[fic fill] laleler, tulpen, tulips
TITLE: Laleler, Tulpen, Tulips
AUTHOR/ARTIST: absynthess
RECIPIENT: Shizuka shizuka_indigo
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: The Netherlands ; Turkey
RATING: PG-13
NOTES (optional): At the bottom. (:
SUMMARY: Netherlands and Turkey meet at Canada's annual Tulip Festival and discuss their relative claims to the flowers.
Laleler, Tulpen, Tulips
Normally he doesn’t bother with these sorts of things, as a rule. For the past few decades, he’s been working hard to foster a favorable and intimidating reputation, and something like this wouldn’t exactly help. Still, when he’d heard about this, he couldn’t help but be curious. And so, here he is.
“Though where Kanada gets off having a festival for my flowers, I’ll never know,” Turkey grumbles under his breath. He’s walking along one of the pathways surrounding Dow’s Lake, which has been surrounded by nearly 300,000 bulbs for the occasion. Though Turkey wears a scowl on his face, seeing the brilliant blend of colors and bulbs heartens him.
“Maybe the kid isn’t doin’ such a bad job, after all,” he concedes, reaching up to adjust his half-mask. He’s dressed casually, in jeans and his customary green jacket, the hood of which is pulled up over his ears. His dark hair juts out from behind it and over his mask, so that the entire upper part of his face is covered. A single, brilliantly red tulip bulb pops out from his breast pocket.
“Then again, it’s hard to mess up my flowers.” He’s mumbling to himself, and he knows it. Still, most of the other guests at the festivals pay him no heed, absorbed as they are in the flowers. Which is how he wants it; he’d prefer to come and go from Ottawa in cognito, if he can manage it.
“Your flowers?” A voice behind him asks blandly. Turkey freezes, his eyebrows tilting downwards dangerously, but he doesn’t turn around just yet.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “My flowers. The squirt’s just borrowin’ them.”
“Not yours,” his companion says, in a rougher voice than before. Turkey forces his lips into a crooked smile as he turns around to look.
“Look, I kinda invented them,” he says lazily.
The Netherlands purses his lips, but one word still escapes: “Shit.”
“Oh, hey, Hollanda,” Turkey says, suddenly in a much better mood. “What was that you were saying?”
“I gave Canada the flowers,” Netherlands says, not looking at all pleased. But he’s embarrassed, and it shows in the color that is slowly but steadily creeping to his cheeks.
“Of course you did.” Turkey’s smile is so wide that Netherlands can see every single one of his teeth. “But where’d you get ‘em?”
Netherlands turns his head to one side and mutters something out of the corner of his mouth. Turkey crows with laughter and cups one hand over his ear.
“C’mon, Hollanda: I can’t hear you.”
Netherlands’ face is nearly scarlet, now, and given its shape and his hair, his head is an ironically close match to the tulip sticking out of Turkey’s pocket. Finally, he crosses his arms over his chest and spits out, “Fucking Turkije gave me the tulips.”
Turkey’s smile is feral. “And don’t you ever forget it.”
- - -
{ amsterdam, holland :: early 17th century }
In a time when Netherlands could still be quite accurately called “Holland”, the nation in question was lazing just outside of his capital city. He leaned back in the grass, a pipe at his lips and a lazy expression on his face. At that moment, with his eyes half-closed and his arms behind his head, he looked utterly at ease. And then something shattered that peace.
“Hollanda!” The voice calling out to him was brash, rough, and loud. An excellent fit for the empire it belonged to.
“Ottomanerijk,” Netherlands mumbled, not bothering to sit up.
“Come on, Hollanda, show a little courtesy! This is the first time we’ve met, after all!”
“But we’ve heard about each other.” Netherlands’ voice was still very low, very calm. Whether it was just the drugs at work or the fact that he needed to be deadly calm in order to leash his anger, he didn’t know.
Turkey, not to be dissuaded, plopped himself down next to the other nation. He didn’t lean completely back, like Netherlands, but instead crossed his legs one over the other and settled his hands in his lap. “So, d’you still want ‘em, or not?”
At this, Netherlands perked up significantly. He sat up next to Turkey, and nodded emphatically. However, then Turkey held up one restraining hand.
“What?” Netherlands snapped out the word.
“I only hand over my most prized flowers to my friends. And, rude as you are, I don’t think we’re friends yet.”
