Work Text:
(cover art by compatiblehollanov on tumblr)
– 🦆–
There is a bird in Ilya’s tomato patch.
There’s a bird, and normally Ilya wouldn’t be too alarmed, but a longer look makes him suspicious. He squints at the window, and spots a black and white shape in the mulch. Massive. Feathered. Red eyes glinting like stoplights.
Fuck.
Ilya’s only had one and a half cups of coffee today. His husband is gone — on a camping trip that JJ had set up, in an attempt to “loosen up” from stress — and is without cellphone service. Ilya is not well-equipped to deal with this kind of shit on a Tuesday morning.
It’s a loon. Ilya knows this because he fucking hates those things, learned what they were from Shane — they’re harmless, Ilya, Shane had said. There’s just no fucking reason why a bird should make any sort of noise that resembles a wolf. None.
And, okay, that’s a loon. Loons aren’t dangerous. Ilya has to remind himself of that. He’ll be fine as long as it doesn’t start fucking making those loon noises, or as long as it doesn’t start—
Oh.
As long as it doesn’t start doing that.
“Blyad!” (Fuck!) Ilya shouts. The bird has started stomping through the garden, wings half-flared, long beak stabbing at the dirt and sending soil flying. “Do not,” Ilya starts, hurriedly setting his mug down, coffee sloshing over the rim. He rushes to the door, fumbling to shove his feet into his slides. He needs to get outside before the loon even gets close to Big Boy.
He watches as the bird waddles haphazardly, frantically even, teetering closer to the pot holding Big Boy. Which, no. Out of all the four cherry tomato plants, that’s the best one. The largest one, with dozens of perfect cherry tomatoes scattered along its vines, almost ripe and ready. His pride and joy. Ilya was going to brag about it to Shane when he got back. If there even is going to be a Big Boy for Shane to come home to.
The patio doors slam open with a bang as he strides out, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his slides slapping the deck as he goes. He frantically descends down the steps and onto the grass, stopping in front of the tomato patch. The loon freezes mid trample, then tilts its head sharply to one side. Those red eyes lock straight on him.
Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up.
“You think you can just walk in here and try to destroy Big Boy? Fuck no. Pizdets (This is fucked), go back to lake before I make you regret it, stupid wolf bird.”
The thing doesn’t flee. It starts moving again, awkward, frantic lunges forward, wings flapping for balance, neck stretched out, beak open like it’s about to scream. A long, mournful howl rolls out of it, raw and echoing off the house. It sounds almost… desperate.
Despite himself, Ilya steps back half a pace.
“Ty chto, seryozno? (Are you serious?),” he mutters. “You want to fight me over tomatoes?”
He snatches the bright yellow watering can—Shane’s dumb joke gift from last summer, the one that says “World’s Okayest Tomato Dad” in black print—and grips it tight, ready to swing.
“Back off. Or I’ll send you to the Rideau Canal, stupid bird.”
The loon keeps coming, skidding to a halt inches from his feet. Its chest heaves under sleek feathers. Those red eyes stare up, unblinking, intense as hell. A short, sharp huff escapes its beak, sounding frustrated, sounding, almost—bitchy for a bird.
Ilya scowls down at it.
“Nu? (Well?) What? You got something to say?”
The bird opens its beak again. Another long, wavering yodel spills into the air, pleading, echoing through the quiet secluded morning.
Ilya flinches, just a little. The sound hits somewhere in his chest, weirdly familiar in a way he can’t place.
He shakes it off, muttering, “Da ladno (Come on), shut up already. Idi na khuy (Fuck off), before I call animal control and they laugh at both of us.”
He raises the watering can higher.
“Last chance, wolf bird. Move, or we do this the hard way.”
The loon doesn’t budge. Just stares. Waiting.
There’s no manual for this. No handbook that exists for when you’re trying to deal with a crazy loon. Three seconds pass by. Then five.
Ilya is in a staring contest with a bird. A bird who has definitely called his bluff by now.
“What the fuck,” he mumbles, before turning on his heel. He spins back around, points at the bird with the watering can. “Do not,” he says, as if the loon can even understand a lick of English, “touch Big Boy. Okay?”
A beat passes. Then the loon shuffles a pace to the right. Away from the tomato planter.
Ilya blinks. The loon blinks back.
