Sunshine and Tomatoes

Third Wheel, Fourth Wheel, Ferris Wheel

Second oneshot for Day 2, here we go! I'm currently finalizing Day 3's oneshot so that'll be up soon too.

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Day 2: Third Wheel, Fourth Wheel, Ferris Wheel

Summary: Tagging along for their brothers' dates was inevitably a bad idea. Warning for cheesy endings, fluff and randomness.

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America and Romano should have never come.

At first, the prospect of having fun at an amusement park where there were endless rides (and lines), food (and more lines) and a dozen of opportunities to make wonderful memories sounded delightful. America, of course, was all up for hunting down the thrill rides and participating at every stall he could lay his eyes upon. Romano, on the other hand, only agreed to come along because anything relatively fun for the potato bastard and his idiot brother was bound to end in chaos one way or the other, plus he was needed to mediate should that freak Germany have any ulterior motives for his brother's protection. Stupid Veneziano and his life partner choices.

There there was the fact that it was THE LAND OF DREAMS AND HAPPINESS they were talking about. Who passes up the opportunity to go to THAT? They may have lived several centuries but no one SAYS no to a trip to Disneyland. At least, no one sane would.

But now they are suffering the consequence of being, as France would say, tenir la chandelle. Not that holding candles was bad or anything — they didn't really know much about it. Damn their brothers for being incredibly convincing at the moment.

Come on, there'll be pasta! Germany and I wouldn't mind if you join us!

I'm kind of not used to crowds, America, you think maybe you can show us around? Heh!

So while Prussia and Canada and Veneziano and Germany rub their noses against each other's respectively as they wait for the line to advance, America and Romano are standing idly, not really sure what to do.

For some coincidental reason, both couples had wanted to ride Mickey's Fun Wheel at the same time. Neither one knows the other are there, so their places in line are different, albeit relatively close to one another. It's nearing sundown — the absolute best time to ride a ferris wheel as the park lights around begin to illuminate one by one (painting said world of dreams into multitudinous bursts of colour), plus the lines aren't as unbearably long as the lines are when it's evening.

They've been standing by for... fifteen minutes maximum in the express lane (thank goodness for Disney's FastPass; you should see the ACTUAL line which extends along endless rails of agony) when the line moves further and the six countries are ushered through throngs of advancing people. America busies himself by talking over people's conversations, questioning the self-proclaimed awesome Prussia about this and that. South Italy's playing the glare game. The older Italian nation wonders if it's possible to burn the back of a certain German culo's head just by intensely staring. Veneziano's ve-ing as he clings oh-so-closely to the latter is absolutely sickening, ugh.

"Can't this line get any faster, damn it? I want to go home and eat real pasta! The plate they served me tasted like a pile of merda, I sure as hell ain't going back. Some Italian excuse of a food installment they are."

North Italy begs to differ. "I liked it. They had chili flakes in my garganelli and it was great. Could use some more parmesan though, but even Germany here liked it. Right, right?"