The look of consternation on Netherlands’ face was almost laughable. Finally, he grumbled, “And how do we become friends?”
Turkey shrugged. Then he gave Netherlands an once-over, stroking his chin. Netherlands was almost scared of the response he’d receive, but then Turkey let out a barking laugh and said, “We could smoke together.”
That Netherlands could live with. Wordlessly, he pulled out his snuff box, and Turkey pulled out his long, Ottoman pipe. Resting back against the Dutch grass, the two nations lazily blew smoke rings and sat together in companionable silence, looking at the impossibly blue sky.
And when it was done, Turkey handed over the flowers that would tie the two together throughout history. On the matter, he had only this to say:
“Just don’t try to smoke ‘em.”
- - -
“Seriously, though, I can’t believe you sometimes,” Turkey laughs later that afternoon, as the two nations sit down for coffee. They both drink the blackest brew, but Turkey couples his with pastries drowned in powdered sugar, while Netherlands takes his with mixed with an equal serving of milk and a single biscuit.
“Didn’t know it was you,” Netherlands says in his reserved, stoic tone. The café he’s chosen is a nice one, off to the side of the lake so that the rainbow plumes of flowers are still visible. He finishes mixing his coffee and raises the mug to his lips.
“Well, you should be more careful, shouldn’t ya?” Smack, smack. One pastry disappears in two quick bites.
Netherlands shrugs. “I come here ev’ry year. You’re never here.”
“Some of us don’t have all the cash n’ time to burn, coming to Kanada.”
The other country takes a deliberate bite out of his biscuit. “It’s special,” is his only response.
“Even if it weren’t,” Turkey says accusingly, “you’d still come. You love burnin’ money on flowers.”
Netherlands simply stares Turkey down, lips pursed and no response. Turkey takes this as victory and laughs again.
“Hey, hey, it’s ok. I can understand the craze.”
“Wasn’t a craze-it was mania.”
- - -
{ amsterdam, holland :: february, 1637 }
They had only had the bulbs for thirty years, but Netherlands’ people had quickly fallen in love with them. He didn’t know quite what it was about them, but he loved them, too. Whether his emotions influenced his people, or the other way around, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it was getting somewhat ridiculous.
“Could you repeat that?” Netherlands asked slowly as he stared blandly at the merchant, not quite believing.
“I told you-twenty five hundred.” The salesman was a stocky man, with red hair shot through with grey. He didn’t quite know who Netherlands was, only that he was someone of considerable importance-and considerable wealth.
“Twenty five hundred guilder,” Netherlands muttered. “You’re kidding.”
“Look, do you want the bulb, or not?”
Netherlands clutched at his purse of coins with one hand and eyed the bulb longingly. Finally, biting down on his lower lip, he threw the purse at the merchant and snatched up the bulb.
“Goddamn robber,” he mumbled, as the man just grinned and saluted him mockingly with one hand.
He was nearly home when he noticed someone falling in-step beside him. Netherlands glanced up, recognized his companion, and rolled his eyes.
“Ottomanerijk,” he asked through strained teeth, “what are you doing here?”
Turkey smiled, his confident, brash, obnoxious smile. “I though that’d be obvious,” he said. “I came to laugh at you.”
Netherlands’ cheeks turned scarlet as he whipped around, his fist swinging out a moment too late as Turkey delicately side-stepped the punch.
“What, ya don’t find it funny?”
“I don’t think you’re funny.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who traded-what was it?-twelve acres of land! Twelve acres, for one little flower!”
“That wasn’t me,” Netherlands seethed. It had been one of the men in his government, who’d consulted Netherlands before making the trade, but still.
“Whatever you say, Hollanda. Whatever you say.”
“…’s your fault,” Netherlands said after a moment.
“Oh? And would you rather I took them back?”
The look on Netherlands’ face was answer enough. Turkey laughed again, but then his expression softened. He patted Netherlands on the shoulder, then smiled warmly.
“C’mon, I’ll treat you to a meal. You’re purse’s probably pretty light at the moment, am I right?”
- - -
Koffietijd now being officially over, the two countries are once more walking through their favorite flowers. Ironically enough, one side of the path is covered in orange tulips, the other in red.
“So, when Germany decided to be an ass an’ invaded you,” Turkey says, trying to reason something out, “You sent your princesses here?”