“Okay,” Ilya says, more to himself than anything. “Okay,” he repeats again, a bit louder this time. He puts the watering can back on the ground and turns toward the cottage.
It takes him approximately three seconds for him to realize that the shuffling behind him is coming from the bird. Swivelling around, Ilya sees the loon hopping desperately toward him, wings flapping as if to gain momentum.
Despite having lived in Canada for a while now, Ilya still hasn’t gotten accustomed to Canadian wildlife. Especially when said wildlife is headed straight toward him.
“No,” Ilya hisses, scurrying away from the bird. “Do not come near me.”
At Ilya’s words, the bird lets out a small wail—less piercing, more sad. The sound hits Ilya’s chest with a pang of pity.
“Go back home,” Ilya tells the bird, a little gentler. He gestures toward the lake with his hand. He remembers Shane telling him something about how loons aren’t meant to live out of the water, how their hind legs prevent them from travelling efficiently on land.
The bird lets out another cry then, and instinctively, Ilya flinches.
Immediately, the loon stops—beak still open, noise dying in its throat abruptly. As if it noticed Ilya’s discomfort. Then the loon shuffles toward him again, albeit a little slower. Cautiously, even.
Suddenly, it occurs to Ilya that there’s a possibility that this bird could be in trouble. Leaning forward a little, he peers at the bird.
“Are you injured?” Ilya hears himself saying out loud. He doesn’t know what an injured loon looks like. Shane would know, probably.
Which is when the loon shakes his head.
And a shake isn’t even really the best way to describe the movement the bird’s head makes, but Ilya doesn’t really know what else to call the flinging of its long neck flopping its head side to side other than that.
Ilya blinks. “Did you just… shake your head?” he asks the bird, immediately feeling stupid. There’s no way that bird just understood what he said. He’s about to laugh out loud at himself until the bird fucking nods. This wild fucking animal moves its head up and down as if to say, Yes, I did.
Ilya stares wide-eyed at the loon. The loon stares back at him, its red eyes unblinking.
Breathing in deeply, Ilya tries to calm his racing heart. Maybe, in the haste to get his slides on, he tripped and fell, bumping his head. Maybe he’s currently unconscious on the cottage floor. Yes. That must be it.
Ilya pinches himself on the arm, just to be sure. He feels the sting. Real life, then.
“Okay,” Ilya starts. “Uhhhh, what colour is watering can?” he asks, pointing to the yellow can he had just placed on the ground.
The loon stares at him. Ilya rolls his eyes. Right. Yes or no questions only.
“Is watering can… blue?”
The loon shakes its head. No.
“Is it yellow?”
The loon nods.
So this bird understands English. Okay. Ilya doesn’t know what to do with that information.
He takes a deep breath, pressing his hands to his head in an attempt to ground himself. The movement makes his tank ride up a little bit.
The loon drops its gaze from Ilya’s face to the exposed skin on his stomach, right above the low sling of his sweatpants. For a moment, it stares.
There’s no way.
Ilya freezes. “Did you just check me out?”
The loon hesitates. Ilya didn’t think loons could look flustered, but this one does. Its head tilts a little, before it nods—slowly, deliberately.
Ilya’s brain short circuits for a second. He feels his face heat up, a ridiculous mix of disbelief and something dangerously close to flattery bubbling in his chest.
Without thinking, he blurts out, “You think I am sexy?”
And the loon—the loon with critical thinking skills—nods its little head, up and down.
Ilya lets out a bark of disbelief. A bird. A fucking bird just checked him out. At least the bird has good taste.
“Okay, so, you can understand me?” he checks, just to be sure. One can never be too sure in this type of situation. Not that anyone has ever been in this type of situation before.
He receives an enthusiastic nod from the loon.
Ilya rubs a hand over his face, the last traces of adrenaline fading. The loon isn’t attacking. It isn’t trying to wreck Big Boy. It just… has fucking consciousness.
Ilya takes one slow step backward. The loon immediately shuffles forward, webbed feet slapping softly against the wet grass. Its body rocks side to side in that clumsy waddle, sleek black and white feathers rustling, long neck craned forward so the beak points straight at Ilya’s chest.
Ilya takes the two steps up onto the patio.
The loon attempts to follow him.
Ilya is not a loon expert. Still, he knows that most loons would not even try to climb steps. Their legs are not designed for it.
