APH: Only Light and Momentary [4/?]
Title: Only Light and Momentary [4/?]
Author: grosse_averse, tatterdemalion on ff.net
Characters/Pairings: The relationship between Canada and the Netherlands (OC) will take centre stage - however, other characters involved in their relations will also appear.
Rated: It varies. M for this chapter, for sexual situations.
Summary: A chronicle of Matthew’s relationship with Lars, from 1611 to present day. In this chapter, the Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1824, and then some random time in 1870 that has nothing to do with any Canadian-Netherlands relations and just a ploy for sexing
Notes: For some reason, I watched Madonna’s documentary on her 2004 tour while writing this...I wonder how that’ll affect my writing...
Chapter One (1611)
Chapter Two (~1640)
Chapter Three (1674)
In the beginning, some of Matthew’s children say, in the beginning there was Old Man.
In the beginning, Matthew’s children say, there was nothing but water. Old Man floated on a raft with some of his animal friends. One day, Old Man asked his friend, Beaver, to dive down to the bottom of the water and bring him back some mud. Beaver tried, but failed. The water was too deep. Old Man asked Loon and Otter the same thing, but they both came back empty handed.
Then Muskrat said, “I will go and get some mud for you,” and dived down. He was gone for a very long time - but when he surfaced again there was a little ball of mud in his paws.
Old Man waited until the mud dried, then scattered it over the water and land was formed.
Matthew does not forget this, and it gives him a tugging in the pit of his stomach when he thinks that, that is all there is to him - earth on earth on mud on dirt on rock on deep, deep water.
He was created out of mud. But mud cannot feel pain like he does when the Iroquois rage onwards in their battle; mud cannot cry like he does when Francis signs him over to Arthur and he is smacked firmly for speaking French; mud cannot feel horrible guilt when, in 1812, Alfred shoves a knee into his gut and hisses at him that if he loves him he will join him, asks him why he would choose Arthur over his own brother - weren’t they born of the same land, the same cloth? Weren’t they closer than Arthur would ever be to them?
Not so, Matthew thinks sadly, thinking of bright Alfred, always a fighter, always a rebel. He thinks, if he could go back to the beginning and remember, that Alfred would be more suited to appearing in a sunburst, a crackle of light and energy and life. Matthew thinks that he is the sibling more suited to Napi’s beginnings, cool mud and water.
It doesn’t matter, not anymore. There is only one God on his land now, and as he tags along after Arthur, his second foray into the politics of Europe, he wonders how it has ever come to this.
It is 1824. London is bustling and Matthew feels uneasy, as he often does in large crowds. He is practically on Arthur’s heels by the time they reach his parliamentary building.
Arthur stops him at the doors, fixes his lapels. “Remember,” he tells his young colony with sternness. “Do not speak until after the ceremony. Pay close attention to everything - I will ask you questions about it later.” the older man is about to turn away - then he catches Matthew’s shoulder and says, “I understand you and the Netherlands have a...history? Please do not mix business with...with pleasure.” he spits the word out like poison.
“I won’t.” Matthew promises, though his hands have been clammy all week, ever since Arthur announced that he would be coming with him to London to see this Treaty being signed. To see Lars.
Matthew tries, when he can, to ask for news from Europe when new people arrive to settle in his growing population. He anxiously followed the Franco-Dutch Wars, but after that most of the settlers were concerned with other matters - the French Revolution, the Napoleonic Wars, the American Revolution. These events pushed Lars to the back of Matthew’s mind as he fought with his brother and gained Arthur’s respect. But now that he was in London (in Europe, so close!), about to see Lars for the first time in a hundred and fifty years, it was hard to ignore.
Matthew sees Lars before he speaks to him, sitting on the opposite side of the hall with his leaders, face a mask of formality. Arthur nudges him because he thinks he is falling asleep, but Matthew is merely staring. When Lars catches his eye, he winks, and Matthew looks at his hands for the rest of the ceremonies
Lars approaches them during the break in the ceremonies, looking healthy and happy. He shakes hands with Arthur and then smiles fondly when he sees Matthew hovering nervously in the background.
“Look at you!” he crows, too loud for such a hushed, official hall. “Look how big you’re getting!”
Arthur shoots Matthew a look to remind him of his promise to be silent - nonetheless, the colony eagerly returns the smile, and his fingers reach under his shirt to grip the iron rabbit at his throat, metal warmed by his skin. Lars sees this action and his smile turns into a secret one, just for Matthew. Under Matthew’s shirt, coincidentally, is also a rosary, a parting gift from Francis, and keeping these trinkets hidden from Arthur gives the colony a small sense of power.
Arthur shoos him gently off while he and Lars talk in the jagged, awkward tones of those who have recently made up. Matthew wanders the hall for a while, staring distractedly at portraits on the walls while his mind buzzes with excitement.
Presently he sees Lars approaching him out of the corner of his eye. He keeps his eyes forward, unmoving. Lars stands a respectful distance from him, hands clasped behind his back, taking in the portrait.
After a few seconds he says, “The signing’s about to commence. If you wish to go to the toilets, now would be the time.” Then he walks away. Matthew waits a minute and a half, then goes to find Arthur.
“May I use the toilet?” he asks politely, feigning a mask of innocence as Arthur looks him over.
“Be quick.” the island nation instructs. “We have ten minutes.”
Matthew nods and exits the hall, turning down the corridor towards the toilets. As he passes a curtained off alcove an arm reaches out and pulls him in, and Matthew finds himself pressed up against Lars.
With a cry of delight, Matthew kisses his old friend; once on the right cheek, once on the left. When he moves to kiss the right again (hopefully avoiding any previous embarrassment), Lars catches his chin and instead guides their lips together.
Just like old times. Matthew practically purrs and grabs onto Lars’s shoulders as the older country twines his arms around his waist.
“My God, look how grown up you are getting!” Lars growls when they part - he lifts one hand to cup Matthew’s face possessively. “It seems like only yesterday that you were a little boy!”
“Not that little!” Matthew protests, gasping as Lars pulls him closer, sliding a knee between the colony’s legs. “I - I was almost as tall as you!” he threads his fingers through Lars’s hair and does a quick comparison - now he is only an inch or two short than Lars, and physically they almost look the “same age”.
Lars gazes down at him fondly. “Of course you were.” he teases. He pinches Matthew’s face, laughing at the glare he receives, and his fingers trail lower, brushing the chain around the colony’s neck. “You’re still wearing this?” he poses the question in a soft, almost disbelieving tone.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Matthew demands as Lars tugs at the chain so the pendant slips over his shirt. “It’s from you, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Lars confirms, brushing knuckles through Matthew’s soft hair, awe-struck. “But I never expected...didn’t Arthur take...?” he trails off as he examines Matthew’s sheepish face, and laughs. “Oh, of course. Rebel. My little rebel.”
Not yours, Matthew thinks sadly, hugging the older man to him. Not yours, but I could've been. So easily.
