There's a long stretch of silence, both because he's startled by that offer (offer? was it an offer, it felt like one but---) and because actually considering it takes effort. Eventually there's a slow sort of hum and he settles on, "Don't know."

Which isn't helpful at all in the end and he knows it. So Russia perches at the edge of his bed, rests elbows at knees and pushes fingers through the long fringe of his bangs as he expands. "Sometimes it helps but not always. Doesn't matter if I'm tired, half the time I can't sleep."

He rubs the bridge of his nose, looks up at Netherlands and settles his gaze somewhere past his shoulders just because he doesn't want to set him on edge any more than he already was.