Low as it was, he could hear that voice, soft words and syllables parting through the silence, the hiss and patter of the rain. Graceful words, almost beautiful with that distinctly Asian inflection. Enough to draw his attention from the window and the storm beyond it. Russia smiled at the glass, the distorted reflections within, before he turned to greet the other man, hands pulled away from glass, arms held out wide as if in welcome.
"Japan," he said, voice alight with merriment, joy, goodwill, as it had been when he'd greeted Lithuania, and America, and Germany on their front lines. "Is it not a wonderful day?"