It’s not that he doesn’t love Arthur - the man took care of him, raised him and his brother, and Matthew knows Arthur loves him, in his own way. Sometimes Alfred couldn’t understand that, in the years before his rebellion - sometimes he would complain that Arthur was too “stuck up” to love anything, but Matthew knows that there are several different kinds of love.
Alfred, for example, loves like fire, bright and obvious, and all consuming. Arthur loves like water - his affection is cooler, more subtle, usually underground and hidden from view. For all their differences Matthew thinks Alfred and Arthur’s loves are similar - they want all or nothing, their pull is magnanimous, possessive and often overwhelming. Matthew thinks that Francis, on the other hand, loves like air - affectionate and palpable, but too often fleeting. And Lars, dear Lars, loves like earth, a solid and weighty presence that is always there in Matthew’s bones. As for Matthew, he feels like his problem is that he just wants to love everything, needily and childishly, gathering it in like a hoarder, pieces slipping out and bits missing until what he hangs onto is a shabby mockery of what he had before.
Matthew feels like he wants to cry when Lars leans back a bit a bit and says gently, “You should get back. Arthur will get worried.”
If he notices I'm gone at all, Matthew thinks bitterly before he can stop himself. Of course Arthur will notice, he chides his inner thoughts, he’s the one who brought him here!
Reluctantly they separate, and Lars presses one more sweet kiss to Matthew’s lips.
“Maybe the next time we meet,” Lars whispers wickedly, leaning in close. “I can finally show you just how much I miss you?” Lars’s knee, still in between Matthew’s legs, presses up...Matthew flushes red all over and Lars chuckles.
“Off you go.” he encourages, and with one last squeeze of his arm Matthew emerges from the alcove and sets off back to the hall.
Lars leans against the wall, painfully aware of the tightness of his trousers.
“That kid better grow up soon.” he growls to himself.
& & &
Forty three years after Matthew kisses Lars in the alcove of the London parliament buildings, he becomes his own country - the Dominion of Canada, Matthew Williams, wild empty land, under the great Empire that is Britain, separate from his brother, who only nods and smiles and tells him, “It’s a start.”
Five years after that, Lars writes him a letter, inviting him to visit the Netherlands as his guest. An unofficial visit, Lars calls it - that means no prime minister, no country names, no worries about being tricked into an alliance. Just Matt and Lars, in Amsterdam.
Lars meets him at the train station, laughing and cooing at him and at the dazed, tired look on his face. He is wearing a beautiful dark green suit that brings out the grey in his eyes, and he takes off his hat and bows at the waist when Matthew steps off the train.
“Konijn, hello!” he greets, and kisses him three times despite the odd looks they get from the people nearby.
He helps Matthew into the brougham and loads his case after him. Lars sits next to him, hand warm on his leg as he points out monuments and buildings - Matthew stares with wonder as they pass Dam Square, and Lars makes the driver stop, chuckling in amusement as Matthew presses himself up against the glass to stare at the statue.
“Naatje of the Dam.” Lars whispers helpfully in his ear.
Lars has apartments on the far side of the Square, with a balcony and a roomy interior. Matthew traverses across the carpeted sitting room, marveling at the grandness and regality of it as Lars shows him to where he’ll be staying.
“I don’t have a guest room.” Lars apologizes, though he sounds anything but. Matthew flushes when he glimpses Lars’s king bed, all sheets and soft cotton. He places his case in the corner of the room, and as soon as he does Lars scoops him up in his arms and kisses him, tasting like sweet and sweat. Matthew grips him closer to him, reveling in Lars’s taste. It is late afternoon, and the sunlight filters thickly through the drapes of Lars’s bedroom. Lars pulls back and smiles at him, like a predator.
“Now, konijn,” he says sweetly, showing teeth. “I could cook you a nice Dutch dinner, or...” he trails off, strokes a trail down Matthew’s spine. “We could make sure your sleep cycles aren’t disrupted too badly and go to bed early?”
Matthew is torn, physically torn between the hunger in his stomach and the hunger that seeps warmth lower in him.
Then his stomach growls, ridiculously loud in the silence, and Lars laughs into his hair.
“Dinner, then.” he says.
Matthew watches eagerly as Lars prepares the food and talks him through it. Lars holds a ceramic bowl to his side and mashes potatoes, carrots, and onions with quick, strong jabs.
“Hutspot.” he explains. “You can thank Antonio for this, sad to say.”
He hands the bowl to Matthew to continue mashing, while he pulls out of the icebox a string of sausage.
“This,” he continues. “Is Rookworst.”
Matthew stares at it. “Is it good?” he asks. Lars chuckles.
“Would I be serving it to you if it wasn’t?” he replies teasingly. “I want to show you a traditional Dutch dinner. Keep going,” he prompts when Matthew’s hand stills. Matthew groans (his wrist is sore!) but obeys.
Matthew bounces up and down in his seat as Lars takes his time bringing the food to the table. “Lars~!” he whimpers. “I’m really hungry!”
“All right.” Lars laughs, and smoothly spoons the hutspot onto a plate, placing two fat sausages on top, and handing the whole thing to Matthew.
Matthew digs in enthusiastically, absorbed in eating. When he looks up, Lars hasn’t served himself, is merely watching him with one elbow propped up on the table.
Matthew instantly straightens his back, a habit enforced under Arthur’s guidance. “Oh. Am I doing something wrong?” he asks. When Lars doesn’t immediately answer, Matthew continues nervously, “I - is there some sort of Dutch etiquette I don’t know about? If there is I’m sorry, I’m really...”
“Matthew.” Lars’s voice is amused. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You look adorable when you eat.”
Matthew laughs, a nervous sound. “Thank you?” he tries, and Lars’s shoulders shake with contained mirth as he serves himself.
They laugh over dinner, sharing stories from their ends of the world. Matthew confides his frustrations with his boisterous brother and Lars shares stories that go back to when Matthew was still toddling in the underbrush. He gives a boisterous retelling of the Eighty Years War that has the hair standing up on the back of Matthew’s neck and laughter tripping from his throat. After dinner, Lars serves coffee with biscuits while he putters around in the kitchen. Matthew watches him and admires the grace and agility of the man as he stalks up and down the kitchen, pulling bowls and utensils from cluttered cupboards.
“What are you making?” Matthew asks with curiosity. Lars crooks a finger at him, beckoning. The light catches his spider silk hair and Matthew hastens to his side.
Lars shows him how to make Stroopwafels, and they share slow, sweet kisses over the batter. Matthew thrills when Lars keeps a hand on the small of his back, a weighty, reassuring presence as the other country guides him through the baking process. It is dusk by the time the Stroopwafels are done, sliding golden brown out of the waffle iron - by this time Lars has introduced Matthew to bottles of strange, fresh tasting Jenever, and the young country’s vision is deliciously blurred around the edges. When the Stroopwafels are cooled, drizzled with syrup and served, they sit on Lars’s balcony, allowing the cool air to fan their faces, and the European nation raises his glass.
“To Canada.” he says. Matthew smiles, open-mouthed in his inebriation, and toasts him.
