It's a flicker, a darkly possessive gleam that settles in plum irises and shows in the way his touch lingers, thumb brushing across the arch of cheekbone and the shell of an ear. They might be in hot water, reservation melting away like ice they seem to be made of, and Russia can feel the heat at his fingertips and the warmth of Canada's blush against his cheek as they huddle together.

That nod...well, if Russia's being honest with himself he's more than pleased at how easily Canada gives into him. The unconscious touch the younger nation offers up simply serves to draw Russia in like a moth to flame. And above that? That thrill of flame that offers warmth and intrigue even as it can set his wings aflame and destroy him?

Well, above that lies the fact that Russia's not seeing America. He's not seeing those baby blues as he stares in Canada's eyes. Because the person in front of him is unmistakable even if the rest of the world tends not to realize it.

So Russia catches Canada up in another kiss, pulls back with a soft distracted sound and tugs him to his feet. If they didn't make it out of this little shop and find somewhere very soon he's not going to be pleased.