The loon’s beak points down toward its feet, its eyes focused on each slow, deliberate movement. If a loon could show concentration, this one is managing it. It uses a combination of its wing, long neck, and legs to roll itself up onto the first step.
Ilya’s brows rise in surprise. He hadn’t expected this level of problem solving. Answering yes or no questions is one thing, but the loon is turning its evolutionary disadvantages into a slow motion victory over architecture.
It repeats the same process for the second step. Before Ilya knows it, the loon is directly in front of him again on the patio.
He looks down at the bird as it stares up at him with those red eyes.
“Very impressive work, bird.”
The loon gives a small, awkward little shrug with its wings, the motion almost bashful.
“So, you are going to follow me like lost puppy now?”
The bird gives a tiny, certain nod, eyes never leaving his face.
Ilya turns and walks toward the house. The patio door is ten feet ahead, glass doors still wide open. Behind him, the shuffling starts again.
He reaches the doorway, he doesn’t look back at first. He knows it’s still following him when he walks over the threshold. Even though this bird has abnormal athletic abilities for a loon, it’s incredibly slow as fuck.
Ilya crosses to the island counter in three strides, the half-full mug still sitting there, reminiscent of the evident spillage. Some of the coffee has even spilled onto his bagel. Behind him, the shuffling has barely cleared the door. He glances over his shoulder.
The loon is only just inside the threshold, neck craned forward, legs working in that awkward side to side gait on the smooth floor. Its wings flare for balance, and it lets out a frustrated huff as it wobbles forward another few inches, claws scraping and slipping against the tile. Ah. Bird feet and tiles apparently do not mix well.
“Oh my god,” Ilya says, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You are so fucking slow.”
Sighing, Ilya walks back across the kitchen. He crouches down in front of the bird. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do not bite me. I am trying to help.”
He slides his hands carefully under the loon’s body, one palm supporting the warm feathered belly, the other steadying the back near the wings. The feathers feel soft. Ilya lifts it—it’s heavier than it looks, solid muscle and bone under the plumage. If there’s such a thing as a beefy bird, this bird would make the cut.
“You weigh a lot,” Ilya says, and as if worried that will offend the consciousness-having bird, he adds, “Is all muscle though, I can tell.”
The bird makes a small, almost pleased sound in its throat and settles against Ilya’s chest, one webbed foot dangling over his arm. For a moment it nuzzles closer, soft feathers brushing his collarbone as he walks through the kitchen.
“You know, my husband is going to be very pissy at me if he knows I have let wild animal into our home. It will be very bad for me, loon. You must understand the sacrifice I am making for you.”
Ilya sets the loon down gently on the cool kitchen tile, then steps back, hands on his hips. “Okay. So you are not injured. You are… what? Lost? You need help?”
At that, the loon begins to barrel straight toward the bookshelf. It stops at a framed picture of Shane and Ilya, taken from their first summer at the cottage. Yuna had taken it. They’re both smiling, the lake glistening behind them.
“Yes. That is me and my husband. He is very handsome.”
The bird leans forward, pecks at the picture. Ilya swoops in, plucking the picture from the shelf before the bird can do any significant damage. “What the fuck. I let you into my house and you are trying to wreck my stuff. That is not okay, bird.”
The loon, however, doesn’t seem deterred. It flaps its wings a bit, maybe a bit insistently. He wonders if the bird has stopped hooting for Ilya’s sake. Ilya imagines that if the bird could speak, it would be saying something important.
Ilya furrows his brows, taking a look at the frame in his hand. He glances at the bird, who is still beating its wings at him. Trying to communicate something.
Crouching down, Ilya meets the loon at face level. “You are trying to say something to me.”
The loon nods.
Ilya raises the frame. “It is about this picture?”
Another nod.
“This is me and my husband.” Ilya repeats. He looks at the photo, and pauses. “Do you know my husband?”
The bird delivers another urgent flapping of the wings.
“Shane? You know Shane?” Ilya presses, and the bird flaps a little harder.
“That is weird. How do you know Shane?” Ilya frowns. He squints at the bird again, meeting its red eyes. “Are you sure you know Shane?”
A low insistent hoot escapes the bird. Ilya did not know that birds could carry this much frustration in their tiny bodies.
“Okay,” Ilya huffs. “Do you… follow Shane? Is that how you know him?”
