Work Text:
A persistent buzzing woke Shane from his sleep. He reached sleepily for his phone buzzing on the nightstand. Reluctantly, Shane shifted out of Ilya’s sleepy embrace to check who could be calling him at this hour. He blinked at the time on his lock screen.
6:42
Shane yawned. Okay, it wasn’t as early as he first thought. He usually woke up just before 7 most days. He’d always been more of a morning person, but last night’s game had taken a lot out of him.
Ouch, why did Toronto have to go so hard? Stupid fucking Dallas Kent had caught him in the ribs with his stick. When Ilya met him at Shane’s apartment after their respective games, he looked like he wanted to murder someone.
“It’s fine,” Shane reassured him.
“Moy pomidor, you look like granat. So red and spotted.”
“I’m not a…what is that, again? A pomegranate?”
“Yes, look at these bumps, like seeds!” Ilya fumed. “Sweetheart, you are hurting.” He wrapped an ice pack in a towel, carefully placed it over Shane’s angry ribs, then settled next to him on the couch. “I don’t like when you are hurting,” he whispered, as he gently placed his arm across Shane’s shoulders and snuggled him to his chest.
“It’s part of the game, Ilya. You know this,” Shane sighed. “We take hits every game. This one isn’t even that bad. The hit from Marleau was much worse.”
“Don’t remind me. I have barely forgiven Marly for that.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Shane chuckled, as he lifted his head to kiss his boyfriend on the chin.
“You missed. You have terrible aim when not on skates,” Ilya teased.
“No, I don’t. I hit what I aim for,” he protested. “I was aiming for your chin.”
“Solnyshko, give me kiss. Proper one, this time. Then we go to sleep.”
***
Shane poured himself a steaming mug of coffee and sat down at the table to figure out why his phone had been so aggressively chirping at him. He checked his phone, but had no missed calls. His only texts had been from last night from his mom worrying about his ribs, his dad asking if Ilya had arrived safely from Ottawa, and from Hayden, inviting him over for burgers next week after the game. He opened Instagram and found he’d been tagged in Montreal’s stories during the game last night, so of course there were a ton of notifications about that. He nearly closed out of the app, when a new direct message caught his eye. Correction, 42 new messages. He tapped on the first message in his inbox.
SQUIRREL SUPREMACY 🐿️🏒
The chat only had 3 members, Shane, Ilya, and no profile picture. Just the handle @arlo_the_auteur.
What the fuck is this? What has Ilya gotten me involved with this time?
Shane had been added to this group chat at 6:30 this morning by this Arlo character. He scrolled up to see if he could figure out what was happening, and only got more confused by what he read.
SQUIRREL SUPREMACY 🐿️🏒
[@rozanov_official]: Arlo. Wake up. I have idea.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Mr. Rozanov, I must protest! I was in the midst of a truly transcendent dream sequence involving a quill pen and a very articulate swan.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Furthermore, while I am eternally grateful for your rescue from the labyrinth of David’s mind, I find your own mental landscape… jarring.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Why is there so much techno? It feels as though my very atoms are being rearranged by a bass drop. David’s mind was like a soft-knit sweater; yours is like a strobe light in a blender.
[@rozanov_official]: Is workout playlist. Get used to it, malen'kaya belka. David is too crowded. Too many feelings about loons and feelings about feelings. Here, we have focus. Also, I have better snacks.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I am a creature of the intellectual sort, Ilya! I require literary sustenance! A nut is merely a caloric unit, but a metaphor? A metaphor is a feast for the soul!
[@rozanov_official]: You are squirrel. You have tiny brain like walnut. Do not give me philosophy. I see you looking at the fancy cashews on my counter. You want the salt? You stay in my head, you do what I say.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Your assessment of my dietary requirements is quite clichéd, though I will concede that the salt-to-crunch ratio of those cashews is… formidable.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: And what, pray tell, does a professional athlete require of a wordsmith such as myself? Are we to draft a manifesto? A sweeping epic of the ice? Please tell me you do not want me to write something as mundane as a biography.
[@rozanov_official]: I need you to find the "pretentious" words. Next time Shane’s coach talks to me about "synergy" and "defensive responsibility," I want you to give me word that makes him feel like idiot.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Ah! You wish to weaponize my vocabulary. You want me to be your linguistic mercenary! To unleash a bombardment of polysyllabic disdain upon the unsuspecting!
[@rozanov_official]: Now you get it. Welcome to Boston. I buy you a tiny gold chain tomorrow.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: A gold chain? Real 24-karat? I suppose it would add a certain "nouveau riche" flair to my ensemble. Very well. I accept this partnership.
[@rozanov_official]: Good. Now stop thinking about swan. Is embarrassing.
This makes absolutely no sense. Ilya is talking to a crazy person. That has to be it. Why is he calling them a squirrel? He’s never even called me that! Was this pet name already taken by someone else? Clearly it belongs to whoever Arlo is. And Ilya’s going to buy them jewelry? Has he taken a… Shane cringed…lover? What the actual fuck?!
