Work Text:
Oliver rarely got the day off. Even when he did, he usually worked anyway. On his laptop, on papers, on anything he could get his hands on to. If Jean was around, he usually tried to persuade Oliver into taking a break. Sometimes it worked, other times it didn't.
Today, however, Oliver had taken to cleaning. Scrubbed every inch of the kitchen, vacuumed the living and study room, and organized everything. Even the cutlery drawers in the kitchen had been rearranged.
By the afternoon, Oliver found himself going up to the attic. It was pointless to clean— the space was never used— but he wanted to get it done, nonetheless.
He went up the stairs two at a time, socks padding against dark mahogany wood. Matthew had the house built years ago, with enough bedrooms to house most of the provinces comfortably. Admittedly, Matthew had taken a gamble; back then, he had no guarantee who would and wouldn't join Confederation.
In the end, the house had ended up only housing four residents long-term. Even then, Marie and Joel had moved out by the early 1900s to settle in their own coastside home out east.
Oliver opened the door to the attic and immediately sneezed. Dust lingered in the air, as if there was something in the space to stir it up. Oliver knew better though. He hadn't been up here in well over 5 years. There had been no need to. As for Jean, well, Oliver didn't know, but he suspected Jean also hadn't been up here in quite some time.
The first thing he did was open a window, hoping to clear the stuffy atmosphere. The late autumn air billowed in the space, making Oliver thankful for his sweater. He sneezed once more.
There was an oak desk in the corner, littered with opened envelopes with Jean Tremblay written on the front in fancy, curvy handwriting. Oliver's own.
Oliver hummed softly, curious. He walked over to the desk, picking up the fragile, aged paper of an envelope, turning it over in his hands once.
Has Jean really kept these over the years? Oliver thought to himself. The idea was endearing, but he couldn't think of why Jean would do such a thing. In his opinion, there was no point.
He collected a few of the envelopes in his hands, deciding to read them downstairs. He could barely remember what the contents were like, despite having been the one to write them.
His socks hit the dark wood of the stairs once more.
Curling up with his feet beneath him on the couch, Oliver gently removes a letter from it's envelope. The paper is stained and crumpled with time, and the ink is slightly smudged, but still legible.
Oliver lightly traces over the words with a finger, tilting his head. The letter currently in his hands was dated 1841, February 11th. A day after the Act of Union's commencement. He had written to Jean in a fit of rage about the whole arrangement.
He shuffles the papers. The one at the front of the collection now is dated 1841, March 2nd. Oliver remembers this one slightly better then the last; he was complaining to Jean about Matthew having a house built for them, calling it unnecessary. Their first house of three, actually.
(The first house Matthew had built for them in 1841 was in Southern Ontario, and later this one in Bytown, now Ottawa, in the 1860s. And Jean, of course, had insisted on keeping their residence in Montréal when it was built in the early 1900s.)
Oliver smiles softly. He recalls writing the letter in such a fit, he nearly knocked the inkwell over.
The handle of the front door rattles. It's always been a bit stiff to open, since the 1980s. Neither of them have bothered to get it fixed.
The blond places the letters on the side table. Hidden in plain sight. Terribly.
Jean walks in, coat damp from the light rain outside, smelling like smoke and wet autumn leaves. He turns to Oliver, grin gracing his face nearly instantly as he shrugs off the wet fabric. "Ah, Olivier."
Oliver folds his arms across his chest, humming in response. "You should have brought an umbrella. Didn't I tell you to this morning?"
"It was not raining this morning." Jean shrugs. He walks over to Oliver, pressing his lips to his forehead before sitting down next to him. "What did you do today, hm?" Jean knows Oliver well enough to assume Oliver got up to something during his day off. He is correct in this assumption.
Oliver hesitates. Should he tell Jean? Would Jean be upset that he was being nosy? Probably not, but Oliver's always been an anxious man. He glances over to the side table. "… You know all those letters I sent you? Years ago?"
Jean licks his lips, contemplating. He wraps an arm around Oliver's shoulders, bringing him in closer. "Oui. Why do you ask?"
Oliver curls into him, bringing his knees up onto the couch. "Well, I did some cleaning today."
"Mmh, yes, I noticed. T'as encore réarrangé les manteaux sur le porte-manteaux par longueur." [You rearranged the coats on the rack by length again.]
"It's practical."
"Sure it is."
Huffing, Oliver crosses his arms again. "Point is, I went up into the attic and… accidentally found some of those letters."
"Ah? Which ones?"
Oliver sighs, reaching over to grab the letters again. He passes them to Jean, refusing to look him in the eyes. Jean takes the papers with a gentle hand, careful not to rip them.
Jean hums as he reads over them, gaze combing through the words. " Je me souviens de celle-là," [I remember this one,] "I could sense your anger in every pen stroke, hm?"
"Good. You never sent me earrings with fake silver again after that."
"How could I know you were allergic?"
"I think you were just being cheap."
"It was the 1930s! What do you expect of me?"
Oliver can't contain his giggling at that point. "Could have bought real silver."
Jean rolls his eyes, tilting Oliver's head with a hand to kiss him. "Mmm, with what, l'argent de la province?" [The province's money?]
"Oh, I'm sure Louis-Alexandre would have appreciated that greatly." Oliver smiles against Jean's lips, gazing into the man's eyes with a sort of admiration he held for no other.
Pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and covering them with it, Jean shifts closer to his husband. "Qu'est-ce qu'on mange ce soir?" [What's for dinner?]
"Would you like to go out tonight? Swiss Chalet?"
"Bien sûr. Pour l'instant, on va regarder la télé." [Sure. Right now though, we're going to watch TV.]
"Kim's Convenience?"
"Absolument." [Of course.]