They've never been good at talking, never been good at sharing what's between them with little more than half sentences and too searching gazes. It had been enough, really. But there's another layer to that now, and Russia nearly trembles at the feeling of being stripped bare beneath Netherlands' gaze, beneath his mouth.

The cradle of his hand against throat doesn't lift, doesn't change pressure, and it's somehow a comfort to know Netherlands understands so completely.

Still, Russia shudders, instinctively wanting to tip his chin down to hide away, limbs curling in close. But it means so much more, now. Netherlands tastes the lines of scarring, as if he could wipe it all away with a simple press of his mouth to skin, and it almost seems as if he might be perfectly capable of doing so. Russia's heart beats staccato against his ribs, trembling. He doesn't reach up to tangle a hand in Netherlands' hair, doesn't trace scars; almost doesn't dare to do so, not yet. Instead, his hands trace feather-soft down the line of Netherlands' back, pulling him in ever closer against the cradle of his body, hips rocking up to meet the next thrust.