Before he spiraled further, Shane exited the chat and scrolled down to a direct message thread from this Arlo.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: @shanehollander24, sir, I require your assistance. Please forgive this intrusion, but I really do not understand how Mr. Rozanov’s mind works.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: He’s quite brilliant, I think. He constructs insults with a dexterity and cunning I have never before seen.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: When he speaks of you, he is quite poetic, albeit rather inappropriate?
[@arlo_the_auteur]: NSFW as the kids would say. Well, since it was added to the dictionary three years ago, I suppose I accept it as part of everyday parlance.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: He’s also helped me out of a jam when I’ve gotten caught in some mindtrap, endlessly chasing a story that goes nowhere but back in on itself.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: That’s how I met him, actually. I was stuck inside your father’s mind, trying to understand how to best share his perspective with the world.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Did you know the amount of numbers that exist in your father’s brain? So many numbers, I got distracted.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I had been on the trail of this sickly, injured loon, and next thing I knew, I was confronted with all of these sums and figures.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I’ve never been good with numbers. I am a wordsmith after all. So I was ill-equipped to face these numerical foes. I lost the plot entirely as dollar signs and decimals and percentages bombarded me.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I truly feared for my short life. I had barely begun to tell the stories I was born to tell. And to be taken out by MATH, of all things? The shame would be unbearable.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: My cousin plot bunnies would never be allowed to mourn me. It would be a black mark on my family’s name. How could my dear mother show her face in fan-fic circles again?
[@arlo_the_auteur]: But I’m getting off track. Mr. Rozanov must have sensed my distress, for he swooped in like a medieval knight on a brave steed, coaxed me out from the corner in which I cowered, and promised to stay with me until I found the loon and the rest of the story I was after.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: We ended up writing a rather sweet story about your father.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Did you know he loves your mother very much? His memories of her are the tastiest, honey-sweet and warm.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Your grandfather on the other hand. Well, I really shouldn’t divulge much about him. The less said the better.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Just know that rotting garbage is more satisfying to the palate than the few scraps of his memory I was force-fed.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: But back to Ilya. Do you mind that I call him that? He asked me to. He said “Mr. Rozanov” was too stuffy. He also thinks that I’m too stuffy, I fear.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: He is trying to “loosen me up”. But I really don’t know what that means.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: He said it worked well with you, but I think he meant that in another context entirely, one that I assure you neither of us has any interest in exploring.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Although if the two of you would ever like me to tell any of those stories, I would be honored.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I’ve never had the opportunity to write about such things, but I think I could be quite adept at weaving such a tale. Or tail as it were.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: But I digress.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: The point of all of this is to say that I would dearly love to craft a story from Ilya’s perspective. I just do not know how to start.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: His mind has so many twists and turns and layers that I fear I may become lost again, although I sincerely doubt that I’m likely to be felled by arithmetic in his brain.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: That isn’t to say that Ilya isn’t brilliant. He very much is. I have the utmost respect for his mind, which is why I’m so terribly worried that I won’t be able to do him justice.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: And since he is my anchor when I get “lost in the sauce” as he puts it, I really don’t know who to turn to for help in this matter.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: We’ve grown quite close these past few weeks. I quite enjoy his company, although I do still find his mind can be too loud sometimes.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: How do you handle his taste in music? It’s what my friend and fellow plot bunny, Greg, calls “eclectic”. I call it chaotic.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Ilya says I have horrible musical taste. He was quite annoyed the other day when I listened to “Flight of the Bumblebee” on loop for three hours. I was in the zone, and it helps me stay focused.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Do you have trouble staying focused? Ilya says I have the attention span of a sugar-addicted toddler, but really, I think that description is quite unfair. I CAN focus. Sometimes. Maybe.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: What were we talking about again?
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Ah, yes. Mr. Rozanov. Ilya. His brain.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Goodness, you must think I’m like some sort of zombie. I swear, I really do not eat brains.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Just memories, to help sustain the plot. And not them in their entirety. Small morsels to give me a clear taste of how they season the story.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Ilya thinks I must eat nuts, since I’m a squirrel. It’s really so cliched, a squirrel eating nuts. I’m also not a regular squirrel, as I’ve tried to explain to him many times.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I am a plot squirrel and a very serious writer.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I may be young and not as accomplished as my cousins or my friend, Greg, but I assure you, I make up for my lack of experience with my boundless enthusiasm.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: So I humbly beseech you, Mr. Hollander. Please say you will assist me in telling the story of Ilya.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: He deserves to have his day in the sun, don’t you agree?
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I have taken the liberty of adding you to my chat with Ilya. He has given permission, as he thinks you will help me be more brave. He says you’re very brave.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Thank you for your time and consideration of this matter. I hope you will graciously consider accepting my request.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I have the honor to be your obedient servant, A. Squirrel.
Shane stared at his phone.
A squirrel…no, a Plot Squirrel…was friends with Ilya Rozanov.