“To Canada!” he exclaims, tipping back in his chair. His world is a-whirl with colours and dizziness and far away sound from Amsterdam’s night life. When he finally manages to focus, he finds himself sprawled on top of Lars on the bed, both of them kissing and pulling at clothes sloppily, hurriedly, forty-eight years between them.
Matthew stomach is being turned inside out with the things Lars is doing with his tongue, and he is aware of Lars’s arousal pressing into his thigh.
Lars’s mouth is hot, so hot, and it takes great willpower for Matthew to gasp, “Wait!” against his lips. Lars pauses.
“I - ” swallowing, Matthew threads his fingers through Lars’s. “I want to remember this.”
There is a horrible silence as Lars takes in Matthew’s disheveled appearance, his tousled hair and glassy eyes barely focusing. Matthew squirms under his inspection, terrified that he has said something wrong. Then Lars reaches up and showers Matthew’s face in light kisses.
“I keep forgetting,” Lars says warmly, “how very young and unspoiled you are.”
Matthew frowns. Perhaps, he thinks to himself as Lars kisses him, mumbles a goodnight and slips out from under Matthew, perhaps Lars would be happier if Matthew was more experienced, like the other European nations. He moves to ask Lars this question, but the country beside him is out like a light, breath smelling of alcohol, one arm flung possessively over Matthew’s side. Matthew abandons his inquiry and snuggles up beside Lars, relishing another presence beside him in bed.
& & &
When Matthew wakes the next morning, he is tangled in miles of sheets, groggy and with a headache from the gin. The room is bright, the drapes drawn - down below he hears the hustle and bustle of Dam Square. A tram’s bell rings. Lars passes the bedroom doorway in nothing but his underpants, sculpted muscle interrupted by a corded scar placed here and there like patchwork.
“G-good morning.” Matthew calls out, and Lars doubles back.
“Morning!” he chirps. “You’re a heavy sleeper! I was about to make some breakfast to try and wake you up. How do you like your eggs?”
“Whichever way you’re making them.” Matthew defers politely. Lars grins and leans on the door frame.
“All right. Hey, you want me to give you a tour today?” he asks. When Matthew nods enthusiastically, Lars looks pleased.
“Excellent! Oh, and I’m planning on staying perfectly sober for the rest of the day.” he winks at Matthew, looks pleased when the younger boy flushes red.
“I didn’t mean to insult you - ” Matthew starts, but Lars waves him off.
“No, no. You’re right. I would...” Matthew is surprised to see Lars actually looking bashful. “I would like to remember it, too. I just forget that you haven’t been exposed to the politics of Europe.”
Matthew does not need to ask him what these “politics” include - Lars does not care to enlighten him.
They spend the day strolling around Amsterdam. Lars shows him the Oude Kerk and the Nieuwe Kerk - they stand in the sunlight, spliced and coloured by the stained glass, and Matthew thinks about God and the Creator and other, older beliefs that he has been taught are wrong.
Then they visit Ons' Lieve Heer op Solder, a church in an attic, and Matthew doesn’t know how Lars figured out that it would make him giggle, but it did.
Then Lars takes him to the Magere Bridge, and seems very embarrassed at the state the bridge is in.
“They’re going to repair it.” he apologizes, even when Matthew insists that no, it’s very beautiful even if it is a bit...old. “You’ll have to come back to see it!”
Matthew promises to do so.
They stand in front of the Royal Palace, and Matthew gazes up and up and up at its cupola as Lars babbles on about Cornelis de Graeff and Louis Napoleon and his fabulous Dutch Golden Age, and has Matthew had one of those yet? before he stops and looks awkward.
Matthew doesn’t mind. He was molded in a different era. He will not, he feels, have glorious uprisings like the Europeans of old, no bloody battles to uproot his kings. His people will not create an architectural revolution and build buildings to honor their gods, nor will they try to replicate these fabulous European structures. But he will be great in his own right. Not France-great or England-great or Spain-great or even America-great, who has flourished under the sun his own people have pulled from the sky, but Matthew doesn’t care. He will be Matthew-great. So he follows Lars into the enormous central hall, where there is engraved on the marble floor a map of the world. Matthew stands on Canada, tries to put one foot on the west coast and one foot on the east, and wonders.
Lars takes him to the Waag, shows him the theatrum anatomicum. They witness a dissection - an old man, eyes closed as if in sleep, the doctor’s hands within his chest cavity. Matthew has seen corpses frozen in the North, mauled by animals and sometimes by their fellow man. This clean cut medical dissection does not affect him in the least. Lars keeps looking over at him, worried that he will faint or throw up or both. Matthew feels proud when he can beam him a sunny smile. Lars returns it faintly.
“I keep underestimating you.” the taller country murmurs in wonderment, before taking Matthew’s hand and leading him outside again.
They stop for a light lunch on the Leidseplein, and they alternatively talk and watch the people passing by.
They traverse around Amsterdam until Matthew is sufficiently tuckered out. He barely notices where the carriage is taking them until Lars is helping him out.
“Welcome to de Wallen.” Lars says with mischief in his voice. Matthew blinks once, twice, the word filtering through his brain. Then he flushes red and looks frantically around.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asks, horrified. Lars wraps an arm around his waist as Matthew tries to hide behind something.
“I felt like showing you all of Amsterdam.” he murmurs into Matthew’s ear, and biting the younger’s earlobe. Matthew squirms.
“All of it?” he whispers shakily, and Lars nods.
“Mm-hm. Perhaps we should get back to my place?”
Matthew has never agreed to anything so fast.
& & &
They are still for a whole minute, staring at each other in the moonlight from the window. Matthew is apprehensive and unsure how to act now that he is here - he sees his emotions reflected in Lars’s grey eyes, darker than Matthew has ever seen them.
Matthew is the one to kiss Lars, something that surprises the taller man and allows Matthew to slip his hands under Lars’s jacket and push the man backwards with his body weight.
Lars recovers fast, however.
“That's right.” he groans, stroking Matthew’s cheek as the young country’s lithe hands work at loosening Lars’s belt. “God, Matthew...”
Matthew laughs softly under his breath and prods Lars to sit down on his bed. Then, as Lars watches, Matthew attempts to slowly and sensually remove his shirt. He ends up tangling his limbs in the fabric, and Lars tries to stifle a laugh.
Cheeks burning, Matthew tosses the article of clothing aside and clambers onto Lars’s lap.
“It’s not funny,” he mutters sulkily as he rubs against Lars, and Lars cups his neck.
“Oh, konijn.” he chuckles. “You’re trying to act like something you’re not. Don’t do that.”
“Why not?” Matthew demands before he can stop himself. “You’re so used to everyone in Europe, I’m s-scared I’ll embarrass myself!”
Lars goes silent and wide eyed. Then he strokes a hand gently down Matthew’s chest, dipping a finger idly into his navel.
“I don’t want you to do that because you’re boring if you’re not you.” Lars says sternly, and flicks his fingers up and down Matthew’s side, making him squeal like a child. “Matthew, I want you. Understand?”