Netherlands shrugs. “Canada is a good friend. He kept them safe.”
“Ya could’ve sent them to me,” Turkey puts in quietly.
Netherlands rolls his eyes and looks squarely into Turkey’s gaze. “Turkije,” he says with stressed patience, “I don’t like you.”
“Yeah, yeah, you always say that.” Turkey shoves this opinion aside with a wave of his hand. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’m still not letting you in to the EU.”
“Whatever,” Turkey idles again, but his eyes flash with a hint of anger. Then he regains control and says, “Finish the story.”
“Juliana was pregnant,” Netherlands says at length. “But she couldn’t come home. So Canada said that the Ottawa Hospital was international territory.”
“So when the kid was born…”
“Margriet took citizenship from her mother.”
“I see. So Kanada took care of your princesses, and in return…”
“I gave him tulpen.”
“A hundred thousand of ‘em! You and your excess, Hollanda, I swear.”
“To say nothing of yours.”
Turkey smiles, somewhat sheepishly.
- - -
{ istanbul, turkey :: 1728 }
A hundred years after the height of “tulip mania” died out in the Netherlands, the same flowers were tightening their hold in the Ottoman Empire. And no one knew this better than the empire himself.
“Ok, the design’s fine, just make sure the water runs right,” Turkey said to the architects. They took the scrolls, covered in tile design and mechanics, bowed, and left the room, leaving the empire alone. He was seated cross-legged on plump cushions, and as the men left he reached up to strip off his elaborate hat and mask. His head thus freed, he ran his hands through his hair and fell back against the cushions with a sigh.
The chamber he was in was filled with tulips; fresh ones in vases, carved ones in the furniture, painted ones on the walls. Only the richest and most noble Ottomans were allowed to display the sacred flowers so prominently, and he, of course, fell right into that category.
“And you say I act funny,” a voice accused Turkey as footsteps alerted him to another presence.
Turkey sat bolt upright, and groped around behind him for his mask. Before he could put it back on, however, the voice said, “Don’t bother.”
Netherlands stood in Turkey’s private chambers, his arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t bother,” he repeated. “I already saw.”
“Well, then,” Turkey muttered. He ran his hands over his face, as though he couldn’t quite believe that someone had seen it. Then he put on his familiar lackadaisical smile and asked, “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I came to laugh at you,” Netherlands said deliberately, which caused Turkey himself to laugh.
“Eh,” he replied with a wave of his hand. “It’s a fad.”
“One that caused a rebellion,” Netherlands reminded him loosely.
“Well, yeah. But I dealt with that.”
“Good for you.”
Turkey shrugged, though he had to admit this one was shoe he liked better on the other foot. He rolled his eyes, then nodded to Netherlands. “So, while you’re here…ya wanna see my new fountain?”
Netherlands shrugged. By the time he’d seen the still-under-construction Fountain of Ahmed III, he had a more interesting reaction.
“You waste so much money and time on this,” he said, gesturing towards the fountain and its surroundings with one hand.
“I don’t like being thrifty,” Turkey responded deftly. “If I can give my people some joy by making beauty, why shouldn’t I?”
“Because you might need that money later.”
“Eh. I’ll deal with that when-if-I get to that point.”
“By the way,” Netherlands began after a moment, “it doesn’t work.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Smoking them.”
Turkey threw back his head and laughed, a ghastly gesture since his eyes were once more covered by the half-mask. “You actually tried?”
Netherlands turned scarlet but didn’t otherwise respond.
“You idiot,” Turkey told him fondly. “C’mon, I’ll show you my hookahs.”
Turkey chose not to mention, however, that he’d experimented in much the same way, only much earlier on.
- - -
As the sun sets, Turkey and Netherlands sit back in perhaps the only spot of grass along the lake that is not covered in tulips. Turkey has removed his half-mask, and now the two men can look each other fully in the eye.
“Ok,” Turkey conceded, a bit more honestly than before, “the kid did ok. With the flowers, I mean.”
“He always does,” Netherlands retorts, somewhat defensively.
Another few moments of silence, and then Netherlands reaches into his pocket and pulls something out-something which causes Turkey to laugh disbelievingly upon seeing them.
“What the hell is that, Hollanda?”
