Canada is essentially a black hole for affection. He can receive and receive and never get enough. Russia really is a good match for him, in some ways. Perhaps he would have never known how good but for this mutually beneficial (but ultimately poisonous) arrangement of theirs.
He wonders for a moment if Russia even realizes how lovely that unforced, gentle smile of his is. Then his full attention is upon his hand at the kiss - light but electric, breath warm from tea caressing where his lips did not. It is especially jolting in such a public place (no matter how tucked away this little nook overlooking the street is).
And following in the wake of that is Russia using his name. That Russian variation meant just for him, just between intimates. Canada's breath catches at the emotions the rare use of his name brings up, a flush of affection colouring his cheeks and a sliver of desire causing his fingers to press more tightly into Russia's hand. There is also a tinge of relief - he doesn't have to act in America's role for the moment.
"Sorry, Ivan. If you say so." A part of him still wonders what Russia had been pondering, but if he says it's nothing, he won't press it. Instead he smiles to mirror Russia's gentle smile, hoping that the perplexed look in the other man's eyes will fade. Yet surely it is a futile hope. He's been called by his name; that must have used up all his luck for the day.
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He wonders for a moment if Russia even realizes how lovely that unforced, gentle smile of his is. Then his full attention is upon his hand at the kiss - light but electric, breath warm from tea caressing where his lips did not. It is especially jolting in such a public place (no matter how tucked away this little nook overlooking the street is).
And following in the wake of that is Russia using his name. That Russian variation meant just for him, just between intimates. Canada's breath catches at the emotions the rare use of his name brings up, a flush of affection colouring his cheeks and a sliver of desire causing his fingers to press more tightly into Russia's hand. There is also a tinge of relief - he doesn't have to act in America's role for the moment.
"Sorry, Ivan. If you say so." A part of him still wonders what Russia had been pondering, but if he says it's nothing, he won't press it. Instead he smiles to mirror Russia's gentle smile, hoping that the perplexed look in the other man's eyes will fade. Yet surely it is a futile hope. He's been called by his name; that must have used up all his luck for the day.