Matthew keeps his eyes down-turned, blushing furiously, and Lars tips his chin up. “Understand?” he repeats.
Matthew nods and kisses him again, feeling himself relax as Lars gently sets him down on the bed and crawls over him. It takes seconds for Lars to remove their clothing and Matthew suddenly feels more inexperienced than before, and it must show on his face because the man above him pauses.
Lars catches his palm and kisses it reassuringly. “It’ll hurt.” he warns. “But it will pass. I’ll get you ready.”
Matthew nods hesitantly, and is taken by surprise when Lars slides down the length of his body, hoists the younger country’s legs onto his shoulders, and applies his tongue to a secret, embarrassing part of Matthew that makes him kick his foot out.
“Ah! Lars~!” Matthew turns his face into the pillow but Lars pinches at the flesh on his thigh until he turns back, reluctantly.
Matthew seizes up when that wicked tongue pushes and probes past his tight ring of muscle. “Nngh, it - ” he tries, but is cut off when Lars strokes his arousal teasingly until he falls silent, save for his quick, gasping breaths and silent sobs and pleas.
Finally Lars feels Matthew’s muscles relax against him and he pulls away, reaches for a bottle of oil he had brought in with him, and dips his fingers into it.
The initial penetration surprises Matthew - he arches at the strange sensation of something moving inside him, though his surprise melts into pleasure when Lars twists his wrist and hits that sweet spot right there.
“Please - please - please - ” Matthew doesn’t realize he is the one saying that until Lars is straddling him, taking time to coat his arousal carefully in oil.
He looks Matthew over, smiling gently, and parts his legs.
“Breathe,” he advises. “Je bent een schat, Matthew. My Matthew.”
And Matthew smiles and relaxes against Lars as he pushes in, slowly, carefully, ever mindful of Matthew’s gasps and the sight of his face scrunched up against the pain.
Lars groans when his hips touch Matthew’s body, in him completely. He steels himself against the instinct to move his hips, feeling the suffocating heat around his cock and praying for Matthew to adjust quickly.
Matthew mumbles something and Lars strokes his hair.
“What?” he whispers. “Matthew, what?”
“...M-move, please.” Matthew repeats, stronger, and presses down for effect. Lars gives a thankful groan and obeys.
They are quiet, which is surprising - Matthew does not cry out, only on occasion in a sharp, breathless voice, and Lars’s sounds are reduced to heavy grunts. Matthew bounces with each thrust, and it shoves his head into a patch of moonlight, which reflects bright colours off his hair.
Lars does not think of Francis, like he thought he would when making love to a boy who resembles the Gallic nation - he does not think of the times he was on his knees in front of the man. Matthew could never be Francis, and he presses in again with gusto, drawing a low moan out of the boy. Lars reaches down to kiss him.
They come moments apart - Matthew first with a breathy exclamation, spilling himself on his own chest, and then Lars with one more snap of his hips.
Matthew is drifting in euphoric afterglow, snuggled in the crook of Lars’s arm. Lars buries his face into Matthew’s hair and murmurs, “Ik hou van je.”
Matthew is too tired to ask what it means, but he has a pretty good idea, and it ignites in him a warm, glowing feeling that has nothing to do with what has just transpired.
And when he wakes up the next morning and sees that yes, Lars is still there, arms curled possessively around him and no, he has not abandoned him or asked him to leave, the feeling returns ten-fold.
& & &
Translations:
Je bent een schat = You are a darling in Dutch
Ik hou van je = I love you in Dutch
General/Historical Notes:
When I was a child my father had a job with the government, in Native education. I grew up on creation and origin stories, and even now I have a fascination with the different cultures, languages and histories of the Native Americans (though, I admit, I know more about the plains people than the more eastern tribes). One story I grew up on especially was the creation myth I included here, from the Blackfoot. Old Man, or “Napi”, is featured heavily in Blackfoot folklore, and as I said in the previous chapter, he is the first trickster I ever learned about.
Whenever I think of America and Canada I always get two different visions in my head. There is a Siouian creation story that says that one day a man woke up with his face towards the sun. He was a child of the soil, and the sun’s rays hardened him so that he was able to leap about in the light, joyous and free. I’ve always thought, if countries were "created", this is how Alfred would be created. America always makes me think of sun and energy (which may or may not have to do with the fact that most of the trips I’ve made to America have been to sunny or warm states!). On the other hand, Canada always gives me a sense of space and coolness (I camp a lot and live close by the Rockies - at least “close by” in Canadian distance - so I’m often accustomed to the wilderness), which is why I think Matthew would be created like this - from nothing and from space, from the basics and growing outwards. I don’t know, that’s just me!
The Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1824 (or the Treaty of London) was signed to resolve problems that had branched from the Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1814. It was also meant to deal with the problems between the English and the Dutch regarding English occupation of Dutch properties during the Napoleonic Wars and also trading rights in the Spice Islands.
This is Dam Square, around the time period Matthew and Lars visit it: (h t t p : / / en . wikipedia . org / wiki / File:Amsterdam_-_Dam_1900 . jpg) In the middle of the square is a very impressive statue called “Naatje of the Dam”.
Hutspot, or Hotchpotch, is boiled and mashed potatoes mixed with carrots and onions. Apparently, the recipe supposedly came from bits of potatoes that were left by the departing Spanish soldiers in 1574 during the Eighty Years War. This is a legend, since the potato was only introduced into Europe as early as 1537 and spread slowly after that, so the Dutch probably made this dish with turnips before they had access to potatoes.
Rookworst is a type of Dutch sausage with spices and salt mixed with the ground meat and stuffed into a casing - traditionally an intestine. It is usually the meat served with Hutspot.
Stroopwafels are a Dutch treat, two waffles with a syrup in between them.
Jenever is a strong, juniper-flavored liquor from the Netherlands, Belgium and Northern France. It is the drink from which modern day “gin” evolved from (gin is actually short for the Dutch word for juniper, “genever”).
Oude Kerk (“old church”)/Nieuwe Kerk (“new church”) - churches in Amsterdam. Oude Kerk is extremely old, I am told (no, duh?)
Ons' Lieve Heer op Solder (“Our Lord in the Attic”) is a canal house with a church in the attic. Yeah. Pretty self-explanatory.
The Magere Brug (“skinny bridge”) is a famous Amsterdam draw bridge. It was first built in 1691, but was rebuilt in 1871 because it was in such a bad state. It was then demolished and replaced in 1934 and majorly renovated in 1969. You can see it in “Diamonds Are Forever”, if you want to see what it looks like!
The Royal Palace of Amsterdam was once a city hall in the Dutch Golden Age (17th century), then became the palace of Louis Napoleon and then the Dutch Royal House. Inside the central hall is a map of the world, Eastern and Western hemispheres.
“The Waag” is a weigh house which used to be included in the former city walls. It was constructed in 1488, and in 1691 they built an anatomy theatre there for people to view public dissections.
“De Wallen” is one of three of Amsterdam’s red light districts, located near the Oude Kerk. It has existed since the 14th century, mainly catering to sailors.