“Who says,” Netherlands responds wryly, “that you can’t smoke ‘em?”
What he he’s pulled out is two joints, delicately folded into the shape of tulips. His lighter flashes once, twice, and then he hands Turkey one of them.
“Isn’t this illegal, here?”
“Dunno. Never bother to check.”
Taking a deep breath of the lit joint, Turkey laughs again. “You’re a man after my own soul, Hollanda.”
“Still not getting into the Union,” Netherlands mutters, but his lips twitch upwards in the barest hint of a smile before he starts smoking his own “tulip.”
“Whatever,” Turkey grumbles, but he lets the matter drop.
As the sun sets around them, the two countries lie in companionable silence, the smoke gently wafting around them as they admire their flowers and the gleam of the sunset over the lake.
They’d deal with Canada and his drug laws later.
- - -
a dictionary of dutch-turkish-english translations;
→ laleler; “tulips” in turkish
→ tulpen; “tulips” in dutch
→ kanada; “canada” in turkish; the word remains the same in dutch
→ hollanda; “netherlands, or holland” in Turkish
→ turkije; “turkey” in dutch
→ ottomanerijk; “ottoman empire” in dutch
→ guilder; dutch currency from the seventeenth to twenty-first centuries
→ koffietijd; “tea time” in dutch
topics, time periods, and things mentioned in this story;
→ canadian tulip fesival; held annually in ottawa and gatineau, in honor of the hundred thousand tulip bulbs given to canada by the dutch government at the end of wwii. the canadian government had declared the maternity ward of ottawa hospital international territory, so that exiled princess julianna’s daughter would be born a dutch citizen.
→ tulip mania; period during dutch golden age during which tulip prices rose to exorbitant prices. the peak occurred in february 1637, and all prices/exchanges mentioned are historical.
→ tulip period; also called the “lale devri”, a period of ottoman history lasting from 1713 to 1780. a period of relative peace when the ottomans began orienting themselves towards europe, although there was the anti-tulip rebellion. characterized by tulip-era art and architecture, such as the fountain of ahmed iii.
→ tulip-shaped joints; they actually exist!
- - -
I really hope you enjoyed it, shizuka_indigo! And thank you so much to my betas, chromatic_coma and inquistiorial.
AUTHOR/ARTIST: absynthess
RECIPIENT: Shizuka shizuka_indigo
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: The Netherlands ; Turkey
RATING: PG-13
NOTES (optional): At the bottom. (:
SUMMARY: Netherlands and Turkey meet at Canada's annual Tulip Festival and discuss their relative claims to the flowers.
Laleler, Tulpen, Tulips
Normally he doesn’t bother with these sorts of things, as a rule. For the past few decades, he’s been working hard to foster a favorable and intimidating reputation, and something like this wouldn’t exactly help. Still, when he’d heard about this, he couldn’t help but be curious. And so, here he is.
“Though where Kanada gets off having a festival for my flowers, I’ll never know,” Turkey grumbles under his breath. He’s walking along one of the pathways surrounding Dow’s Lake, which has been surrounded by nearly 300,000 bulbs for the occasion. Though Turkey wears a scowl on his face, seeing the brilliant blend of colors and bulbs heartens him.
“Maybe the kid isn’t doin’ such a bad job, after all,” he concedes, reaching up to adjust his half-mask. He’s dressed casually, in jeans and his customary green jacket, the hood of which is pulled up over his ears. His dark hair juts out from behind it and over his mask, so that the entire upper part of his face is covered. A single, brilliantly red tulip bulb pops out from his breast pocket.
“Then again, it’s hard to mess up my flowers.” He’s mumbling to himself, and he knows it. Still, most of the other guests at the festivals pay him no heed, absorbed as they are in the flowers. Which is how he wants it; he’d prefer to come and go from Ottawa in cognito, if he can manage it.
“Your flowers?” A voice behind him asks blandly. Turkey freezes, his eyebrows tilting downwards dangerously, but he doesn’t turn around just yet.
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “My flowers. The squirt’s just borrowin’ them.”
“Not yours,” his companion says, in a rougher voice than before. Turkey forces his lips into a crooked smile as he turns around to look.
“Look, I kinda invented them,” he says lazily.
The Netherlands purses his lips, but one word still escapes: “Shit.”
