It's late enough that Russia's not expecting a knock at his door, but though it's not something he'd expected the late hour really limits just who would be at his door. So when he opens it up and catches sight of a bleary eyed Netherlands in his black generic clothes--Russia just quirks a brow and steps aside to let him in.

And in all actuality, Netherlands is lucky he's there. Because he's mired deep in his own cycle of insomnia, when the sleep is not forthcoming and Russia tends to spend hours out if only to wear himself down enough to pass out. But he's here, paper and stolen pen strewn across his desk, scarf gently folded and placed aside.

He leaves Netherlands to close the door behind him, moves over to straighten the paper with their tidy lines of Russian upon them. He doesn't think Netherlands could really read them, and he's not sure he'd care either way, but it's still something he does as he tosses a question over his shoulder.

"Something wrong?"