Shane knew that Ilya had a soft spot for animals and children. It was one of the things he loved most about his boyfriend, how sweet he was with the Pike children, how much he enjoyed playing with the dogs from the animal shelter, when the Raiders helped out during an adoption fair. But this was a level of affection for animals that Shane didn’t know what to do with.
“Moya lyubov', where did you go?” Ilya rasped from the hallway.
“In here,” Shane responded, moving back to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee.
Ilya met him next to the coffee pot and backed him into the counter. “Good morning, kotenok. What are you doing with your phone?”
Shane looked up from his phone and forgot entirely why he was holding it. God, his boyfriend was sexy first thing in the morning. Really, Ilya Rozanov was dead sexy all the time, but something about seeing him like this, hair rumpled, eyes still softened from sleep, made Shane’s body go warm and fizzy.
No one gets to see him like this. Just me. Only me.
The possessive beast in Shane’s chest growled a bit at the thought. He reached for Ilya’s face to give him a thorough kiss. Ilya chuckled into his mouth as he pulled Shane’s hips closer to his own, aligning their hardening…
Shane’s phone buzzed in his hand, breaking the moment.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I see we’re starting the NSFW story early today.
Shane rolled his eyes. And then remembered that Ilya had a lot of explaining to do.
***
“So you’ve adopted a plot squirrel. That you found. In my dad’s brain.” Shane was trying to remain calm, but when he said it out loud, he could hear how crazy it sounded.
“Da, is true,” Ilya responded, while calmly sipping his coffee.
“Do you get how insane this is? You’re talking to a fucking rodent on Instagram!”
Ilya set his cup down on the counter and placed his strong hands firmly on Shane’s shoulders, to ground him. “Moya gazonokosilka, breathe. You are safe. Everything is fine.”
Shane stormed away from Ilya, forcing him to break his hold on Shane. “Don’t call me your fucking lawnmower right now, you asshole! Everything is NOT fine! Am I having a psychotic break?! Are you having one?? What the fuck, Rozanov?”
Shane stopped pacing at the sound of Ilya’s warm chuckle.
“Arlo says you are being very dramatic. He did not know you had it in you. He wants to ‘work with that’ if you will not be too upset.”
“Seriously?? He’s writing about me right now? Writing about THIS??” Shane was incredulous.
“Moya lyubov', he is Muse. He cannot help what he likes,” Ilya soothed, pulling Shane into his arms.
“I still think this is stupid,” Shane muttered petulantly into Ilya’s broad chest. “Great, I’m sure he’s giving me all the worst descriptors too.”
“He is dramatic, too. Like you. But, no. Arlo is good squirrel. You will see. He tells stories with great care. It matters very much to him to tell our thoughts to the world in a good way. Respectful. He does not want to hurt anyone he writes about.”
Shane pulled back to look into Ilya’s eyes as he spoke. “He wants to tell your story, you know? And he wants my help, in case he gets stuck in your brain.”
Ilya let his arms drop as he moved away from Shane to look out the dining room window. “He may not like it there. I do not like it there most days.”
Shane followed him and hugged Ilya from behind, pulling Ilya's back against his own chest. “Ilya,” Shane breathed. “You know that I love you, right?”
Ilya nodded, and Shane sighed.
“I’ll help Arlo. He’s right. You do deserve your moment in the sun. And if you trust Arlo, then I can trust him. I’ll help him if he gets lost in your brain. I’ll help you too, when you get lost in there. I will always find you and bring you back to me, okay?”
“Oke.” Ilya’s voice was choked with emotion.
Shane’s phone buzzed with a new message alert.
SQUIRREL SUPREMACY 🐿️🏒
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Thank you both for trusting me. I will do my very best to tell your stories as respectfully as possible. I am honored to know you.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Don’t tell anyone else, but your memories of each other are the richest I’ve ever tasted. The yearning brings a smokiness to the sweetness of your love. And the affectionate chirping is buttery and salty.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Yes, yes, these tasting notes are important to capture in my work. They help the story flood the senses.
[@shane_hollander24]: Arlo, can you give us some time, please? I’d like to spend quality time with my boyfriend now. It’s our only day off together for the next 2 months.
[@Rozanov_official]: Yes, Arlo. My very sexy boyfriend wants me to fuck him now.
[@shane_hollander24]: Ilya! You can’t say that to an impressionable, young plot squirrel!
[@Rozanov_official]: Is true, though. And Arlo wants to write our truth, yes?
[@shane_hollander24]: …fine. But later, Arlo, okay? Not this time.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: This is going to be SO. MUCH. FUN!!!!
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I mean, I suppose I can be magnanimous and grant you a reprieve. I have quite enough "sensory data" to begin the prologue anyway.
[@arlo_the_auteur]: I’ll tell The Author she can stop spiraling now. The plot has officially moved. I’ll go find some other character’s memories to snack on whilst I wait. Or maybe those cashews in the pantry…
[@arlo_the_auteur]: Au revoir, mes amis! Don't do anything I wouldn't write about! (Which, according to Ilya, is a very short list.)