Author: grosse_averse, tatterdemalion on ff.net
Characters/Pairings: The relationship between Canada and the Netherlands (OC) will take centre stage - however, other characters involved in their relations will also appear.
Rated: It varies. M for this chapter, for sexual situations.
Summary: A chronicle of Matthew’s relationship with Lars, from 1611 to present day. In this chapter, the Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1824, and then some random time in 1870 that has nothing to do with any Canadian-Netherlands relations and just a ploy for sexing
Notes: For some reason, I watched Madonna’s documentary on her 2004 tour while writing this...I wonder how that’ll affect my writing...
Chapter One (1611)
Chapter Two (~1640)
Chapter Three (1674)
In the beginning, some of Matthew’s children say, in the beginning there was Old Man.
In the beginning, Matthew’s children say, there was nothing but water. Old Man floated on a raft with some of his animal friends. One day, Old Man asked his friend, Beaver, to dive down to the bottom of the water and bring him back some mud. Beaver tried, but failed. The water was too deep. Old Man asked Loon and Otter the same thing, but they both came back empty handed.
Then Muskrat said, “I will go and get some mud for you,” and dived down. He was gone for a very long time - but when he surfaced again there was a little ball of mud in his paws.
Old Man waited until the mud dried, then scattered it over the water and land was formed.
Matthew does not forget this, and it gives him a tugging in the pit of his stomach when he thinks that, that is all there is to him - earth on earth on mud on dirt on rock on deep, deep water.
He was created out of mud. But mud cannot feel pain like he does when the Iroquois rage onwards in their battle; mud cannot cry like he does when Francis signs him over to Arthur and he is smacked firmly for speaking French; mud cannot feel horrible guilt when, in 1812, Alfred shoves a knee into his gut and hisses at him that if he loves him he will join him, asks him why he would choose Arthur over his own brother - weren’t they born of the same land, the same cloth? Weren’t they closer than Arthur would ever be to them?
Not so, Matthew thinks sadly, thinking of bright Alfred, always a fighter, always a rebel. He thinks, if he could go back to the beginning and remember, that Alfred would be more suited to appearing in a sunburst, a crackle of light and energy and life. Matthew thinks that he is the sibling more suited to Napi’s beginnings, cool mud and water.
It doesn’t matter, not anymore. There is only one God on his land now, and as he tags along after Arthur, his second foray into the politics of Europe, he wonders how it has ever come to this.
It is 1824. London is bustling and Matthew feels uneasy, as he often does in large crowds. He is practically on Arthur’s heels by the time they reach his parliamentary building.
Arthur stops him at the doors, fixes his lapels. “Remember,” he tells his young colony with sternness. “Do not speak until after the ceremony. Pay close attention to everything - I will ask you questions about it later.” the older man is about to turn away - then he catches Matthew’s shoulder and says, “I understand you and the Netherlands have a...history? Please do not mix business with...with pleasure.” he spits the word out like poison.
“I won’t.” Matthew promises, though his hands have been clammy all week, ever since Arthur announced that he would be coming with him to London to see this Treaty being signed. To see Lars.
Matthew tries, when he can, to ask for news from Europe when new people arrive to settle in his growing population. He anxiously followed the Franco-Dutch Wars, but after that most of the settlers were concerned with other matters - the French Revolution, the Napoleonic Wars, the American Revolution. These events pushed Lars to the back of Matthew’s mind as he fought with his brother and gained Arthur’s respect. But now that he was in London (in Europe, so close!), about to see Lars for the first time in a hundred and fifty years, it was hard to ignore.
Matthew sees Lars before he speaks to him, sitting on the opposite side of the hall with his leaders, face a mask of formality. Arthur nudges him because he thinks he is falling asleep, but Matthew is merely staring. When Lars catches his eye, he winks, and Matthew looks at his hands for the rest of the ceremonies
Lars approaches them during the break in the ceremonies, looking healthy and happy. He shakes hands with Arthur and then smiles fondly when he sees Matthew hovering nervously in the background.
“Look at you!” he crows, too loud for such a hushed, official hall. “Look how big you’re getting!”
Arthur shoots Matthew a look to remind him of his promise to be silent - nonetheless, the colony eagerly returns the smile, and his fingers reach under his shirt to grip the iron rabbit at his throat, metal warmed by his skin. Lars sees this action and his smile turns into a secret one, just for Matthew. Under Matthew’s shirt, coincidentally, is also a rosary, a parting gift from Francis, and keeping these trinkets hidden from Arthur gives the colony a small sense of power.
Arthur shoos him gently off while he and Lars talk in the jagged, awkward tones of those who have recently made up. Matthew wanders the hall for a while, staring distractedly at portraits on the walls while his mind buzzes with excitement.
Presently he sees Lars approaching him out of the corner of his eye. He keeps his eyes forward, unmoving. Lars stands a respectful distance from him, hands clasped behind his back, taking in the portrait.
After a few seconds he says, “The signing’s about to commence. If you wish to go to the toilets, now would be the time.” Then he walks away. Matthew waits a minute and a half, then goes to find Arthur.
“May I use the toilet?” he asks politely, feigning a mask of innocence as Arthur looks him over.
“Be quick.” the island nation instructs. “We have ten minutes.”
Matthew nods and exits the hall, turning down the corridor towards the toilets. As he passes a curtained off alcove an arm reaches out and pulls him in, and Matthew finds himself pressed up against Lars.
With a cry of delight, Matthew kisses his old friend; once on the right cheek, once on the left. When he moves to kiss the right again (hopefully avoiding any previous embarrassment), Lars catches his chin and instead guides their lips together.
Just like old times. Matthew practically purrs and grabs onto Lars’s shoulders as the older country twines his arms around his waist.
“My God, look how grown up you are getting!” Lars growls when they part - he lifts one hand to cup Matthew’s face possessively. “It seems like only yesterday that you were a little boy!”
“Not that little!” Matthew protests, gasping as Lars pulls him closer, sliding a knee between the colony’s legs. “I - I was almost as tall as you!” he threads his fingers through Lars’s hair and does a quick comparison - now he is only an inch or two short than Lars, and physically they almost look the “same age”.
Lars gazes down at him fondly. “Of course you were.” he teases. He pinches Matthew’s face, laughing at the glare he receives, and his fingers trail lower, brushing the chain around the colony’s neck. “You’re still wearing this?” he poses the question in a soft, almost disbelieving tone.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Matthew demands as Lars tugs at the chain so the pendant slips over his shirt. “It’s from you, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Lars confirms, brushing knuckles through Matthew’s soft hair, awe-struck. “But I never expected...didn’t Arthur take...?” he trails off as he examines Matthew’s sheepish face, and laughs. “Oh, of course. Rebel. My little rebel.”
Not yours, Matthew thinks sadly, hugging the older man to him. Not yours, but I could've been. So easily.
It’s not that he doesn’t love Arthur - the man took care of him, raised him and his brother, and Matthew knows Arthur loves him, in his own way. Sometimes Alfred couldn’t understand that, in the years before his rebellion - sometimes he would complain that Arthur was too “stuck up” to love anything, but Matthew knows that there are several different kinds of love.
