Author's Note:

Well, er, hello there. For those of you wondering where Chapter 4 of Oh My, Magic Tomatoes! is hiding…long story short, I had to start all over again. No worries! It will be up soon…I hope. For now, please enjoy this Prison AU fanfic inspired by one of my favorite songs; They Just Don't Know You – Little Mix.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia, the characters (countries), the song, or anything else.

Summary: Lovino Vargas and Antonio Fernandez Carriedo are two young men of seemingly different, yet strangely similar worlds. It's not every day that a prison chef falls for a convicted murder and vice versa. How long will such a relationship last? Prison AU. Romano's POV.

First off, I should probably introduce myself. However, some of you may already be acquainted with me (for some fucking reason). My name is Lovino Vargas and I am starting my first official day as a prison cook. Where exactly is this prison? I don't know, and I don't care; no one has ever told me and they sure as hell won't start telling me now.

.

"Feliciano Vargas, stop your whining and get in the fucking car before I kick your sorry ass!"

"I'm sorry fratello, chiedo scusa! I-I wanted to say good-bye to Grandpa before we go because we won't be seeing him until later because we'll be working for a long time. I cannot handle long hours and working for a long time, Lovi. It's not in my genes and physique and my back will start to hurt after a little bit. I don't want to go so please let me stay with Grandpa! I can take care of him, you'll see so please don't make me go!"

.

Why would I accept a government culinary job where I spend my hours cooking shit for convicts when I could be cooking for school children? First off, this job pays the bills, grants me experience as a chef, and government jobs have good benefits. Secondly, I hate kids. I mean, some of the little shits are okay but the bratty little shits…Simply put, I can't stand them.

.

"You little shit- we signed up for this TOGETHER! Now get your ass in the fucking car before I conjure the fucking mafia out of my ass. We're going to work."

.

Why else would I accept a shitty culinary job? Well, in order to take care of my grandfather and his shitty health, accompanied with expensive ass medical bills, my idiot brother, Feliciano, and I have decided to bring in the bacon for our family. Am I scared of the murderers, rapists, thieves, arsonists, and so on? Hell to the fuck no. Lovino Vargas has pure Italian and genuine mafia blood coursing in his veins and he is not afraid to use his badass skills (wherever those skills are hiding).

I step into my car and turn on the engine while Feliciano takes the front passenger seat. I firmly held the steering wheel and step on the gas pedal cautiously.

Eventually, we made it out onto the highway. You would think I would be used to Feli's constant whining and whimpering by now, given that I've grown up with him for 20 years and shit; well I'm nowhere near that point yet. It's a miracle that I can even think sanely around him. If you or any bat-shit crazy nut job even thinks of daring to spend five fucking minutes listening to him yapping his mouth about how the world should be covered in gumdrops and lollipops and how everything would be made of pasta, then let me tell you one important thing. Don't. Fucking. Do. It. I can promise you that it will be a punishment worse than the fiery flames of Hell.

"Lovi, I'm not very sure about this…What if the prisoners break out and beat us up?! I do not want to die in a prison, Lovino! Why are we even doing this, fratello? I know we need to provide for the family, but don't you think we can maybe get better-"

"Feliciano Vargas, would you please shut the fuck up?! I am trying to sanely and calmly drive us to our destination and you are annoying the fuck out of me."

In an immediate response to my harsh words, tears welled up in Feliciano's eyes as he attempted to utter an apology. "I-I-I'm sorry L-Lovi…I-I p-promise I won't-"

I cut him off before he can say anything else. "Forget it; it's not your fault Feli. I should be the one apologizing. So, I'm sorry Feliciano." My incompetent, ignoramus of a brother snapped back to his happy-go-lucky, cheery mood after hearing my apology (to no surprise). He may or may have not forgotten that I was driving as he lunged for my abdomen. "GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!" I swerved the car and successfully steered us out of a potential accident. Angry car horns and colorful warnings from other drivers were a small price to pay for the safety of me and Feliciano. "Fucking hell, Feli! Don't do that again, got it? Do you want to fucking die before we get to the prison?"

"If it means not working, sure!"

I swiveled my head towards Feliciano faster than the speed of sound (kinda like that Sonic shit kids watched). "Sometimes I think I know what you're thinking inside your brain, but then you go and say some shit like that and I'm left wondering if you're trying to be funny or suicidal." I focused more on getting both of us to our destination than listening to Feliciano continuing his explanation of why the world should be made of gumdrops, lollipops, and pasta.