“Oh, hey, Hollanda,” Turkey says, suddenly in a much better mood. “What was that you were saying?”
“I gave Canada the flowers,” Netherlands says, not looking at all pleased. But he’s embarrassed, and it shows in the color that is slowly but steadily creeping to his cheeks.
“Of course you did.” Turkey’s smile is so wide that Netherlands can see every single one of his teeth. “But where’d you get ‘em?”
Netherlands turns his head to one side and mutters something out of the corner of his mouth. Turkey crows with laughter and cups one hand over his ear.
“C’mon, Hollanda: I can’t hear you.”
Netherlands’ face is nearly scarlet, now, and given its shape and his hair, his head is an ironically close match to the tulip sticking out of Turkey’s pocket. Finally, he crosses his arms over his chest and spits out, “Fucking Turkije gave me the tulips.”
Turkey’s smile is feral. “And don’t you ever forget it.”
- - -
{ amsterdam, holland :: early 17th century }
In a time when Netherlands could still be quite accurately called “Holland”, the nation in question was lazing just outside of his capital city. He leaned back in the grass, a pipe at his lips and a lazy expression on his face. At that moment, with his eyes half-closed and his arms behind his head, he looked utterly at ease. And then something shattered that peace.
“Hollanda!” The voice calling out to him was brash, rough, and loud. An excellent fit for the empire it belonged to.
“Ottomanerijk,” Netherlands mumbled, not bothering to sit up.
“Come on, Hollanda, show a little courtesy! This is the first time we’ve met, after all!”
“But we’ve heard about each other.” Netherlands’ voice was still very low, very calm. Whether it was just the drugs at work or the fact that he needed to be deadly calm in order to leash his anger, he didn’t know.
Turkey, not to be dissuaded, plopped himself down next to the other nation. He didn’t lean completely back, like Netherlands, but instead crossed his legs one over the other and settled his hands in his lap. “So, d’you still want ‘em, or not?”
At this, Netherlands perked up significantly. He sat up next to Turkey, and nodded emphatically. However, then Turkey held up one restraining hand.
“What?” Netherlands snapped out the word.
“I only hand over my most prized flowers to my friends. And, rude as you are, I don’t think we’re friends yet.”
The look of consternation on Netherlands’ face was almost laughable. Finally, he grumbled, “And how do we become friends?”
Turkey shrugged. Then he gave Netherlands an once-over, stroking his chin. Netherlands was almost scared of the response he’d receive, but then Turkey let out a barking laugh and said, “We could smoke together.”
That Netherlands could live with. Wordlessly, he pulled out his snuff box, and Turkey pulled out his long, Ottoman pipe. Resting back against the Dutch grass, the two nations lazily blew smoke rings and sat together in companionable silence, looking at the impossibly blue sky.
And when it was done, Turkey handed over the flowers that would tie the two together throughout history. On the matter, he had only this to say:
“Just don’t try to smoke ‘em.”
- - -
“Seriously, though, I can’t believe you sometimes,” Turkey laughs later that afternoon, as the two nations sit down for coffee. They both drink the blackest brew, but Turkey couples his with pastries drowned in powdered sugar, while Netherlands takes his with mixed with an equal serving of milk and a single biscuit.
“Didn’t know it was you,” Netherlands says in his reserved, stoic tone. The café he’s chosen is a nice one, off to the side of the lake so that the rainbow plumes of flowers are still visible. He finishes mixing his coffee and raises the mug to his lips.
“Well, you should be more careful, shouldn’t ya?” Smack, smack. One pastry disappears in two quick bites.
Netherlands shrugs. “I come here ev’ry year. You’re never here.”
“Some of us don’t have all the cash n’ time to burn, coming to Kanada.”
The other country takes a deliberate bite out of his biscuit. “It’s special,” is his only response.
“Even if it weren’t,” Turkey says accusingly, “you’d still come. You love burnin’ money on flowers.”
Netherlands simply stares Turkey down, lips pursed and no response. Turkey takes this as victory and laughs again.
“Hey, hey, it’s ok. I can understand the craze.”
“Wasn’t a craze-it was mania.”
- - -
{ amsterdam, holland :: february, 1637 }
They had only had the bulbs for thirty years, but Netherlands’ people had quickly fallen in love with them. He didn’t know quite what it was about them, but he loved them, too. Whether his emotions influenced his people, or the other way around, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it was getting somewhat ridiculous.