Alfred, for example, loves like fire, bright and obvious, and all consuming. Arthur loves like water - his affection is cooler, more subtle, usually underground and hidden from view. For all their differences Matthew thinks Alfred and Arthur’s loves are similar - they want all or nothing, their pull is magnanimous, possessive and often overwhelming. Matthew thinks that Francis, on the other hand, loves like air - affectionate and palpable, but too often fleeting. And Lars, dear Lars, loves like earth, a solid and weighty presence that is always there in Matthew’s bones. As for Matthew, he feels like his problem is that he just wants to love everything, needily and childishly, gathering it in like a hoarder, pieces slipping out and bits missing until what he hangs onto is a shabby mockery of what he had before.
Matthew feels like he wants to cry when Lars leans back a bit a bit and says gently, “You should get back. Arthur will get worried.”
If he notices I'm gone at all, Matthew thinks bitterly before he can stop himself. Of course Arthur will notice, he chides his inner thoughts, he’s the one who brought him here!
Reluctantly they separate, and Lars presses one more sweet kiss to Matthew’s lips.
“Maybe the next time we meet,” Lars whispers wickedly, leaning in close. “I can finally show you just how much I miss you?” Lars’s knee, still in between Matthew’s legs, presses up...Matthew flushes red all over and Lars chuckles.
“Off you go.” he encourages, and with one last squeeze of his arm Matthew emerges from the alcove and sets off back to the hall.
Lars leans against the wall, painfully aware of the tightness of his trousers.
“That kid better grow up soon.” he growls to himself.
& & &
Forty three years after Matthew kisses Lars in the alcove of the London parliament buildings, he becomes his own country - the Dominion of Canada, Matthew Williams, wild empty land, under the great Empire that is Britain, separate from his brother, who only nods and smiles and tells him, “It’s a start.”
Five years after that, Lars writes him a letter, inviting him to visit the Netherlands as his guest. An unofficial visit, Lars calls it - that means no prime minister, no country names, no worries about being tricked into an alliance. Just Matt and Lars, in Amsterdam.
Lars meets him at the train station, laughing and cooing at him and at the dazed, tired look on his face. He is wearing a beautiful dark green suit that brings out the grey in his eyes, and he takes off his hat and bows at the waist when Matthew steps off the train.
“Konijn, hello!” he greets, and kisses him three times despite the odd looks they get from the people nearby.
He helps Matthew into the brougham and loads his case after him. Lars sits next to him, hand warm on his leg as he points out monuments and buildings - Matthew stares with wonder as they pass Dam Square, and Lars makes the driver stop, chuckling in amusement as Matthew presses himself up against the glass to stare at the statue.
“Naatje of the Dam.” Lars whispers helpfully in his ear.
Lars has apartments on the far side of the Square, with a balcony and a roomy interior. Matthew traverses across the carpeted sitting room, marveling at the grandness and regality of it as Lars shows him to where he’ll be staying.
“I don’t have a guest room.” Lars apologizes, though he sounds anything but. Matthew flushes when he glimpses Lars’s king bed, all sheets and soft cotton. He places his case in the corner of the room, and as soon as he does Lars scoops him up in his arms and kisses him, tasting like sweet and sweat. Matthew grips him closer to him, reveling in Lars’s taste. It is late afternoon, and the sunlight filters thickly through the drapes of Lars’s bedroom. Lars pulls back and smiles at him, like a predator.
“Now, konijn,” he says sweetly, showing teeth. “I could cook you a nice Dutch dinner, or...” he trails off, strokes a trail down Matthew’s spine. “We could make sure your sleep cycles aren’t disrupted too badly and go to bed early?”
Matthew is torn, physically torn between the hunger in his stomach and the hunger that seeps warmth lower in him.
Then his stomach growls, ridiculously loud in the silence, and Lars laughs into his hair.
“Dinner, then.” he says.
Matthew watches eagerly as Lars prepares the food and talks him through it. Lars holds a ceramic bowl to his side and mashes potatoes, carrots, and onions with quick, strong jabs.
“Hutspot.” he explains. “You can thank Antonio for this, sad to say.”
He hands the bowl to Matthew to continue mashing, while he pulls out of the icebox a string of sausage.
“This,” he continues. “Is Rookworst.”
Matthew stares at it. “Is it good?” he asks. Lars chuckles.
“Would I be serving it to you if it wasn’t?” he replies teasingly. “I want to show you a traditional Dutch dinner. Keep going,” he prompts when Matthew’s hand stills. Matthew groans (his wrist is sore!) but obeys.
Matthew bounces up and down in his seat as Lars takes his time bringing the food to the table. “Lars~!” he whimpers. “I’m really hungry!”
“All right.” Lars laughs, and smoothly spoons the hutspot onto a plate, placing two fat sausages on top, and handing the whole thing to Matthew.
Matthew digs in enthusiastically, absorbed in eating. When he looks up, Lars hasn’t served himself, is merely watching him with one elbow propped up on the table.
Matthew instantly straightens his back, a habit enforced under Arthur’s guidance. “Oh. Am I doing something wrong?” he asks. When Lars doesn’t immediately answer, Matthew continues nervously, “I - is there some sort of Dutch etiquette I don’t know about? If there is I’m sorry, I’m really...”
“Matthew.” Lars’s voice is amused. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You look adorable when you eat.”
Matthew laughs, a nervous sound. “Thank you?” he tries, and Lars’s shoulders shake with contained mirth as he serves himself.
They laugh over dinner, sharing stories from their ends of the world. Matthew confides his frustrations with his boisterous brother and Lars shares stories that go back to when Matthew was still toddling in the underbrush. He gives a boisterous retelling of the Eighty Years War that has the hair standing up on the back of Matthew’s neck and laughter tripping from his throat. After dinner, Lars serves coffee with biscuits while he putters around in the kitchen. Matthew watches him and admires the grace and agility of the man as he stalks up and down the kitchen, pulling bowls and utensils from cluttered cupboards.
“What are you making?” Matthew asks with curiosity. Lars crooks a finger at him, beckoning. The light catches his spider silk hair and Matthew hastens to his side.
Lars shows him how to make Stroopwafels, and they share slow, sweet kisses over the batter. Matthew thrills when Lars keeps a hand on the small of his back, a weighty, reassuring presence as the other country guides him through the baking process. It is dusk by the time the Stroopwafels are done, sliding golden brown out of the waffle iron - by this time Lars has introduced Matthew to bottles of strange, fresh tasting Jenever, and the young country’s vision is deliciously blurred around the edges. When the Stroopwafels are cooled, drizzled with syrup and served, they sit on Lars’s balcony, allowing the cool air to fan their faces, and the European nation raises his glass.
“To Canada.” he says. Matthew smiles, open-mouthed in his inebriation, and toasts him.
