It's dizzying. This isn't the first time they've been so close, because Russia's lost count of how many times they wind up curled together in bed, but it's more trust placed in another being's hands than he's done in a while. He's hyper aware of the fine boned fingers ringing his throat, of the thundering pulse split between them in such a small space.

But he trusts Netherlands, painfully so sometimes, and so Russia tips his head up so he can press his mouth to the pale scars curving along his neck, gathered at the hollow of his throat like latticework. Instead, comes the faintest of touches to the curving lines of his fingers against Netherlands' wrist. Old scars, faded with age and growth -- it tempers his grin into something softer, warmer. All Russia can see is pale hair and pale skin, Netherlands' brow heavy even as he presses close. An impossible ache nestles beneath his ribs, fondness etched into every line of bone.

So he reaches up at traces the line of Netherlands' jaw with the pad of his thumb, hums low in the back of his throat as the warmth of Netherlands' breath sinks into his skin.