A pause from the bird. Then a slow, hesitant hoot.
“Okay. Do you… like Shane?”
A slower hoot, this time. Reluctant, even. It’s possible that Ilya might be asking the wrong questions.
Ilya throws his hands up. “Okay. I do not know, bird. I am not expert.” He looks at the loon hesitantly. Maybe a bird expert would understand how to handle his situation. “Should I call expert?”
The loon shakes its head so hard that Ilya briefly worries that it might break its neck. The loon clearly does not want any outside help.
“Okay.” Ilya looks down at the bird. He can’t help but feel as though he’s now accidentally taken a pet in, and has now become solely responsible for this stubborn loon inside their cottage.
A loon, who, apparently, understands English, and refuses to get any help. It reminds Ilya of a bleeding criminal who adamantly refuses to go to the hospital.
“So. Loon. Do you have name? Wait. You cannot tell me.” Ilya shakes his head. He’s so bad at this. “Simple questions first. Are you girl?”
The loon shakes its head. It seems a little impatient.
“Are you boy?”
Stomping its foot, the loon nods. Ilya doesn’t think that the loon likes his questions very much.
“Fine. We will move onto more important things. Are you hungry?” Opening the fridge, Ilya reaches inside. “What do you eat? Fish?” He pulls out a container of salmon—leftovers from Shane’s dinner last night. He looks down at the loon, who seems to be looking up at Ilya expectantly. “Can you eat salmon?”
The loon nods, maybe a bit too eagerly, and Ilya appreciates the lengths that he seems to be taking to avoid hooting. The loon is a big salmon fan, it seems. Ilya doesn’t know how or why, because he’s pretty sure that there are no wild salmon in the area.
Ilya feels a little bit ridiculous as he plates the salmon for the bird, and places it on the ground. The loon looks down at the salmon, then looks back up at Ilya. He lets out a small peep.
“What.” Ilya wishes that he were able to speak loon. “I gave you salmon. What do you want now? Cold can of beer?”
A little string of hiccupy noises comes out from the loon. As if the loon is laughing. Ilya feels his lips curve up. The loon thinks I’m funny.
The loon hops over to Ilya then, and raises his wings. As if he’s asking for Ilya to lift him up.
Sighing, Ilya bends down. There’s a loon in his house, he’s talking to it, and the loon is asking Ilya for uppies. This could not be a stranger day. But still, Ilya scoops the loon into his arms, and swears he can feel him give a little, content sigh.
The loon swivels his head to look at Ilya, and for a second, they’re staring at each other. It’s a bit more intimate than what Ilya would expect with a loon. He doesn’t know how he doesn’t feel uncomfortable.
Ilya places the bird on the counter. If Shane were here, he’d be throwing a fit. “What now, bird?” he asks, and watches as the bird hops to the end of the counter, beak pointed down at his salmon plate.
Out of every bird that Ilya could have chosen to bring into his house, it’s possible that Ilya might have picked a posh one. One that refuses to eat on the ground. Ilya picks up the plate, places it on the edge of the counter, where the loon is. “Here.”
The bird ignores the plate, hopping over to the far end instead, where Ilya’s sad, sopping bagel is. He turns around and looks at Ilya with big, blinking eyes.
Ilya can’t help it. The corner of his mouth turns up. Because here he is, with a loon in his house, and the loon is asking if he can have breakfast with him.
“Okay,” Ilya says. He brings the plate of salmon over to the loon, and pulls up a stool. They begin to eat.
– 🦆–
Ilya likes to think that he’s great with animals. Domesticated ones, at least. Anya likes him.
A wild animal, however, is different from a domesticated dog. Ilya isn’t really sure what to do with one, whether you’re supposed to leave it in your house or let it run around outside. Not that the loon can run. Hop, more like.
Everything seems to be alright so far, though. Now that Ilya’s brought him into the cottage, all of the loon’s signs of distress have vanished. The loon seems perfectly content following Ilya around—to the bedroom as Ilya goes to grab his charger, or to the living room as Ilya settles down on the couch.
Except that the loon isn’t very fast. He just keeps hopping wherever Ilya goes—trying to slowly, but diligently, keep up at his own pace. Ilya can’t help but feel admiration. For a bird.