“To Canada!” he exclaims, tipping back in his chair. His world is a-whirl with colours and dizziness and far away sound from Amsterdam’s night life. When he finally manages to focus, he finds himself sprawled on top of Lars on the bed, both of them kissing and pulling at clothes sloppily, hurriedly, forty-eight years between them.
Matthew stomach is being turned inside out with the things Lars is doing with his tongue, and he is aware of Lars’s arousal pressing into his thigh.
Lars’s mouth is hot, so hot, and it takes great willpower for Matthew to gasp, “Wait!” against his lips. Lars pauses.
“I - ” swallowing, Matthew threads his fingers through Lars’s. “I want to remember this.”
There is a horrible silence as Lars takes in Matthew’s disheveled appearance, his tousled hair and glassy eyes barely focusing. Matthew squirms under his inspection, terrified that he has said something wrong. Then Lars reaches up and showers Matthew’s face in light kisses.
“I keep forgetting,” Lars says warmly, “how very young and unspoiled you are.”
Matthew frowns. Perhaps, he thinks to himself as Lars kisses him, mumbles a goodnight and slips out from under Matthew, perhaps Lars would be happier if Matthew was more experienced, like the other European nations. He moves to ask Lars this question, but the country beside him is out like a light, breath smelling of alcohol, one arm flung possessively over Matthew’s side. Matthew abandons his inquiry and snuggles up beside Lars, relishing another presence beside him in bed.
& & &
When Matthew wakes the next morning, he is tangled in miles of sheets, groggy and with a headache from the gin. The room is bright, the drapes drawn - down below he hears the hustle and bustle of Dam Square. A tram’s bell rings. Lars passes the bedroom doorway in nothing but his underpants, sculpted muscle interrupted by a corded scar placed here and there like patchwork.
“G-good morning.” Matthew calls out, and Lars doubles back.
“Morning!” he chirps. “You’re a heavy sleeper! I was about to make some breakfast to try and wake you up. How do you like your eggs?”
“Whichever way you’re making them.” Matthew defers politely. Lars grins and leans on the door frame.
“All right. Hey, you want me to give you a tour today?” he asks. When Matthew nods enthusiastically, Lars looks pleased.
“Excellent! Oh, and I’m planning on staying perfectly sober for the rest of the day.” he winks at Matthew, looks pleased when the younger boy flushes red.
“I didn’t mean to insult you - ” Matthew starts, but Lars waves him off.
“No, no. You’re right. I would...” Matthew is surprised to see Lars actually looking bashful. “I would like to remember it, too. I just forget that you haven’t been exposed to the politics of Europe.”
Matthew does not need to ask him what these “politics” include - Lars does not care to enlighten him.
They spend the day strolling around Amsterdam. Lars shows him the Oude Kerk and the Nieuwe Kerk - they stand in the sunlight, spliced and coloured by the stained glass, and Matthew thinks about God and the Creator and other, older beliefs that he has been taught are wrong.
Then they visit Ons' Lieve Heer op Solder, a church in an attic, and Matthew doesn’t know how Lars figured out that it would make him giggle, but it did.
Then Lars takes him to the Magere Bridge, and seems very embarrassed at the state the bridge is in.
“They’re going to repair it.” he apologizes, even when Matthew insists that no, it’s very beautiful even if it is a bit...old. “You’ll have to come back to see it!”
Matthew promises to do so.
They stand in front of the Royal Palace, and Matthew gazes up and up and up at its cupola as Lars babbles on about Cornelis de Graeff and Louis Napoleon and his fabulous Dutch Golden Age, and has Matthew had one of those yet? before he stops and looks awkward.
Matthew doesn’t mind. He was molded in a different era. He will not, he feels, have glorious uprisings like the Europeans of old, no bloody battles to uproot his kings. His people will not create an architectural revolution and build buildings to honor their gods, nor will they try to replicate these fabulous European structures. But he will be great in his own right. Not France-great or England-great or Spain-great or even America-great, who has flourished under the sun his own people have pulled from the sky, but Matthew doesn’t care. He will be Matthew-great. So he follows Lars into the enormous central hall, where there is engraved on the marble floor a map of the world. Matthew stands on Canada, tries to put one foot on the west coast and one foot on the east, and wonders.
Lars takes him to the Waag, shows him the theatrum anatomicum. They witness a dissection - an old man, eyes closed as if in sleep, the doctor’s hands within his chest cavity. Matthew has seen corpses frozen in the North, mauled by animals and sometimes by their fellow man. This clean cut medical dissection does not affect him in the least. Lars keeps looking over at him, worried that he will faint or throw up or both. Matthew feels proud when he can beam him a sunny smile. Lars returns it faintly.
“I keep underestimating you.” the taller country murmurs in wonderment, before taking Matthew’s hand and leading him outside again.
They stop for a light lunch on the Leidseplein, and they alternatively talk and watch the people passing by.
They traverse around Amsterdam until Matthew is sufficiently tuckered out. He barely notices where the carriage is taking them until Lars is helping him out.
“Welcome to de Wallen.” Lars says with mischief in his voice. Matthew blinks once, twice, the word filtering through his brain. Then he flushes red and looks frantically around.
“Why did you bring me here?” he asks, horrified. Lars wraps an arm around his waist as Matthew tries to hide behind something.
“I felt like showing you all of Amsterdam.” he murmurs into Matthew’s ear, and biting the younger’s earlobe. Matthew squirms.
“All of it?” he whispers shakily, and Lars nods.
“Mm-hm. Perhaps we should get back to my place?”
Matthew has never agreed to anything so fast.
& & &
They are still for a whole minute, staring at each other in the moonlight from the window. Matthew is apprehensive and unsure how to act now that he is here - he sees his emotions reflected in Lars’s grey eyes, darker than Matthew has ever seen them.
Matthew is the one to kiss Lars, something that surprises the taller man and allows Matthew to slip his hands under Lars’s jacket and push the man backwards with his body weight.
Lars recovers fast, however.
“That's right.” he groans, stroking Matthew’s cheek as the young country’s lithe hands work at loosening Lars’s belt. “God, Matthew...”
Matthew laughs softly under his breath and prods Lars to sit down on his bed. Then, as Lars watches, Matthew attempts to slowly and sensually remove his shirt. He ends up tangling his limbs in the fabric, and Lars tries to stifle a laugh.
Cheeks burning, Matthew tosses the article of clothing aside and clambers onto Lars’s lap.
“It’s not funny,” he mutters sulkily as he rubs against Lars, and Lars cups his neck.
“Oh, konijn.” he chuckles. “You’re trying to act like something you’re not. Don’t do that.”
“Why not?” Matthew demands before he can stop himself. “You’re so used to everyone in Europe, I’m s-scared I’ll embarrass myself!”
Lars goes silent and wide eyed. Then he strokes a hand gently down Matthew’s chest, dipping a finger idly into his navel.
“I don’t want you to do that because you’re boring if you’re not you.” Lars says sternly, and flicks his fingers up and down Matthew’s side, making him squeal like a child. “Matthew, I want you. Understand?”
Matthew keeps his eyes down-turned, blushing furiously, and Lars tips his chin up. “Understand?” he repeats.
