It's a odd thing to hear one's own voice and not feel your throat move under those words. It's a decidedly confusing thing and intriguing in a way Russia wishes it almost wasn't. So when his mirror speaks, Russia pauses, heel tapping against the ground, back and shoulders straightening up from the slump that seems to cling so naturally to him these days. There's a soft exhale, a turn of his head and Russia catches eyes all too familiar with his own, quirks a brow.
"Talk?" There's a beat and he turns fully, tips up his chin to look himself straight in the eye. Because there's a few centimeters in space between their height, a hint of youth to Russia's face despite the war that clings and dodges his shadow.
So here, Russia lets something like a smile edge at the corners of his lips, wry laughter bubbling up in his throat but not escaping. This situation is surreal already, and he's most certainly not sure he's not seeing things.
"By all means, talk if it would do you some peace of mind."
And he's baffled, words tumbling from his lips before he has more than a few seconds to filter through. But it's apparent in the way he stands, in the gleam to his eyes, that above it all, Russia's wondering just what's happening. Wondering why he's standing in the cold of a street in Saint Petersburg, the few people still out and about merely smudges of ink in his peripheral and in front of him can stand the solid expanse of a figure he's more than familiar with. Dimly he pushes the echoes of war as it exists away, focuses not only on the general picture, the state of his lands and those fighting abroad, but upon this moment in time.
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"Talk?" There's a beat and he turns fully, tips up his chin to look himself straight in the eye. Because there's a few centimeters in space between their height, a hint of youth to Russia's face despite the war that clings and dodges his shadow.
So here, Russia lets something like a smile edge at the corners of his lips, wry laughter bubbling up in his throat but not escaping. This situation is surreal already, and he's most certainly not sure he's not seeing things.
"By all means, talk if it would do you some peace of mind."
And he's baffled, words tumbling from his lips before he has more than a few seconds to filter through. But it's apparent in the way he stands, in the gleam to his eyes, that above it all, Russia's wondering just what's happening. Wondering why he's standing in the cold of a street in Saint Petersburg, the few people still out and about merely smudges of ink in his peripheral and in front of him can stand the solid expanse of a figure he's more than familiar with. Dimly he pushes the echoes of war as it exists away, focuses not only on the general picture, the state of his lands and those fighting abroad, but upon this moment in time.