Despite the loon’s persistence, Ilya takes pity on him for having to work so hard to keep up with a human. It’s an unfair advantage. By the early afternoon, Ilya has started to walk around with the bird tucked under his arm. The bird seems to like it, nestling into Ilya’s bicep like he’s perfectly happy with his current circumstances. He catches the loon rubbing his cheek against it once or twice.
With Shane gone, Ilya had figured that he would hit the gym today, but he can’t bear to leave the bird alone. Especially when it seems like it’s the last thing the bird wants.
He misses Shane. Misses the way Shane curls around him as he’s standing at the kitchen counter, misses how Shane complains when Ilya wiggles his cold toes against his shin. He knows that Shane is probably having some much-needed stress relief with JJ — he’s been a little too in his own head recently — but he wishes that he could text him. He wishes he could message Shane, We have loon now, and Shane would text back, What, and Ilya would send him a picture.
At some point, Ilya does try to take a picture of him and the loon in the hallway mirror. The loon doesn’t seem too thrilled about it. He turns away from the camera to face Ilya instead. Almost pointedly.
“Am trying to take a picture for my husband,” Ilya tells him. “For Shane. You like Shane, right? Shane likes loons. Shane would like you.”
Still, the loon doesn’t budge, beak pointed toward Ilya’s face. For all his big talk about liking his husband, the loon doesn’t seem to give a shit about taking a picture for him. Ilya gives up.
The rest of the afternoon is spent on the couch with Anya. Anya doesn’t seem to be thrown off by the loon’s presence, for whatever reason—just goes up and curls around him without even so much as an introductory sniff. The loon reciprocates in kind, leaning against her contentedly with his eyes closed. There’s a familiarity there that Ilya can’t place. Maybe they know each other from the yard.
At some point, Ilya fires up this year’s NHL game on the PlayStation. The loon perks up as soon as he sees Ilya feed the disc into the console.
They start off with the loon settled on Ilya’s lap, except Ilya forgets to account for how intense he can get while gaming. He ends up jostling the loon more than once. Still, the loon stays put, seemingly insistent on staying on Ilya’s lap—until a particularly intense match makes the loon whine and wiggle off. Even after that, the loon remains close, pressed against Ilya’s leg like he refuses not to have some point of contact.
It quickly becomes apparent that the loon is into hockey. Ilya wondered, at first, if it was the mere presence of a TV that the loon seems to be engrossed by, or if it was hockey itself. But by the way that the loon is acting as if Ilya’s personal hockey choices have offended him, Ilya thinks it’s the latter. He flaps his wings a few times when Ilya misses a couple assists. By the fourth time, one of the flaps lands against Ilya’s chest, hard.
Ilya didn’t know that a bird could be so aggressive over something like hockey.
By the end of the hour, the loon seems to have gotten tired. Ilya looks down to see his little head resting on Ilya’s lap, eyes peacefully closed as he snuggles a little deeper onto Ilya’s lap in his sleep. It’s cute. He can’t help but run his thumb along the bird’s beak, smiling as it lets out a little snuffle.
Dinner is more salmon. They eat side by side in comfortable silence. Ilya’s glad for Shane’s constant supply of frozen salmon, but isn’t quite sure what to tell him when he comes back to find some of it missing.
Sunset arrives at around 9 P.M., red and orange bleeding into the sky like a melting sorbet. Ilya looks at the loon on the counter, who looks back at him. “You want to go watch the sunset?” he asks, to which the loon nods.
Ilya rises to retrieve his cigarettes in his jacket pocket, but before he even reaches the jacket, the loon gives a low hoot. Ilya turns around, confused. “Do you need something?” Ilya asks. The loon hoots again.
The loon hasn’t hooted like that since the morning. Ilya’s eyebrows furrow. “Okay, hold on,” he says. As soon as he pulls the cigarettes out, the loon lets out a longer hoot.
“Oh, it is—” Ilya glances down at his cigarettes, then looks back at the loon, who is giving him a meaningful look. “It is the cigarettes,” Ilya says slowly. “Isn’t it?”
The loon beats his wings.
“Okay, I know that smoking is bad,” Ilya mutters, scooping the loon in his arms and sliding open the back door. “I do not know how you know that. But I do not know how you know anything.”
Ilya sets them down on the rock where he and Shane watch sunsets. The loon shuffles closer, letting out one more singular hoot as Ilya pulls out a cigarette from the pack.