Matthew nods and kisses him again, feeling himself relax as Lars gently sets him down on the bed and crawls over him. It takes seconds for Lars to remove their clothing and Matthew suddenly feels more inexperienced than before, and it must show on his face because the man above him pauses.
Lars catches his palm and kisses it reassuringly. “It’ll hurt.” he warns. “But it will pass. I’ll get you ready.”
Matthew nods hesitantly, and is taken by surprise when Lars slides down the length of his body, hoists the younger country’s legs onto his shoulders, and applies his tongue to a secret, embarrassing part of Matthew that makes him kick his foot out.
“Ah! Lars~!” Matthew turns his face into the pillow but Lars pinches at the flesh on his thigh until he turns back, reluctantly.
Matthew seizes up when that wicked tongue pushes and probes past his tight ring of muscle. “Nngh, it - ” he tries, but is cut off when Lars strokes his arousal teasingly until he falls silent, save for his quick, gasping breaths and silent sobs and pleas.
Finally Lars feels Matthew’s muscles relax against him and he pulls away, reaches for a bottle of oil he had brought in with him, and dips his fingers into it.
The initial penetration surprises Matthew - he arches at the strange sensation of something moving inside him, though his surprise melts into pleasure when Lars twists his wrist and hits that sweet spot right there.
“Please - please - please - ” Matthew doesn’t realize he is the one saying that until Lars is straddling him, taking time to coat his arousal carefully in oil.
He looks Matthew over, smiling gently, and parts his legs.
“Breathe,” he advises. “Je bent een schat, Matthew. My Matthew.”
And Matthew smiles and relaxes against Lars as he pushes in, slowly, carefully, ever mindful of Matthew’s gasps and the sight of his face scrunched up against the pain.
Lars groans when his hips touch Matthew’s body, in him completely. He steels himself against the instinct to move his hips, feeling the suffocating heat around his cock and praying for Matthew to adjust quickly.
Matthew mumbles something and Lars strokes his hair.
“What?” he whispers. “Matthew, what?”
“...M-move, please.” Matthew repeats, stronger, and presses down for effect. Lars gives a thankful groan and obeys.
They are quiet, which is surprising - Matthew does not cry out, only on occasion in a sharp, breathless voice, and Lars’s sounds are reduced to heavy grunts. Matthew bounces with each thrust, and it shoves his head into a patch of moonlight, which reflects bright colours off his hair.
Lars does not think of Francis, like he thought he would when making love to a boy who resembles the Gallic nation - he does not think of the times he was on his knees in front of the man. Matthew could never be Francis, and he presses in again with gusto, drawing a low moan out of the boy. Lars reaches down to kiss him.
They come moments apart - Matthew first with a breathy exclamation, spilling himself on his own chest, and then Lars with one more snap of his hips.
Matthew is drifting in euphoric afterglow, snuggled in the crook of Lars’s arm. Lars buries his face into Matthew’s hair and murmurs, “Ik hou van je.”
Matthew is too tired to ask what it means, but he has a pretty good idea, and it ignites in him a warm, glowing feeling that has nothing to do with what has just transpired.
And when he wakes up the next morning and sees that yes, Lars is still there, arms curled possessively around him and no, he has not abandoned him or asked him to leave, the feeling returns ten-fold.
& & &
Translations:
Je bent een schat = You are a darling in Dutch
Ik hou van je = I love you in Dutch
General/Historical Notes:
When I was a child my father had a job with the government, in Native education. I grew up on creation and origin stories, and even now I have a fascination with the different cultures, languages and histories of the Native Americans (though, I admit, I know more about the plains people than the more eastern tribes). One story I grew up on especially was the creation myth I included here, from the Blackfoot. Old Man, or “Napi”, is featured heavily in Blackfoot folklore, and as I said in the previous chapter, he is the first trickster I ever learned about.
Whenever I think of America and Canada I always get two different visions in my head. There is a Siouian creation story that says that one day a man woke up with his face towards the sun. He was a child of the soil, and the sun’s rays hardened him so that he was able to leap about in the light, joyous and free. I’ve always thought, if countries were "created", this is how Alfred would be created. America always makes me think of sun and energy (which may or may not have to do with the fact that most of the trips I’ve made to America have been to sunny or warm states!). On the other hand, Canada always gives me a sense of space and coolness (I camp a lot and live close by the Rockies - at least “close by” in Canadian distance - so I’m often accustomed to the wilderness), which is why I think Matthew would be created like this - from nothing and from space, from the basics and growing outwards. I don’t know, that’s just me!
The Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1824 (or the Treaty of London) was signed to resolve problems that had branched from the Anglo-Dutch Treaty of 1814. It was also meant to deal with the problems between the English and the Dutch regarding English occupation of Dutch properties during the Napoleonic Wars and also trading rights in the Spice Islands.
This is Dam Square, around the time period Matthew and Lars visit it: (h t t p : / / en . wikipedia . org / wiki / File:Amsterdam_-_Dam_1900 . jpg) In the middle of the square is a very impressive statue called “Naatje of the Dam”.
Hutspot, or Hotchpotch, is boiled and mashed potatoes mixed with carrots and onions. Apparently, the recipe supposedly came from bits of potatoes that were left by the departing Spanish soldiers in 1574 during the Eighty Years War. This is a legend, since the potato was only introduced into Europe as early as 1537 and spread slowly after that, so the Dutch probably made this dish with turnips before they had access to potatoes.
Rookworst is a type of Dutch sausage with spices and salt mixed with the ground meat and stuffed into a casing - traditionally an intestine. It is usually the meat served with Hutspot.
Stroopwafels are a Dutch treat, two waffles with a syrup in between them.
Jenever is a strong, juniper-flavored liquor from the Netherlands, Belgium and Northern France. It is the drink from which modern day “gin” evolved from (gin is actually short for the Dutch word for juniper, “genever”).
Oude Kerk (“old church”)/Nieuwe Kerk (“new church”) - churches in Amsterdam. Oude Kerk is extremely old, I am told (no, duh?)
Ons' Lieve Heer op Solder (“Our Lord in the Attic”) is a canal house with a church in the attic. Yeah. Pretty self-explanatory.
The Magere Brug (“skinny bridge”) is a famous Amsterdam draw bridge. It was first built in 1691, but was rebuilt in 1871 because it was in such a bad state. It was then demolished and replaced in 1934 and majorly renovated in 1969. You can see it in “Diamonds Are Forever”, if you want to see what it looks like!
The Royal Palace of Amsterdam was once a city hall in the Dutch Golden Age (17th century), then became the palace of Louis Napoleon and then the Dutch Royal House. Inside the central hall is a map of the world, Eastern and Western hemispheres.
“The Waag” is a weigh house which used to be included in the former city walls. It was constructed in 1488, and in 1691 they built an anatomy theatre there for people to view public dissections.
“De Wallen” is one of three of Amsterdam’s red light districts, located near the Oude Kerk. It has existed since the 14th century, mainly catering to sailors.