A shudder in return, and he doesn't pull his hand away - just keeps it there, warm, steady, sure, like if he keeps it there for long enough it'll ground the both of them, reassure them that whatever happens no one is leaving. He thumbs at Russia's pulse, pressing once, twice, leaves that there too, taking measure. Breath, heartbeat, tension. The rest of his fingers remain splayed out and solid and light all at once.

The thunder against his tongue is an entirely different thing. It's good, it's alive - he ventures enough to scrape his teeth, not quite a bite, thumb still there to assess where his eyes can't, head buried as it is, crook of his nose in the stray, fine hairs that used to curl up from Russia's nape and now scatter themselves up and across like they might be able to cover up the past themselves.