Written for @nedcanweek (Day 8: Free Day / Language Theme) and dedicated to the lovely anon who suggested I try writing this pairing many months ago. Thank you, and I’m glad I did. 💜
Algonquin Park, Canada; 30 June 1973
Dense green. The kind that goes curving down slopes, burying itself in valleys and riverbeds, scraping the side of a rocky cliff-face, tree roots clawing into the limestone rock. A disorganised mess of crooked birch trunks, ferns, and dry maple leaves that crunch underfoot, the foliage parting only slightly for the twisted hiking trail. Setting the air alive with that deep forest smell; fresh pine, crumbling logs, and wild mushrooms. Just the presence of it all can get a heart pounding with passion.
And it’d be perfect if it weren’t for the blackflies.
There’s a buzz, a tell-tale tickle on his forearm, and Netherlands instinctively smacks the spot with his palm. He removes his hand to check for a black smudge of squished insect, but there’s nothing; he missed. At least he stopped the damn thing from biting another chunk out of his skin.
“More flies?” Canada asks, pausing on the trail, sympathy in his bent posture and guilt behind his oversize glasses, as if it was his personal fault that bugs existed.
“I’m all right,” Netherlands says. “I’ll apply more bug spray when we reach the cottage. How much farther is it?”
“About a kilometre,” Canada answers, and it’s no surprise that he doesn’t need to consult the map. “You’re looking a little tired. Do you still want to go canoeing this afternoon?”
Netherlands nods, shifting the heavy backpack forward on his shoulders, fabric slapping against his sweat-slick neck. They’re both decked in supplies and hiking gear, their sacks piled high enough to reach their heads. Clothing, soap, a first aid kit, last night’s tent and sleeping bags, along with canned fruit and veggies, because despite Canada insisting that he could forage, fish, and trap enough food to last them for months, nothing drives away the fear of scurvy after experiencing it first-hand, multiple times. At least, not for Netherlands.
They set off again, and muscles burning, Netherlands tells himself he needs the exercise. Modern luxuries have made him soft. Honestly though, they could’ve rented a cabin closer to the carpark, not gone for one that’s a two-day hike through the bush.
...No. This place they’re heading to is Canada’s cottage, something that he built long before this area was designated as parkland, something he’s deeply proud of. It’s a chance to be treasured, especially when, in the first years of their relationship, he spent most of their dates saying, “Oh, I’m fine with anything, what do you want to do?” It took plenty of patience and gentle nudging to get him to eventually share his true interests.
So, whatever his boyfriend wants, Netherlands can surely oblige, even if his feet are getting sore and the dirt is starting to climb up past his ankles. A challenge only because he left the wilderness behind when the world advanced into the industrial age, and done not from distaste of nature, but from the inconvenience of it.
Half an hour later, they arrive with the midday summer heat trapped between the damp air and Netherlands’ cotton shirt. He’s panting, his lungs protesting just as much as they did during yesterday’s hike, and takes a brief moment to lean against a fallen oak, wiping the wet from his forehead with the front of his collar.
Belatedly, he realises Canada is speaking. “Sorry, what did you say?” he wheezes.
“We’re finally here,” Canada declares. “You can rest now, if you want.”
“You’re not tired at all, are you?
“Nah, I’m okay. But I’ll admit it is pretty warm out.” It’s reassuring that his boyfriend also has some sweat on his tank top, dark spots across his chest and underarms, signalling that he’s fallible and not just a perfectly-tuned hiking machine. “Anyways, um... what do you think of my cottage?”
Netherlands takes in the rustic property; a tiny home in a humble clearing. Sturdy walls of logs upon logs, some older than others, likely replaced over the decades to prevent rot, and a stone base decorated in moss. Turn-of-the-century windows and an amber-stained porch pleasantly frame the main door, while the modernized roof and chimney stack create a mishmash of different eras and building techniques, like a favourite worn blanket; too beloved to be discarded, and so instead is repeatedly patched.
“Did you manage all the upgrades too?” Netherlands says. “Because if so, it’s impressive.”
Canada gives a timid shrug. “I did everything except for the electricals. I had to hire someone for that part.”
“Any phone lines?” Netherlands asks, wondering why he didn’t consider that before.
“Nope!” Canada chirps. “No telephones and no mailing address either; it’s perfectly secluded. Oh, but there’s a two-way radio in case of emergencies.” He gestures to the short aerial atop the roof before hopping up the porch steps, unlocking the front door, and treading inside.
