck his head into the room, "Have you finished looking at the paper work yet?"

Jumping about a foot in the air like the guilty man he was, Allen rushed to hide the letter under the mail and looked over his shoulder. "Yeah Ollie, I'm almost done. Just gimme a minute." He hoped he didn't show any signs of his nerves.

"Oh alright. But hurry up! We have lots of getting ready to do. I'll be upstairs waiting." With that he disappeared as quickly as he came.

Allen heaved a sigh of frustration and removed his reading glasses. They got tossed carelessly on the table. Why did Oliver's eyes have to sparkle with hope and gleam with so much joy? It would be almost painful to crush his spirits. Not almost- defiantly. And so the choice was made. Allen ripped the letter into fourths and tossed it into the waste bin. Mafia boss be damned. He was going to have a night on the town.

"You know what? Your ideas are stupid- stupid! I swear to God I got no damn idea why I listen to you Ollie."

Allen squirmed self-consciously as he ran a nervous hand through his short brunette bob. The moment they stepped out on the street he began to regret this terrible life choice. His dark brown eyes lined with kohl narrowed dangerously at his companion. "If this stunt gets me dead in an alleyway I'm gonna haunt you from the grave yah know that right? I'll fuckin' haunt you."

"Oh calm yourself Allen. And watch your language, it isn't befitting of a lady," came the crisply accented reply of the Brit. Oliver lifted a compact mirror to his face and puckered his lips to properly paint them with the stick of color.

"Yeah whatever. And I ain't no lady. Neither are you. We're two queers dressed in drag."

The Brit tucked the lipstick and compact back into his small purse, flashing Allen a grin. "Well you are quite right about that. However I think we look lovely, don't you?"

Indeed the two were quite a sight to behold. Allen wore a red and black sleeveless evening dress, the waist straight and the skirt down to his ankles. On his feet were crimson heels that matched, a black shawl draped over his arms. Oliver was dressed in a Robe de style dress that was dusty pink in color. The skirt of it went only about an inch below his knee revealing the curve of his rather shapely legs which were covered in silk stockings held up by garters. His oddly pinkish blond hair was styled in a crop, framing his freckled face. Both were done up in makeup and thanks to a good deal of hair removal on both their parts they could actually pass for attractive women.

"We look… well we look like pretty hot stuff, I gotta say. You really think that guys are gonna pay attention to us dressed like this?"

"Without a doubt, Allie! Won't it be nice to flirt with handsome men without getting the threat of having our bits chopped off?"

"Well yeah. But what's gonna happen when they find out we ain't dames?"

That thought hadn't occurred to Oliver but he wasn't going to let it stop the fun time he had planned. "We just have to make sure that doesn't happen. Now let's go Allen! That place downtown is said to really be the bee's knees." With that he took his friend's hand and dragged him to the corner so they could hail a cab.

The secret hole in the wall they were dropped off near was packed with young men and women dressed in the latest styles mingling with each other. It was dimly lit to create that feeling of mystery and danger they all craved. The air was thick with the smell of perfume, cheap booze of the illegal variety, and sweat from the bodies of dancing people. Voices and the sound of a four piece band completed the atmosphere of the underground club.

"This is gonna be great Ollie, I should never have doubted yah. Hey look! There's two fellas giving us eyes already. Let's go over." Strutting with a feminine swish of their hips, Allen and Oliver made their way to the bar where two men were leaning against it.

The two guys looked quite similar as if they were related somehow. Both had blonde hair pulled back in short ponytails and dark blue eyes. However there were significant differences between them. One was smooth shaven and built as if he knew of physical labor. His eyes held an interested gleam towards the 'girls' approaching him. The other had stubble across his chin as if he couldn't bother to shave. In fact he looked as if he couldn't even bother to be there in that moment, an apathetic dullness in his gaze.

"Hey there boys," Allen addressed them both in a purring, higher pitched voice but he was focused on the muscled one who held a glass of something strong in a hand. "Me and my friend here saw you ogling at us from 'cross the room. Care to explain?" He rested a hand on his waist, sporting his usual bold smirk. The man he spoke to returned the expression and allowed a rumbling chuckle to leave his lips.

"Well when I see something I like I tend to look at it. Got a problem with that?"

Allen grinned, "Not at all. Glad you like what you see. Hey you got a strange kinda accent. Where yah from, mister?"

"I'm from way up north, in Canada. And call me James, not mister."

"Nice name. I'm Alana and this is Olivia." Their female names had been decided before they arrived. "Who's your friend?" He gave a vague nod towards the other blonde who was gulping from a glass of red wine. Oliver had been watching him with eyes filled with interest the entire time as James and Allen exchanged banter.

"That's Francois, my cousin. I'm French-Canadian while he lacks the Canadian part. Guess that's why he isn't as handsome as me." That quip made Allen snicker and Francois scowl.

"Boy do I like you, James," Allen crooned as he took hold of James' arm. "And I kinda like this song too. Let's go kick up our heels, huh?"

"Sure why not," James agreed and allowed himself to be lead onto the crowded dance floor.

Oliver clicked his tongue in annoyance. Leave it to Allen to abandon him at first chance. Though he was upset at his friend he knew that it was an opportunity to talk to the handsome Frenchmen alone. All he had to do was be nice. Everyone likes nice people, right?

"Hi!" he chirped, taking special care to keep his voice at a believably feminine pitch. Francois looked up from his wineglass to give Oliver a less than friendly look.

"What do you want?" he droned coldly. It was obvious that he was in no mood to be bothered. Oliver refused to be deterred by the grumpy demeanor. Either that or he didn't detect it as most people would.

"I don't want anything, silly! I'm simply saying hello." Oliver flashed his sweetest smile. Francois was not charmed by it as many others were.

