Sometimes he goes to his car to run errands - when the bus route won't take him far enough.
Sometimes he goes to his car to fetch a forgotten item, one of many taking occupancy in his littered backseat.
Sometimes he goes to his car just to think.
Sometimes he goes to his car to scream.
Right now Poland can see him as he opens the front door of the flat; his hands are flying and his mouth is gaping wide and agonised and
"Toris. Toris."
Poland walks over to where the car is parked on the curb and presses his palms against the glass.
He can feel his screams.
"Toris, listen to me."
Lithuania slams his fists into the steering wheel, over and over and over and over.
"Toris, listen."
There's no way he can hear him over the muffled din inside the vehicle - raising his voice will make him panic more, so Poland waits until Liet pauses to gasp for breath and press his forehead against the door.
His face is twisted in pain.
Poland can see the tears dripping from the bridge of his nose.
"Liet. Toris, listen. Listen to me. Unlock the door."
Lithuania doesn't look up, but he shakes his head minutely and clasps his hands over his ears.
"Toris I'm right here."
Only a glass window separates his palm from Lithuania's soft mousy hair.
Then the low sob in his throat evolves into a horrible screech.
"Oh God! Kill me! Please kill me!"
"Toris I'm not going to leave you."
He twists his fingers in his hair and pulls savagely.
He's hyperventilating.
The sound is stifled by the vehicle, but Poland hears every word.
"I want to die!"
"I know. I know."
When he finally unlocks the door, several minutes later, after he remembers how to breathe, he's too exhausted to do anything more than stare at the windshield.
So Poland gently pushes him across the seat and takes the driver's place and shuts the door again.
Lithuania leans against him, silent. Spent.
Poland gently rubs his temples - Liet likely has a headache by now - and turns on the cassette player.
Safe.