DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA!
The ancient, rounded mountains of southern Italy stood majestic in the night, still, silent sentinels over the sleepy countryside painted velvet by the light of the soft summer moon. The landscape was filled with muted tones of purple, the sea twinkling bright with the reflections of ten thousand stars, sharp in contrast with the fuzzy-edged town nestled in the hills. The waves hissed on the beach, lavender foam whispering sweet nothings to lilac sands, and the soft summer breeze swirling gently through the open windows of the old buildings, caressing the faces of two sleeping twins in an upper-story bedroom, the older curled protectively about the younger. These were the Vargas twins, heirs to Roman Vargas' famous pizzeria and pasta specialty shop. Business has been good, and these two teenagers dozed peacefully on their shared bed, the benevolent, half-lidded eye of the moon gazing favorably upon them. But the moon hid her pretty eye behind a gallant, scudding cloud as a pirate galleon came swiftly slicing the amethyst waters of the peaceful harbor. Without waking the watchmen, five lookouts, the lithe boys who flew through the rigging, manipulating the sails like a wolf pack bringing down a caribou, slipped unnoticed onto the dock. At their head was a promising young pirate lad by the name of Antonio Carriedo-Fernandez. They slipped into the guardhouse and slit the men's throats. Four of them went back, but Antonio moved forward. He was looking for a treasure rumored to lie on the roof of the most prominent man in the city: Roman Vargas.
Like a fox among sleeping chickens, Antonio moved stealthily up the hill, scaling a drainpipe with the ease of a born climber. He leapt gracefully from rooftop to rooftop, gilded silver and silhouetted against the star-strewn sky and the lazy moon. Landing with barely a whisper on the tiled rooftop of Casa Vargas, he padded towards the chimney, where the weathervane was rumored to conceal a treasure map. He froze, however, as he spotted a dark shape leaning against the chimney, a single flyaway curl dark against the stars.
"Who is he?" whoever it was asked, and Antonio recognized the voice to be male, about three or four years younger than his own age, which was seventeen. "I keep dreaming about that bastard..."
Realizing the child was soliloquizing, he forced himself to move soundlessly as he crept closer to the chimney.
"He has eyes as green as the grass in a meadow and hair like the soft earth of a tomato garden," the boy continued, "but the tomato-bastard never leaves his name! Is he only wishful thinking? He'd better not be, the stupid bastard!" From this close, Antonio could see the child's lip trembling in the most adorable I'm-about-to-cry face he'd ever seen. Upon closer inspection, he was a very adorable child indeed, with light-brown eyes (filled with tears though they were), round cheeks puffed out in irritation and dismay, and soft brown locks framing an expressive face and cherubic lips. The boy's mouth was twisted into a pout, and Antonio had the strangest desire to see what it looked like when he smiled.
Shaking the feeling off, he relieved the weathervane of its burden, which was a rolled-up scroll in a weatherproof oiled leather tube. He grinned. Their informant had been right, then. And then Antonio's luck faltered: he lost his balance. Wobbling precariously, he grasped the weathervane for support, but alas, it emitted a slight creaking groan under the sudden weight.
The Italian boy turned, and his expression morphed into one of wonder. "Y-you...?" he asked, his voice an awestruck whisper. Then it began to gain volume as he recovered. "You're the bastard who-!"
Antonio shut him up the first way that came into his head: he kissed him.