"It is stupid to engage in conversation with someone unless you have something more intelligent to say than 'Hi'," he mocked the Brit's voice in a squeak. "If you have nothing to say then leave me to my wine."

Oliver's mouth opened and closed like an indignant fish. How dare someone be so rude to him when all he was trying to do was be polite? "You have no manners, sir," he huffed, crossing his arms in front of him. "You're very unpleasant."

"Then don't talk to me," he retorted before gulping his wine.

"I'll talk to you if I please! Besides, I do have something interesting to say."

"Then say it, or get the hell out of my face." The look in his eyes was so cold, so icy and harsh, that it gave Oliver some chills. He refused to look away, however. The intense staring contest between light and dark blue continued until he blurted out, "Blood can work as a substitute for eggs in baked goods!"

Francois blinked slowly. "What?"

"I said," Oliver took a breath, "blood can work as a substitute for eggs when baking. It has to do with the proteins, I think…"

"Fascinating."

"You really think so?" He beamed.

"Oui. Fascinating how you think that is interesting." His lips twitched into what could barely be called a smile at Oliver's aggravated expression.

"Well tiddlywinks to you too!" He was thoroughly tired of Francois' shi- sassafras. Perhaps he shouldn't have even tried speaking to him.

Oliver ordered a tiny glass of strong smelling liquor from the bar and began nursing it with a sour expression. He wasn't much of a drinker but talking with the Frenchman made him feel like he needed some alcohol in his system. He ordered another.

"I can't believe that my first time flirting was with a meanie-pants," he grumbled to himself, none too quietly. The drinks were already loosening his tongue. Francois looked up from his glass.

"That was flirting? Pathetic."

"Hush your baguette hole!" he whined, "I tried my hardest. Showing someone that you have interest in them is difficult. Should I be direct? I think I'll just be direct. I'm being direct!" Francois watched with blank eyes as Oliver moved closer and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"You do not know what you're doing."

"Of course I do. I gave you a kiss because I like you."

"You called me a meanie-pants not but a few minutes ago."

"Yes."

Francois seemed to be getting irritated. "Do not be such a foolish girl. Tch! Kissing men you don't know. You are a tramp."

He blinked his wide, moony eyes and mumbled, "But I want to get to know you."

"Fine," the Frenchman snapped, and he grabbed Oliver by the wrist. "Let's go get to know each other."

He found himself being pulled along through throngs of people to a shadowy back corner of the club. His back hit the wall almost painfully. Francois loomed over him.

"What are we-" he was interrupted by a mouth tasting of cigarettes and red wine pressing to his. "Mmf!" came a weak protest but the kiss didn't end until the other man broke it off.

"What the dickens was that?" Oliver demanded breathily, freckled cheeks flushed. Without offering a reply Francois dived back down for another kiss. The Brit put a hand on his chest to stop him. "Answer me."

"This is exactly what you asked for." The little space left between them was closed. Oliver was going to clarify that no, this isn't what he had asked for, but kisses between the junction of his neck and shoulder left him quite speechless.

"T-this is a public place," he stammered, "We really shouldn't be doing something so- Ngh!" Teeth nipped at his skin. "Lewd…"

He couldn't deny it though. He enjoyed the lips at his throat and the hands rubbing down his sides. Francois' body was deliciously warm and firm against his. It all caused the rather unfamiliar sensation of arousal to cloud his senses.

Suddenly Francois chuckled low in Oliver's ear, flicking his tongue around the rim. "Something is poking me," he whispered gruffly.

Oh no.

Oh no.

Oh no.

Those four, terrifying words snapped Oliver out of his lust induced haze in an instant. In his mortification he pushed the man away from him.

"I'm sorry!" he cried, tears forming in his eyes, "I'm so, so sorry! I only wanted to flirt with handsome guys without being threatened! I never meant for things to get this far! I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm-"

"Shut up," Francois commanded with a scowl. Oliver closed his mouth with a pathetic whimper. "And stop crying. You will ruin your makeup." He used his thumb to gently wipe up the tears that had fallen.

"You're not angry?" Oliver sniffed.

"Non."

"B-but I'm male…"

"So?" he scoffed. "That does not matter. I will be with whoever I want regardless of sex. Besides," a smirk curled to his lips and he cupped Oliver's face in a hand, "you are oh so very cute."

"Hush," he mumbled, turning his head in embarrassment. "I'm upset because I feel like I've lied to you from the very beginning. That's not a healthy way for any relationship to start."

"Well you can tell the truth now, can't you?"

He gave a shy little grin. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I think I'll introduce myself properly. My name is Oliver." The Brit held out a freckled hand. Francois lifted it and pressed his lips to the palm making Oliver giggle at the roughness of his stubble.

"Bonjour, Oliver. I look forwards to knowing you."

"As do I!" he paused before quietly adding, "But not like this. We haven't even shared a proper conversation yet we're already necking in the corner."

A flicker of disappointment passed through Francois' eyes but he grunted and grumbled, "Fine if you want. But I do not like talking."

"That's alright! I'll just tell you about myself," Oliver chirped and took the larger hand in his. A bright smile lit up his features. "I knew that you weren't really a meanie-pants."

"Whatever…" he huffed in his monotonous voice, but his eyes didn't hold the same cold look they usually did.

Together they leaned against the wall; Oliver snuggled up close to him as he yammered on about cupcakes or something. Excitement shone in his gaze with every word. Not that he would ever actually admit it but Francois enjoyed the moment. It seemed as if they could just fade into the night that way, voices and music swinging around them.

I've been actually working on this on the side for a while now. I just love the 20s! I have plans for this being more than just a one-shot but for those who know my writing record you know I have a habit of not continuing stuff I say I will. I'm working on it though. Thanks for reading and keep swinging on, you cool cats!