Angel
by Mklnay
The atmosphere in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife.
On the wheel, Matthew's fingers drummed erratically in nervous beat with music that wasn't on as, every once in a while, his blue eyes would flick anxiously to the tall form folded into the passenger seat. Apprehensively, he bit his lip and clenched and unclenched his fists, thrown far off his usual conversation by Lars' own, barely perceptible fidgeting.
It was a very strange predicament... Ever since he had gotten off the plane (arriving on the morning of February the 14th, of all days), Lars had been unusually distracted and jumpy, acting like he was going to hop out of his skin at any moment. Matthew, who was very good at reading people in general and Lars especially, after so many years, had picked up on the weird attitude quite quickly. But, when he had asked what was wrong Lars had been evasive, insisting that nothing was amiss, truly, when it was so clearly a lie.
'Frustrated' could not begin to cover what Matthew was feeling right at that moment. 'Worried' too, he supposed, because he had never seen Lars so worked up over anything before this.
But mainly it was frustration.
"U-um... Lars?"
Damn that sneaky little stutter. It snuck in when Matthew was least expecting it and made all of his sentences sound even more pathetic than they usually were. Beside him, Lars tried- and failed- to hide his start of surprise before he turned and gray eyes flashed to blue, leaving Matthew to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat.
"Yeah?"
"What- Uh... How was your flight?"
Matthew bit his lip harshly and cursed his own passive nature. He had meant to ask Lars directly what the matter was, but at the last moment his traitor mouth had blurted out something else entirely; repeating a question that he had already asked twice in the airport.
He could see Lars' barely concealed amusement all too clearly.
"It was alright," the older nation stated blandly, smiling and fiddling surreptitiously with his seatbelt buckle. "Same old, same old, really..."
Matthew tried to make his grimace look like a smile, even as he felt himself flush all the way to the roots of his blonde hair. Of course Lars would say that; had he ever said any different? It just made Matthew feel extremely stupid and shy and want to sink through the floor, if not for the fact that he was driving.
"Okay..." He murmured softly, fixing his eyes resolutely on the grey tarmac in front of him. He wanted to ask, but it was so difficult to push the words past his traitor mouth and tongue without them somehow turning into something else. It was almost like one of Arthur's bad magic tricks; rabbit goes into hat, rabbit does not come out of hat, there is charcoal burnt rabbit for dinner the next night.
Another few minutes passed in a rather awkward silence. Then, Lars' voice made Matthew jump.
"If you want to ask me something..."
"Eh, no! Um. I mean." Matthew shot a glance in Lars' direction and saw amusement lingering in his blue eyes, overlaying something deeper that Matthew didn't really have the time to examine. He nibbled at his lip and clenched his fingers tight around the steering wheel. "Well, that is... You're acting really strange, Lars."
There was a huff of slightly embarrassed laughter from the passenger seat as Lars scratched his head absently.
"Ahaha... I guess I am, huh?" he said, shooting Matthew a small smile. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it, eh, schat?"
Matthew was so busy ducking the hand that Lars reached out to ruffle his hair that he almost missed the serious expression that flitted over the taller nation's face as he looked at the shorter male. As it was, the sight of it gave him enough pause that Lars managed to muss the top of his head, and Matthew almost missed the turning into his street.
But then they were pulling up in front of Matthew's house and he was showing Lars to his room (the same one he always slept in, but Arthur had taught him how to be a good host), making sure he was settled. He was busy enough that Lars' strange expression of anticipation and anxiety- and something else that Canada thought looked vaguely familiar- was pushed to the back of his mind to be forgotten and remembered only when it would no longer be relevant.
This was a bad idea.
In fact, it was one of the worst ideas in the whole history of bad ideas. And for a nation, that was saying a lot.
The first thing Lars did after Matthew left his room was make a beeline straight for the window. His stomach seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his throat and he really, really needed some fresh air. Unfortunately, the latch was not very sympathetic, and it took Lars some five minutes of jimmying before the window slid open and he was able to stick his head out into the chill of Canada in February.
The cold made him jolt, but Lars grit his teeth and bore it because it was the first time since he boarded the plane at the Amsterdam Airport Schipol that he felt calm enough to actually think about what he had come here to do without becoming so flustered that he walked into a wall. Or something. (Because he hadn't actually walked into a wall. Well. Maybe once.)
Okay, so maybe this would be a bad idea. Because Matthew was about as likely to return his feelings as he was likely to jump on the table and belt out Het Wilhelmus at the top of his lungs.
But it didn't matter whether or not it was a bad idea. He was going to tell Matthew. He was going to tell him that he l- lov- that he- godverdomme, that he loved him and he was not going to back out of this decision now!
It would be so easy to simply turn around and pretend that this visit was just a spur of the moment decision to see Canada in February.
Not that there was really very much to see except snow at this time of year.
Lars sighed heavily, his breathe coming out as a plume of white condensation. Sixty years, he mused wearily. Sixty years and Lars had never said a word. Not when Matthew had visited him in the Allied hospital a week after his rescue. Not when Matthew's boss had gladly paid for Dutch brides to travel back to Canada. Not even when Matthew had hugged him gently, mindful of his wounds (The Hague and Rotterdam and Middelburg, they were all mending, but slowly), and Lars had wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around the smaller man and never let go.
He had just stood by and smiled and suggested afterwards to the Queen that maybe, just maybe mind you, they should send tulips to Canada as a 'thank you' for sheltering the Princess and liberating their country, despite knowing full well what tulips meant in the global meaning of flowers. And, since he was- what was the saying? Oh, yes - In for a penny he might as well be in for a pound.
The personal bouquet he had sent to Matthew's house had been red. Red tulips.
Of course, Matthew wouldn't know the difference between red tulips and all the other colours of the flower, but Lars knew. He knew and he had said nothing when Matthew thanked him enthusiastically for the tulips with a beaming smile and absolutely no idea what they had meant.
The next bouquet he had sent him had been red and cream.
Lars had held his silence.
Over the years, as the Netherlands gifted Canada with tulips every May, the tulips Lars himself sent had become more varied. Yellow and pink mixed with variegated and purple, but there was always one single red tulip in the very centre of the bouquet.
He was tired of waiting.
Now, standing at the window with his fingers and face slowly going numb, Lars couldn't squash the general feeling of anxiety that was fizzling through his veins. Bretje was already on standby with their plan (because who else could a guy go to for advice on love other than his sister?) and all Lars had to do was get Matthew out of the house for a little while so that she could get things into place.
It wasn't as if he didn't look forward to it though, nervous though he was.
Taking a deep breath, Lars turned away and shut the window, hardly realising that he had been standing with his head in the cold outside for a good ten minutes. He was at the door in three long strides and, opening the door, Lars jogged into the hallway and down the stairs.
"Matt?" He called into the rest of the house, waiting until an answer floated back from the living room before calling, "Wanna go get an early lunch?"
Author's Notes: 'Schat' means dear. 'Engel' obviously means angel. Go look up the History behind the Canadian Tulip Festival; it's quite fascinating really. As is the whole history between this pairing. But I won't spoil it for you, as it's way more fun to go read it yourself. Stay tuned~
Mklnay.