I pulled into the prison parking lot, easily passing by the lovely woman based at the security checkpoint using mine and Feliciano's irresistible, woman-attracting charms. It's only natural for us Italians to flirt with women, you know. Can't really help it. I parked and stepped out of the car; Feliciano followed behind me. "Damn, this is place is really heavily guarded." I mutter a short prayer and make the sign of the cross―you know, just in case something happens―to myself before taking the first of many steps into the building. After going through what felt like the TSA security checks at airports, we were bombarded with questions regarding our purpose for visiting this shitty ass prison. The aggressive handling and harsh questions I could handle. However, Feliciano's incoherent, nervous mumbles were what scared the shit out of me. Well, it's not like he does it every day you know. The only time he stopped mumbling was to complain of how the security guy 'handled him too hard.' It is a fucking prison after all; of course they'd manhandle you aggressively in order to check to see if you've brought weapons to shoot the place up.

I opened the door and walked into the warden's office, Feliciano trailing behind me. The room was colored a neutral green and the walls adorned with several awards and one or two paintings. A beautiful, deep burgundy gold rug covered a majority of the wooden floor. The first thing that caught my eye as a silver desk placard proudly displayed on top of a finely furnished, cedar desk. Standing to the left of the desk was a tall, olive-skinned, middle-eastern looking man; he looked Turkish or something, given the guy's appearance. "Uh…they said you'd be the one interviewing us...?" I attempted to make eye-contact with the Turkish man, but alas I pussied out last minute and turned my attention to the rug beneath our feet as fast as Feliciano sprints when he hears 'pasta'. Damn it, Lovino! Man the fuck up this instant!

The warden took this as an opportunity to start up a conversation. "Do you like the rug? It's hand crafted and imported from Istanbul. Beautiful, isn't it? Just like Istanbul, yes."

I stood in silence, afraid to look up at the tall, olive-skinned Turk when Feliciano decides to speak up. Great. And here I thought I was the tougher sibling.

"E-Excuse me, Mr. Warden, sir…u-uh…" Feliciano's voice trembled with fear; he looked like he was about to pass out. Shit. Feliciano, I swear to God if you say what I think you're about to say then I will-

"C-can we cook pasta? B-Because my brother and I are really good at cooking stuff a-and pasta is our signature dish a-and, uh-. "

God. Fucking. Damn. It. I chime in before the brat could utter 'pasta' again and try to divert the warden's attention towards me. "U-Uh, w-what my idiot brother meant to s-say was…uh…" I elbowed Feliciano as discreetly as I could without sparing him the slightest of my mercy. "We're h-here t-to apply for...the, uh...uh-"

"Lovino and Feliciano Vargas…correct? So you'd like to cook for my inmates, huh?" The warden smirked; quite frankly, he looked like the devil. "We've already got a chef; a Brighton...however, his 'scones'-if you can even call them scones-taste like year-old shit. Italian, right? You'd probably be able to cook something better than burnt shit...probably."

Oh, you're fucking going down old man. "You bet your fucking ass I can cook good shit! I may not be a gourmet chef or some culinary genius, but I can fucking cook a good dish when I want to, damn it."

"Feisty and a colorful vocabulary; I like it. What about your brother there?"

"If I'm hired, he's hired. Feliciano might act like a whiny bitch sometimes, but he's just as talented as I am...if not, even more talented than I."

The warden took a seat in his fancy-ass swivel chair and furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. He stroked his chin, staring down at his desk. "Give me a minute. I need to think about it."

'One minute' my ass. Silence engulfed the room for a good twenty minutes while the warden pondered whether or not he should add two hooligans to his staff of one shitty Brighton chef. I have never prayed so hard to get such a shitty job in my entire life; it's mind boggling really. Just as Feli looked like he was about to breakdown and cry from the silence, the Turkish warden turns his chair to face us; a cheeky grin was sprawled across his face.

"You're hired."

"What?" I stared at the Warden, astonished and equally surprised. Hired? Is he high?

"When do you think you'll be able to start?"

Tell me this isn't happening. Is this really happening? Are you fucking kidding me? First day in the building and we've already nailed the job down.

"Actually…you could start now, if you'd like. It's almost show time anyways." The warden spun around in his swivel chair.

I glowered at the olive-skinned Turk. Feliciano squealed in glee, clapping his hands and giddily jumping up and down. Good lord Feliciano, it's not fucking Christmas. I shake my head in disbelief, refusing to grasp the unbelievable situation. "Look, Mr. Warden, sir. If this is some sort of-"

"My name is Sadik Adnan."

"Er, Warden Sadik?"

"Yes. Good to know you can speak and understand English. We will need extra help in the kitchen today. I hope you've come prepared."

Prepared? Why yes, I always have my fucking pots and pans here in my pocket just in case. "Tch, the one day I don't bring my entire kitchen with me…who fucking knew. Where's the fucking kitchen, you crazy old man?"

A smug grin was plastered over the Turk's face. "Watch your mouth, boy. Most of the inhabitants of my fine establishment are hardened criminals—serial killers, rapists, arsonists, thieves, we've got 'em all kid. You wouldn't something to just…happen now, would you?"

…