Twigs snapping at his knees, Netherlands takes the last few steps towards respite and enters the simple space. Shucking off his boots, wiggling his toes, he relishes the sweet relief of freedom for his aching feet. He twists into a full-body stretch that ends in a sigh. God, he wants to collapse. He won’t be able to do any canoeing without a good nap.
By contrast, Canada is practically dancing, golden curls bouncing as he skips about, placing items from his pack around the rural kitchen; a room which seems to be missing a fridge, instead holding only a counter, some cupboards, and a washstand.
Netherlands quirks an eyebrow. “Where should we cook?”
“The fireplace!” Canada exclaims, pointing to the brick hearth, which is certainly wide enough for a stewing pot. “But usually, I prefer to use the outdoor firepit when it isn’t raining.”
“And where should we bathe?”
“There’s a river nearby; it’s perfect for washing up.”
“We’ll get drinking water from the pump outside, and if you need to go, the outhouse is just a few steps behind the shed. Tonight, we can... Oh right, I have to make the bed. Sheets are in the closet, I think. But maybe I should switch on the breakers first? Test the lights and radio?”
He rummages through his sack and continues mumbling to himself, nibbling his lip between syllables and knitting his brows. For a moment, Netherlands watches him and that little expression on his face, admiring the behaviours Canada reveals only when he’s relaxed. Things that are unknown, or unnoticed, by most others; snippets of a bright personality that too often hide behind quiet and obedience.
Leaning too much on his left leg, a lick of pain swipes up it, reminding Netherlands of his flimsy anatomy, and he leaves Canada to it, for now. He just needs to rest for a short while, maybe ten minutes. Shambling along, he finds the one bedroom behind an old door. Dumping his backpack on the creaky floorboards, he flops onto their bouncy mattress, and a dust cloud rushes up around him. He sneezes.
Canada calls out. “Hey, since you’re in there, could you open the window to let some fresh air in?”
Grimacing, Netherlands drags himself up and wipes the dust from his clothes, tired eyes struggling to stay open. Padding over to the floral curtains, orange daisies splattered among wavy, brownish patterns, he fumbles before catching their cord and swiftly drawing them back.
A dark hulking shape fills the window, and for a second, he assumes it’s a statue. But why would a shadowy statue be here? Then, a leaf twitches; no, not a leaf, an ear! The shape shifts and turns, making eye contact, a conscious and living master of the forest. It’s... an elk! A very real elk, right in his face!
The hairs on Netherlands’ arms rise to attention and his back pulls itself taut, on instinct. He’s not seen one this close since... since.... Slowly tilting its head, the bull looks, listens, and breathes, fogging the window with each mighty puff of its long snout, barely shifting on its too-tall legs – and it is, very much, too tall. There’s a gasp behind him and Netherlands carefully glances back to see Canada in the doorway, wearing the biggest sunshine grin on his face. “Moose!” he whispers.
“What?” Netherlands mutters, before recalling that Canada’s word for these behemoths is different from his own. “Ah, right... a ‘moose’.”
“Yeah,” Canada says. “Remember, I told you that’s what they’re called when we--”
“What should I do?” Netherlands interrupts, which he normally doesn’t do, but now is really not the time.
“It’s okay. We’re indoors, it’s safe. You can just watch him.”
Hesitant for good reason, Netherlands goes against his common sense and peers again at the colossal animal. All of it is chestnut brown. Even its proud antlers, a pair of great open palms facing the sky, are cloaked in a hazel velvet. Pinprick eyes sweep over him, curious and considering, as if trying to weigh judgement upon the stranger to its woods, before coming to lock with Netherlands’ own.
Casting a strange spell, its gaze elicits a sense of awe in him and he swallows. Its eyes remind him of a whistling wind, the kind that slips through zippers and button-ups to graze bare skin, encircling one’s core, undeniably intimidating and yet... there’s something else. A paradox, both enigmatic and familiar at the same time. Mystery overcomes fear and his tendons slowly slacken, fingers loosening from the curtain cord, heartbeat easing to a calm tempo.
A funny thought occurs to him: that if he gawks for too long, he may go plunging into the grassy earth.
The bull stares for a while more, before turning away. Briskly trotting off with such jarring aloofness, that Netherlands presses his face to the glass, chasing after it, trying to steal one last glimpse. But the creature is fast for its size, and soon disappears between the trees, hooves thumping and foliage rustling in its wake.
A silence settles in until Netherlands unsticks his throat.
“That’s the first time,” Netherlands murmurs, “that I’ve seen a living elk... a living moose, so close. Before today, I only caught sight of them from a distance, standing quiet on the shoreline while I sailed past on a trading ship. Or other times, when hunters brought their trophies and tried to barter with me.”
