Work Text:
May, Modern Day
Ottawa, Canada
Matthew loved Spring.
He loved the sounds of the returning birds, singing stories of their travels. Loved the sun warming his skin from the cool northern breeze. Loved the new birth, the new flowers.
The tulips.
Abel in the tulips.
Matthew loved Abel.
He loved how Abel, once a herculean empire, now held the tulips with gentle restraint. Cupping the petals softly as he crouched down to inhale their fresh aroma. His head bowed into them as though they were his alter. His hands clean and steady, as though they had never done harm.
For a brief moment, Matthew towered above him. Abel sat in the dirt, surrounded by tourists. They photographed the tulips, admired the colors. Bustled around the pair as though they were hardly there. And paid absolutely no attention to Abel. Which was humorous to Matthew. Because he was sure Abel was a celebrity amongst the flowers.
"Thijs," Abel called up to Matthew, referring to him by his Dutch nickname, "You must see this one."
Matthew already had a smile plastered on his face. Small and polite. Flashed apologetically to the tourists whose shoulders and bags collided with his arms. The smile grew as he knelt down beside Abel, resting a hand on the back of his partner's neck to steady himself.
He knew by now to not say that all tulips looked the same. Because to Abel, each was different. Each had its own charisma, its own personality. Admittedly, however, Matthew did find it endearing how impassioned Abel became over the topic. And as such, would, on occasions with just enough weed and just enough time, tease Abel over tulips. Just a tad.
He was his brother's brother.
But perhaps right now was not the time.
"It's beautiful," Matthew said, rubbing small circles into the nape of Abel's neck with his thumb.
And as beautiful as the tulip was, he admired Abel instead. His usually stoic lover now sporting a small smile of his own. The edges of his lips only slightly curled. His green eyes lost in nostalgic peace.
"Maple Leaf," Abel said eventually, humming contently.
The Maple Leaf Tulip.
Bred specially by the Dutch to look like the Canadian flag.
Red and white.
Matthew knew, of course, the meaning behind those colors on a tulip. But it didn't deter him from asking again.
"White is usually for purity," Abel recounted, "Or respect."
"Purity…" Matthew cringed somewhat at the word. Far too reminiscent of lingering shame, and encouraged chastity.
"Or respect," Abel insisted, turning to face him. He lifted a large, gentle hand to tuck a curl behind Matthew's ear. "And red," Abel started, "Is for love."
Despite a chill in the May Canadian air, Matthew could feel heat rise to his cheeks. Red like the tulip. "When did you get so romantic?" he teased, "I thought I bore that title."
"Just because you speak French, doesn't mean you are French."
Matthew gasped playfully, feigning offense. "So you consider the French to be romantic," he accused, as if he'd caught his partner in a lie. Oh how Matthew did so enjoy baiting Abel for reassurance.
Abel knew this. He released a light chuckle, rolling his eyes. "I consider the French to be perverted," he said, standing. He then held a hand out to Matthew, who placed his own in its grasp and allowed himself to be pulled up onto his feet. "Canadian French on the other hand," Abel whistled, "Romantic."
Both now standing, Matthew no longer towered. Rather, he found himself eye-level with Abel's lips. And he didn't mind it in the slightest. "Merci," he murmured, violet eyes dazed.
Abel merely hummed a reply. Then, amidst the wandering tourists and wind-dancing tulips, Abel cupped Matthew's cheek as though it were the petals of a flower. And kissed him under May sun.
Matthew's hands found bearing atop Abel's sides, gripping onto his sweater and digging for warmth. And just as quickly as he allowed himself to get lost in it, Matthew pushed Abel away.
"We're missing the tulips," he mused, rubbing his nose against Abel's.
"Can't have that," Abel agreed, interlocking his fingers with Matthew's, "Come, Liefje."