By the time that Ilya has lit the cigarette, the loon has stopped. His body is pressed against Ilya’s leg, head faced toward the gradient in the horizon.
Ilya glances down at the loon, and wonders what he’s thinking. As if the loon senses him looking, he looks up at Ilya.
“Is nice, yes?” Ilya says quietly.
The loon doesn’t nod in reply, like Ilya expects. Instead, he faces the sunset, and rests his head gently against Ilya’s thigh.
Ilya puts an arm around the loon. They stay there, just like that, until the fire descends beneath the water and the stars rise into the sky.
– 🦆–
They start the next day with a nice walk.
The loon seems content to go outside with Ilya, as long as Ilya doesn’t leave him alone. Ilya isn’t sure if it’s because he’s afraid that Ilya will abandon him, or if it’s because he’s scared of other wildlife. Ilya catches him flinching at a nearby Canadian goose. He hopes he didn’t take home a wimpy loon.
The night before had been pretty simple. Ilya was pretty sure that Shane would never allow a loon to go on the bed, so he had created a nice basket of blankets on the floor. Upon presenting it to the loon, however, the loon had fixed him with a stare. The same one as when he had insisted on eating his meal on the counter.
Ilya had quickly learned that the loon prefers to be at face-level with Ilya when it comes to certain things. Not a floor animal, apparently. How dare Ilya treat him like a dog.
It was an easy fix. Ilya had transferred the basket to his nightstand, and the loon had climbed in, quickly positioning his head as close to Ilya’s as possible. He had spent the whole night sleeping with a loon next to his face.
By early afternoon the loon becomes Ilya’s unexpected accessory.
He turns one of his grey hoodies backward so the hood sits at the front like an oversized baby carrier. The loon wastes no time climbing in, settling his solid black and white body into the fabric pouch with a happy coo. Now his head pokes out the top, red eyes blinking lazily as Ilya walks around the garden with a watering can—the one Ilya threatened the loon with just yesterday, the bird’s weight warm and heavy against his chest.
“Please do not shit in my hoodie,” Ilya says offhandedly as he sprays a plant, water trickling down the leaves.
The loon responds by nuzzling his beak lightly against his collarbone. Ilya takes that as confirmation that his hoodie is safe.
Ilya had figured that maybe the loon would want to watch the squirrels in the yard while he gardens. He doesn’t really know what loons do. However, the loon doesn’t really seem interested in anything that Ilya tries to point at. The loon turns his head every so often to look at Ilya, instead. Sometimes, the loon will snuggle into the hood against Ilya’s chest, before popping his head back out to peek at Ilya again.
Ilya finds himself looking back. It’s interesting, because Ilya’s never been up close with a loon like this, but he can tell that the loon has some unique characteristics to him. There’s a smattering of brown across the side of the loon’s face. Ilya wonders if all loons have that. They kind of remind Ilya of Shane’s freckles. He likes them.
Looking at the largest cluster of cherry tomatoes, he pulls out his phone. He snaps a quick photo of the cluster hanging off Big Boy and sends it to David with the caption: Proud of my boy today.
David replies almost immediately: Looking good. I need some tomatoes for dinner tonight. Any chance I could steal a handful?
Ilya types back one handed, the loon bobbing with the motion: Come by whenever. I’ll pick some fresh.
An hour later, Ilya is crouching by the planter, plucking the reddest tomatoes and dropping them into a plastic container. His back is to the house, the loon still comfortably nestled in the front facing hoodie, occasionally tilting his head to watch the tomatoes disappear with mild interest.
“Hey, Ilya,” David calls from the patio, voice warm and casual. “Thanks for the tomatoes.”
Ilya straightens up and turns around, container in hand. “Is no issue.”
David’s eyes land squarely on the loon sitting in the hoodie pouch, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. The older man blinks once, gaze flicking from the bird’s sleek head and glowing red eyes, up to Ilya’s face, and then back again.
Ilya shrugs, the movement making the loon bob gently. “I have loon now.”
David stares at the bird a moment longer, then raises his eyebrows. The backyard goes quiet except for the distant calls of more loons out on the lake.
Then David nods. “Oh. Okay.”
The loon takes that opportunity to let out a honk of sorts, directly at David.
David raises his brows again at that. “Hello to you, too.”