“Could you repeat that?” Netherlands asked slowly as he stared blandly at the merchant, not quite believing.
“I told you-twenty five hundred.” The salesman was a stocky man, with red hair shot through with grey. He didn’t quite know who Netherlands was, only that he was someone of considerable importance-and considerable wealth.
“Twenty five hundred guilder,” Netherlands muttered. “You’re kidding.”
“Look, do you want the bulb, or not?”
Netherlands clutched at his purse of coins with one hand and eyed the bulb longingly. Finally, biting down on his lower lip, he threw the purse at the merchant and snatched up the bulb.
“Goddamn robber,” he mumbled, as the man just grinned and saluted him mockingly with one hand.
He was nearly home when he noticed someone falling in-step beside him. Netherlands glanced up, recognized his companion, and rolled his eyes.
“Ottomanerijk,” he asked through strained teeth, “what are you doing here?”
Turkey smiled, his confident, brash, obnoxious smile. “I though that’d be obvious,” he said. “I came to laugh at you.”
Netherlands’ cheeks turned scarlet as he whipped around, his fist swinging out a moment too late as Turkey delicately side-stepped the punch.
“What, ya don’t find it funny?”
“I don’t think you’re funny.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who traded-what was it?-twelve acres of land! Twelve acres, for one little flower!”
“That wasn’t me,” Netherlands seethed. It had been one of the men in his government, who’d consulted Netherlands before making the trade, but still.
“Whatever you say, Hollanda. Whatever you say.”
“…’s your fault,” Netherlands said after a moment.
“Oh? And would you rather I took them back?”
The look on Netherlands’ face was answer enough. Turkey laughed again, but then his expression softened. He patted Netherlands on the shoulder, then smiled warmly.
“C’mon, I’ll treat you to a meal. You’re purse’s probably pretty light at the moment, am I right?”
- - -
Koffietijd now being officially over, the two countries are once more walking through their favorite flowers. Ironically enough, one side of the path is covered in orange tulips, the other in red.
“So, when Germany decided to be an ass an’ invaded you,” Turkey says, trying to reason something out, “You sent your princesses here?”
Netherlands shrugs. “Canada is a good friend. He kept them safe.”
“Ya could’ve sent them to me,” Turkey puts in quietly.
Netherlands rolls his eyes and looks squarely into Turkey’s gaze. “Turkije,” he says with stressed patience, “I don’t like you.”
“Yeah, yeah, you always say that.” Turkey shoves this opinion aside with a wave of his hand. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’m still not letting you in to the EU.”
“Whatever,” Turkey idles again, but his eyes flash with a hint of anger. Then he regains control and says, “Finish the story.”
“Juliana was pregnant,” Netherlands says at length. “But she couldn’t come home. So Canada said that the Ottawa Hospital was international territory.”
“So when the kid was born…”
“Margriet took citizenship from her mother.”
“I see. So Kanada took care of your princesses, and in return…”
“I gave him tulpen.”
“A hundred thousand of ‘em! You and your excess, Hollanda, I swear.”
“To say nothing of yours.”
Turkey smiles, somewhat sheepishly.
- - -
{ istanbul, turkey :: 1728 }
A hundred years after the height of “tulip mania” died out in the Netherlands, the same flowers were tightening their hold in the Ottoman Empire. And no one knew this better than the empire himself.
“Ok, the design’s fine, just make sure the water runs right,” Turkey said to the architects. They took the scrolls, covered in tile design and mechanics, bowed, and left the room, leaving the empire alone. He was seated cross-legged on plump cushions, and as the men left he reached up to strip off his elaborate hat and mask. His head thus freed, he ran his hands through his hair and fell back against the cushions with a sigh.
The chamber he was in was filled with tulips; fresh ones in vases, carved ones in the furniture, painted ones on the walls. Only the richest and most noble Ottomans were allowed to display the sacred flowers so prominently, and he, of course, fell right into that category.
“And you say I act funny,” a voice accused Turkey as footsteps alerted him to another presence.
Turkey sat bolt upright, and groped around behind him for his mask. Before he could put it back on, however, the voice said, “Don’t bother.”
Netherlands stood in Turkey’s private chambers, his arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t bother,” he repeated. “I already saw.”
