I’m trying to suffocate this picture of perfection in my mind

[buyan]

The thing is, this was always in the cards. Russia’s lost count of the amount of times he’s wound up with his hand wrapped tight around Netherlands’ neck. He’s counted bruises, pressed fingertips to outlines while the other nation slept, curled tight, and it -- it was always going to come down to this. He knows it in his bones, knows it in the quick-patter of his pulse against the press of palm to windpipe.

Still. Netherlands’ hand is warm as it settles against the bared column of his throat and Russia sucks in a surprised breath, feels it fill his lungs around the brief curl of panic. But there’s no real pressure to it, not yet, and the look in those eyes is assessing, cautious. Russia can’t help the way he reaches out, trails fingertips over the crook of elbow, along the line of forearm to settle against the turn of wrist, cold as ice but warming slowly. It's a comfort to feel Netherlands' pulse quick against his fingertips.

“You’re good.”

It’s already somewhat breathless, mouth tugging up in a reckless grin. Netherlands knows his fears, knows these issues, and that’s enough for a panic as well. But they’ve become two halves of a coin, separated only by a thin line, and Russia aches for the trust lingering upon the tip of his tongue like honey, cloying and sweet. And Netherlands is warm and steady beneath his fingertips, nestled close as he is. Russia can’t help the way he wants to reach out and drag him closer until the press of their ribs borders on painful. He doesn’t, but he fidgets, fingertips cool where they rest. His eyes are dark, mouth parted to taste the sip of air upon his tongue.

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[handelaar]

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.