It seemed to be that time of year again, when the snow was just beginning to melt, and trees began to bloom, and it always seemed to make the proud province of Québécois sad. A heavyhearted and melancholy sort of sad as he stared out of his balcony at the rich forest outside his house.
Only one thing was on his mind at this time of year, his Papa, who has left him such a long time ago. He seemed to miss him more and more each year, although whether France was thinking about his son at all seemed as uncertain as it was unlikely.
Quebec guided his bow up and down his violin as he mulled it all over again in his mind. He had long wanted to quit being just a province, and become his own great nation. A part of him was screaming that he didn't need France, any more than he needed his fellow provinces, or anyone at all, to reach greatness. And another part hoped quietly that maybe he'll be able to somehow get his Papa's attention that way.
Maybe France would nudge another nation and point at Quebec, and quietly say " c'est mon fils." Hell. Even a formal handshake would suffice.
Why does everyone else have a father figure? Or at least an aunt, or a sibling? He recalled BC chatting happily with China as she poured him tea, or Saskatchewan and Alberta running up to hug Ukraine, Or even Nova Scotia throwing an arm around New Brunswick as he carried his little sister PEI in the other arm.
Most importantly, he recalled how angry it made him, though he tried not to show it. Yes, Quebec was self aware enough to know he wasn't the most well liked province, and for good reasons. He was bitter, narcissistic, reclusive, delusional even… who could possibly…?
He set down his violin and wiped his eyes. He never liked to think about this for long. No wonder Papa left. He bitterly picked up his violin, and resumed the music, now with tears falling down his cheeks.
Ontario let himself in through the heavy wooden doors to Quebec's house. He swallowed the last of his donut as the doors swung closed behind him, and breathed in the familiar dusty oak scent. It seemed the prissy French kid he knew so well still never learned how to lock doors. Too bad, because Ontario was bored. And when Ontario's bored, someone has to suffer.
God knows that if he didn't come over every now and then to make Quebec have some goddamn fun and leave the house, the melancholic would choke on dust. Or maybe, Quebec leaves the doors open on purpose.
Shrugging it off, Ontario ran up the creaky wooden staircase up to Quebec's room. He grabbed the doorknob but it wouldn't budge.
Damn.
Sighing, he slumped down on the floor, and leaned his head against the polished door. We'll have to do this the hard way. He could hear the whiny violin music call from somewhere deep in the room. The high pitch tone wavered before sinking down to a low whine and rising up again, like the violin was sobbing. It was one of those days. That time of the year.
He could picture Quebec's hand shaking before tilting the bow down. The familiar guilt washed over Ontario again. He remembered how often he would exclude and fight his old friend, or feign ignorance and callousness to his private insecurities. Sometimes even to the disgust of his fellow provinces.
No wonder he wouldn't be trusted with Quebec's intimacies now, no more than before. Still, he wanted to help. He wanted it desperately. He reached out and rested his hand on the hopelessly closed door, before mustering up the courage to give a few soft knocks. The music stopped. Ontario waited in the heavy silence. Finally he managed to speak up.
"Quebec? It's me. Ontario. I came all this way this way to visit my friend."
A few seconds ticked by. To Ontario's despair, the music resumed as usual.
Quebec faced the locked door as he slowly played. This, he didn't expect. Not right now. Ontario has come to mock him again, at perhaps the worst possible time. He wanted to scream at him to fuck off, but decided that if he kept playing it would be best rejection. He choked back more tears and played louder. Go away, Ontario. Go away, go away, go away.
"Quebec!" the voice cried again. "I'm begging you here. Open the door, please….?"
Quebec set his violin down again, and came a bit closer to the door.
"And I'm begging you!" he yelled, trying to sound as composed and not-crying as possible. "to leave me zhe hell alone, and get out of my house!"
Everything was quiet for a few moments. Quebec just about thought Ontario had finally left, when a quiet voice said "that time of the year, eh?"
Quebec let himself come closer, if only to hear better. "My private problems are none of your concern, mon voisin."
"I know" said the muffled voice. "But I am concerned."
Quebec sat down and wiped his face on a sleeve. "Why?"
"Because you're a dear friend"
"Oh how touching" chocked out Quebec.
"shhh…I know it's hard for you."
"I know it's hard for you" he mocked.
"But I just want to help."
"how do you intend to help, monsieur dear friend? Will you just fix all my problems with my father by sitting outside my door and whispering movie quotes for me?"
There was a pause. "I've never been a poet." Ontario's pale hand slipped in under the door. "So please. Take my hand, honey."
Quebec reluctantly placed his hand in Ontario's, letting the warm rough thumb rub his palm. He audibly sobbed again, as the caresses continued.
"you're doing great, hun. You're not keeping it all to yourself now. You don't need to go through all this alone, you know. Not on my watch."
Quebec grit his teeth to keep from howling. He hesitantly reached up his hand and twisted the key in the doorknob. To Ontario's delight, the creaky door gave way. The sensitive and intelligent young man he grew to love was sitting on the floor, diligently wiping his flushed face. Ontario's heart sank seeing his matted eyelashes and tearful eyes.
"I'm so proud of you, dude." said Ontario, quickly squeezing the French province and beginning to rub wide circles on his back. He acknowledged the blue woolen sweater vest and took in Quebec's warm scent. Quebec buried his head in Ontario's shoulder and cried. "One day you'll be your own great nation." said Ontario. "Just don't forget about us ok? We all love you so much. It wouldn't be Canada without ya."
"mon papa…"
"I know. But trust me dude, it's his loss."
Quebec clutched handfuls Ontario's jersey, feeling himself be rocked back and forth gently. "He isn't coming back, is h-he…?"
"I wouldn't bet on it." said Ontario sadly, hearing Quebec roar into his shoulder in response. "Perhaps it's for the best, honey. And it definitely isn't your fault."
Quebec didn't say anything. Ontario waited until his friend's cries died down, and invited him to sit down on the bed, guiding him with a hand on his upper back. He took a tissue from the bed stand, and began to wipe the tears from Quebec's pink and sore eyes.
"Merci" said Quebec finally, taking the hairbrush off the stand and beginning to brush his admittedly dishevelled hair. Ontario watched him lazily drag the brush through his dirty blond hair a few times before putting it down in his lap in distraction. He smiled a little.
" I gotta do everything for you, don't I?"
Quebec looked up and handed him the brush, smiling too. "It appears so, mon ami."
Ontario's heart fluttered as he glided the soft bristles up his head, starting at his upper neck and ending at the bangs, making sure to gently work around the ears. Quebec shivered as the brush hit all the right spots, enjoying the attention and Ontario's hand on his cheek. Ontario finished up with a kiss to Quebec's forehead, and put down the brush.
"You're a really good musician. Did you know that, Honey?"
Quebec let himself linger for a few moments, before picking up his violin. It seemed the sun was already setting. A cool breathe let itself in through the balcony. "Then for you, I will play something happy."
"Please" said Ontario, sitting back. Quebec positioned his violin, raised his bow, and began to play.
voisin= neighbor, btw
I fuckin love the enemies to lovers trope eeeeEE