It was a warm California night in Santa Monica, and Pacific Park was as lively as ever. Casually-dressed hordes of tourists strolled leisurely among the cheerily glowing rides, the trademark Ferris wheel towering above it all. The air was a mixture of squeals and laughter, and there was no stopping them.

Two people who seemed very human stood in front of the ice cream stand, since one of them demanded. The embodiment of the Russian Federation sighed as he paid cash for the tenth ice cream for none other than the United States of America had eaten that night.

"So, where do you want to go, 'van?" America asked as he held hands with his tall boyfriend, swaying, while his other hand was holding his ice cream.

"Hmm, I'd like to go there!" Russia sing-songed as he pointed to a horror-themed ride.

America stiffened a bit, nervous smile stretched across his face. "Uhhh, you know what? I think I've been banned from that ride. Which is, ya know, too bad, 'cuz I'm totally not afraid of anything." He began to pout, eating his ice cream as he bit it harder. The sides of his mouth were a mess now.

Russia giggled as he wiped the stains of ice cream on America's face, and licked the residue off his fingers. "I am just teasing you, Fedya. Besides, you wanted to, right? Admit it." He grinned somewhat cheekily, and leaned over to take a bite from America's ice cream, despite the blond man's efforts of distancing his cold dessert. The ashen blond received a 'You know I don't share my food' look. His only response was to stick out his tongue childishly.

"Yeah, like pfft. Those rides aren't really that scary, y'know." America stated smugly as he swayed their hands faster.

All too suddenly, Russia dropped his hand, staggering as he reached up to his temples with a glassy, pain-filled look in his eyes. America stopped walking, and placed his hands on his boyfriend's shoulders, concerned.

The tall man crouched down, shaking, twisting his hands through his pale hair. America frantically hovered over him, facing him as he studied his boyfriend's pained expression.

"Ivy? Ivy! Vanya, Ivanushka, Ivan, Eye-van! What's wrong? Talk to me, please!" His words rushed, his face painted with concern. He cupped Russia's face affectionately, tried to soothe him with words, but the older nation uttered none but groans, his body unstable. America tried to guide his boyfriend cautiously through the crowd, dragging them away from the noise to a bench near the bay. He sat there, his trembling still persistent, and America sat beside him, asking him if he was okay without earning any answers.

When Russia stopped shaking, a low baritone chuckle disrupted the American's rapid queries.

"Nu zdravstvuy, filthy capitalist." The older nation greeted, accompanied with an eerie smile. A familiar pair of eyes glinted, glancing over to stare at him in a mocking way.

"Oh god, not you again." America deadpanned.