Aside from wondering what price the antlers might fetch, he never paid the creatures much attention. They were just animals; food and business. Even their European counterparts, with dwindling populations forced northward, didn’t grab him in any meaningful manner. But before he took to the seas... when he was very young, maybe they were something more. In the far reaches of his history are intangible, hazy memories; earthen henges and animal trinkets, wild and archaic thoughts that now only make for fireside stories.
Netherlands turns to Canada. “Are there many of them in this park?”
Canada nods. “Sure, there are easily hundreds. But it’s hard to do a full count because they’re usually so elusive.”
“Usually,” Netherlands echoes. His mind is still wandering after that bull, imagining its untamed life, the clashes between others of its kind, the families they may father, when he realises something. “By the way, the plural form of ‘moose’... is it mooses or meese?” And Canada’s face cracks, like he’s about to laugh. “I’m being serious.”
A giggle escapes his throat. “I know, sorry. Sometimes I forget that a moose is an ‘elk’ to you, just like it is to everyone in Europe.”
“Mm. Your word has a more unique sound. Maybe we should all switch over and use ‘moose’ instead.”
Canada blinks. “Huh? No, no, that's not... No one has to do that. You’re joking, right?”
“Somewhat. Either way, it’s your word and I want to use it correctly.”
“Oh,” Canada murmurs. His gaze shifts to the floor and fidgeting, he adjusts his glasses with an index finger. “I mean... it’s not really my word. I'm just a nation; it’s really my people that own and shape my languages.”
“But it’s the word you use. And because of that, it’s important for me to get it right.”
A bashful smile blooms across Canada’s face, his eyes softening. “...Geez.”
“Nah.” Canada wraps Netherlands in an effortless hug, their warm arms hanging loose around each other in the heat, but it’s fine – more than fine. “And by the way, the plural is just ‘moose’.”
Netherlands buries his nose in Canada’s downy hair, closing his eyes for a moment and embracing the weight of his boyfriend’s body, finding he doesn't care so much about the temperature, or the dirt, or the hike. “Funny,” he murmurs. “I thought there might be a few extra ‘s’ sounds in there.”
Canada doesn’t reply, but a smile presses into the crook of Netherlands’ neck, breath cooling the sensitive skin there. Songbirds and crickets fill the quiet, melodies of nature trilling through the humid air, passing easily through wooden walls and old windows. Gravity drags Netherlands downward, peaceful sleep beckoning him and he starts to sag against Canada’s frame. “I’m exhausted,” he finally confesses.
Canada rubs circles between his shoulder blades. “Yeah, I figured as much.”
“Would you be disappointed if we postponed our canoeing adventure until tomorrow?”
“Really?” Netherlands asks, pulling back to search Canada’s face. “You’re not just giving in to make me feel better, are you?”
Canada’s brows rise, then he relaxes, shaking his head. “No, I’m okay with it. I promise.” There are creases at the corners of his lake blue eyes, earnestness in his smile. “I’m just happy you’re here.”
And rather than question it, Netherlands sees the glimmer behind his glasses and the rouge in his cheeks, and decides to take Canada at his word.
He kisses him, chapped lips and all. Tracing the salty curve of his mouth, drinking in the spice of the forest, his love, and rediscovering home. It’s perfect here, he thinks, and even if they still bite, the blackflies won’t bother him anymore.
Black flies (also known as buffalo gnats/turkey gnats) are annoying, biting insects native to the northern, wetter areas of North America.
Adult bull moose stand 1.4–2.1 m (4 ft 7 in – 6 ft 11 in) high at the shoulder, and weigh from 380 to 700 kg (838 to 1,543 lb). They’re huge animals!
The plural form of moose is... moose! The word is borrowed from the Algonquian languages (like Narragansett moos and Eastern Abenaki mos) and possibly involved forms from multiple languages mutually reinforcing one another.
In Europe a moose would be called an “elk”, even though in North America, an “elk” refers to an entirely different deer species. In Quebec, they prefer to use “orignal” over “élan”.
The Eurasian moose once roamed across Europe in antiquity. Now, its range is limited to Scandanavia, northern Poland, Belarus, and Russia.
To be honest, I must call myself out. Moose have fantastic hearing and they don’t like humans. In real life, if one was near the cottage, it would’ve heard Canada and Ned approaching from a great distance and run away. But... let’s pretend this one was VERY confident and unafraid of some silly nations.
In my head, I believe that Canada enjoys everything to do with camping, and Ned enjoys everything to do with boats. Therefore, the perfect shared activity for them would be canoeing.
