He settles his hand and it's a cautious thing - reaching, feeling, where they fail at it. Eyes searching even as Russia murmurs the okay. He should trust the okay, but sometimes they can't trust themselves. He hovers there instead, warm hand and warm breath across a cold neck, cold lips, cold press of fingertips to his own thundering pulse.

The press only makes him want to breathe it in - warmth, asters and geraniums and yes, sunflowers - he breathes it out instead. Dips his head down and doesn't move his hand and breathes out, out, warm and smoke-scented, presses his mouth, tentatively, across the first scar he comes across.

His hips - his arousal - shift tight and short against Russia's broad thigh below. His mouth stays.