“Well, then,” Turkey muttered. He ran his hands over his face, as though he couldn’t quite believe that someone had seen it. Then he put on his familiar lackadaisical smile and asked, “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I came to laugh at you,” Netherlands said deliberately, which caused Turkey himself to laugh.
“Eh,” he replied with a wave of his hand. “It’s a fad.”
“One that caused a rebellion,” Netherlands reminded him loosely.
“Well, yeah. But I dealt with that.”
“Good for you.”
Turkey shrugged, though he had to admit this one was shoe he liked better on the other foot. He rolled his eyes, then nodded to Netherlands. “So, while you’re here…ya wanna see my new fountain?”
Netherlands shrugged. By the time he’d seen the still-under-construction Fountain of Ahmed III, he had a more interesting reaction.
“You waste so much money and time on this,” he said, gesturing towards the fountain and its surroundings with one hand.
“I don’t like being thrifty,” Turkey responded deftly. “If I can give my people some joy by making beauty, why shouldn’t I?”
“Because you might need that money later.”
“Eh. I’ll deal with that when-if-I get to that point.”
“By the way,” Netherlands began after a moment, “it doesn’t work.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Smoking them.”
Turkey threw back his head and laughed, a ghastly gesture since his eyes were once more covered by the half-mask. “You actually tried?”
Netherlands turned scarlet but didn’t otherwise respond.
“You idiot,” Turkey told him fondly. “C’mon, I’ll show you my hookahs.”
Turkey chose not to mention, however, that he’d experimented in much the same way, only much earlier on.
- - -
As the sun sets, Turkey and Netherlands sit back in perhaps the only spot of grass along the lake that is not covered in tulips. Turkey has removed his half-mask, and now the two men can look each other fully in the eye.
“Ok,” Turkey conceded, a bit more honestly than before, “the kid did ok. With the flowers, I mean.”
“He always does,” Netherlands retorts, somewhat defensively.
Another few moments of silence, and then Netherlands reaches into his pocket and pulls something out-something which causes Turkey to laugh disbelievingly upon seeing them.
“What the hell is that, Hollanda?”
“Who says,” Netherlands responds wryly, “that you can’t smoke ‘em?”
What he he’s pulled out is two joints, delicately folded into the shape of tulips. His lighter flashes once, twice, and then he hands Turkey one of them.
“Isn’t this illegal, here?”
“Dunno. Never bother to check.”
Taking a deep breath of the lit joint, Turkey laughs again. “You’re a man after my own soul, Hollanda.”
“Still not getting into the Union,” Netherlands mutters, but his lips twitch upwards in the barest hint of a smile before he starts smoking his own “tulip.”
“Whatever,” Turkey grumbles, but he lets the matter drop.
As the sun sets around them, the two countries lie in companionable silence, the smoke gently wafting around them as they admire their flowers and the gleam of the sunset over the lake.
They’d deal with Canada and his drug laws later.
- - -
a dictionary of dutch-turkish-english translations;
→ laleler; “tulips” in turkish
→ tulpen; “tulips” in dutch
→ kanada; “canada” in turkish; the word remains the same in dutch
→ hollanda; “netherlands, or holland” in Turkish
→ turkije; “turkey” in dutch
→ ottomanerijk; “ottoman empire” in dutch
→ guilder; dutch currency from the seventeenth to twenty-first centuries
→ koffietijd; “tea time” in dutch
topics, time periods, and things mentioned in this story;
→ canadian tulip fesival; held annually in ottawa and gatineau, in honor of the hundred thousand tulip bulbs given to canada by the dutch government at the end of wwii. the canadian government had declared the maternity ward of ottawa hospital international territory, so that exiled princess julianna’s daughter would be born a dutch citizen.
→ tulip mania; period during dutch golden age during which tulip prices rose to exorbitant prices. the peak occurred in february 1637, and all prices/exchanges mentioned are historical.
→ tulip period; also called the “lale devri”, a period of ottoman history lasting from 1713 to 1780. a period of relative peace when the ottomans began orienting themselves towards europe, although there was the anti-tulip rebellion. characterized by tulip-era art and architecture, such as the fountain of ahmed iii.
→ tulip-shaped joints; they actually exist!
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I really hope you enjoyed it, shizuka_indigo! And thank you so much to my betas, chromatic_coma and inquistiorial.