Disclaimer: I don't Own Hetalia

Working on a little project that is taking a lot longer than I expected, so I thought I'd throw up a little something in the meantime to let you know I'm still alive and writing. This one came to me out no-where one day while I was working at a meat-packing plant, wrapping strips of thick bacon around circles of turkey to send to Canada. Hi Canada. I see what you eat.

There's a goat tied to the tree in Romano's backyard.

A gift, from one of his smaller rural villages; along with some very fine cheeses, fresh honey, and beautiful, ripe figs. He's rather pleased with the gift overall, and he's been making plans and preparations for all the delicious dishes and desserts he's going to make. America will be arriving in a couple of days, and Romano can hardly wait to share it with him.

Which is a new thing for Romano. He's not used to wanting to share his things, least of all gifts meant for him. Normally, what's his is his, dammit, and everyone else can get their own damn stuff. But it's different with America, he doesn't know why (okay, maybe he does, but shut up). America loves things like this, and Romano's found himself unconsciously planning around America's tastes, discarding plans for dishes that would be too strongly-flavoured for America to handle and leaning towards things that are lighter or sweeter or savoury (although Romano has found that if he makes a more complex or exotic dish along with several milder ones America's more likely to try it, and once he's tried it a few times, also more likely to like it.)

There's a few especially delicious things he can do with goat meat, and once America takes care of butchering it he's got everything ready. (He'd do it himself, but, well, he may be an agricultural nation, but when it comes to meat he's more comfortable being on the food preparation side of things. He doesn't like killing, even when it's necessary, but America hunts and raises cattle and all that sort of thing, so Romano plans to leave that end of things to him. Besides, it's the least America can do, since Romano's taking care of all the real work of cooking.) His mind's swimming with roasts and braises and sauces and stews and all kinds of things. He's even planning on making burgers, with an Italian spin; which he never would have even considered before, but now...well, it's different. Besides, anything he makes will be way better than that slop America's used to, so it's not like he's, you know, catering to the bastard... well, he is, a little, but... it's different! What he's planning on making is actual food, made out of real ingredients. It's not the same.

Besides, America likes them.

Shut up.

The day before America's due to arrive, he makes an early morning trip to the market to pick up some ingredients he wanted especially fresh. It doesn't take long, he's gone for little more than half an hour, but when he comes home America's motorcycle is parked outside. It takes him a little while to find the other nation, but he finally locates him in the backyard.

Feeding french fries to the goat.

"Hey, 'Mano!" America greets as he draws closer, dropping the box of fries in the grass for the goat and wiping his hands on his jeans. "Where've you been?"

"Shopping." Romano answers as America pulls him down for a hello kiss, and wonders how old those french fries are, since he knows America didn't get them anywhere around his place. He hopes they won't have an adverse affect on the goat's flavour. "Had some things to pick up. When did you get here?"

"About fifteen minutes ago." America turns his attention back to the goat, stroking its ears while it nibbles fries and cardboard. "I didn't know you got a goat! What's her name?"

"Dinner." Romano deadpans.

America laughs, tickling its neck. "Heh, that's a weird name for a goat." Romano quirks an eyebrow, waiting for the penny to drop. Sure enough, after a few seconds America looks up, eyes wide. "Wait, what? You're not going to kill her!"

"No, you're going to kill it, and we're going to eat it." Romano responds dryly. "So don't get too attached, bastard."

America stares at the goat, which nuzzles his hand and bleats a little, hoping for more golden sticks of potato abomination. Absently, he digs around in his pocket and pulls out another box of fries for her. He frowns. "But she's so cute!"

AN: Americans get funny about eating certain animals. Chickens and cows and deer are okay, but rabbits and goats? Dubious. And eating horse is just...Argh. That's borderline cannibalism! We might eat all those things (except horse) anyway, but if we name them then all bets are off. We try not to name anything we plan to eat, cows or chickens or not. We get attached. (I remember my grandma telling me a story of her childhood back on the ranch, and how her dad used to tease them when slaughtering time came 'round and they had to eat a cow they'd gone and named after they were told not to. 'Isn't Belle delicious! She sure is tender, don't'cha think?'; and how all the kids would be crying too hard to eat. Amazing she didn't turn into a vegetarian, really.)

Goats, though, I think are a bit intelligent and cute (and have strong personalities), and so we usually keep them as pets, instead, along with rabbits. We have trouble eating any kind of animal we tend to make an emotional connection with.

(We're totally not giving up cows and chickens, though. We'll eat those as long as they exist. Nom.)

I may throw up a few more scraps in a little bit if the mood takes me and I'm still anxious about not having posted anything in a while, we'll see.