He feels almost lethargic, content to relax and softly trace his fingers over the ridges of Canada's knuckles, trace up---over the back of his hand and wrap around to trace the invisible line of veins and think of the way the show through the paper thin skin at his wrist, pretty and warm and blueblueblue.

Russia breathes in and slips his fingers higher, traces against Canada's palm as he seeks to thread their fingers together once more. It's a gentle, slow movement and his gaze moves much the same, flits over the line of shoulder, the column of his throat, the crest of cheekbones and the ski slope of his nose. And finally, finally, comes to rest on eyes of a color so similar to his yet so utterly different. He breathes out. Smiles unconsciously.

There's a sudden, fierce, ache in Russia's chest and he's never wanted to kiss Canada more than he does in this moment. But they're still driving, and though Russia catches himself shifting a bit closer, lips parting just so---he pauses and blinks, hums to himself as he just thumbs at the skin at Canada's wrist and smiles. He understands that quiet pleasure in Canada's eyes, the thanks, and he's more than pleased that he can evoke that.