Ilya hands over the container of tomatoes. David takes it without missing a beat.
“Thanks,” David says. “These are for the salad. We’ve got some people coming over for dinner tonight. You should join us since Shane’s away.”
Ilya glances down at the loon, who is now staring intently at David with those unblinking red eyes. “Maybe. Depends on loon. He is kind of a diva about me leaving him alone.”
David looks at the bird again, then back at Ilya. “Yes, of course. The loon.” He gives a small, polite nod toward the hoodie. “Well, I’ll see you later, son… uh, goodbye to you too, loon.”
The loon lets out a soft, almost polite little murmur in reply.
David turns and walks back toward the house, tomatoes in hand, examining the fruit with a smile.
Ilya looks down at the bird still happily settled in his hoodie. The loon simply blinks slowly up at him before shimmying deeper into the hoodie.
– 🦆–
Ilya thinks that he’s really getting the hang of this whole loon thing. Despite having only had him for a day, it feels strangely natural to have the loon in his space.
Some of the loon’s behaviour still puzzles Ilya. For a loon, he’s incredibly particular. And not in the animal way, but in the way where he seems to understand cultural norms. He wipes his feet on the mat before he enters the cottage. He pokes at a coaster with his beak until Ilya remembers to use one. Ilya isn’t really sure if it’s just common sense even among animals, or if this loon is just incredibly intelligent when it comes to human culture.
Ilya’s doing laundry, now, because Shane, their designated laundry man, is gone. The diagrams and controls on Shane’s washing machine have always been a little confusing to Ilya, but he thinks that he can figure it out. If Shane’s clothes shrink, at least Ilya can ogle him in tinier shorts.
The loon is watching attentively as Ilya tries to differentiate between washing clothes in 60 degrees Celsius and 70 degrees Celsius. Ilya just picks a number. Out of the corner of his eye, he’s pretty sure the loon is looking at him in disappointment.
When Ilya hauls the clothes out of the dryer and dumps them on the bed, one of Shane’s white socks flies onto the floor. Ilya doesn’t have time to get to it, because the loon is already reaching over with his beak. The loon folds it in half, then in another half, before placing it neatly next to him.
“Thanks,” Ilya says, and turns back to the pile of clothing, when he freezes. He turns around. Looks at the white sock next to the bird, folded exactly to the corners. The way Shane does it.
He glances back up at the loon, who has his wings tucked in patiently, looking up at Ilya with an expectant stare.
There’s a moment where the thought sounds ridiculous to Ilya, even in his head. Impossible. Absurd. And yet…
“Shane?” Ilya mouths, and immediately, the loon flaps his wings, hopping up and down. A few happy hoots escape.
“Oh my God,” Ilya says, and he’s pretty sure his eyes are wide like saucers. Shane is hopping over to him as if he’s trying to fly, and Ilya fumbles to the floor, rushing to scoop him into his arms.
“How did you,” Ilya starts, before he remembers. “Do you know how this happened?”
Shane lets out a little hoot, and Ilya isn’t even scared of the sound anymore, because it’s Shane. And Ilya might not understand loon, but he understands Shane. Understands how that one hoot means no.
“Shane,” Ilya repeats, and he’s pretty sure Shane can see the worry in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
Shane blinks once, before tilting his head up at him and closing his eyes. He presses his cheek against Ilya’s arm gently, reassuring, and lets out a small peep.
And Ilya knows he’s telling him that he’s okay. That he’s happy.
Even as a fucking bird.
“Oh, Shane,” Ilya says, tears welling up. Shane opens his eyes, letting out a soft, steady hoot. As if he’s telling Ilya not to cry.
“I love you,” Ilya says, a tight coil in his throat.
Shane hoots back. Even in that one note, Ilya can hear the joy.
I love you, too.
– 🦆–
They’re lying in bed later that night, Ilya with one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily tracing a finger up and down the smooth length of Shane’s beak. Shane is curled against his side, his eyes half lidded in quiet contentment. Every slow stroke makes Shane’s eyelids droop a little lower, a soft trill rumbling in his throat.
Ilya misses Shane’s strong body in his arms. He misses Shane’s voice in his ears. He’s glad to have his husband with him, even if it is in bird form. Having Shane is better than not having Shane.
Still, it’s not the same.
Ilya sighs, running his palm over Shane’s head. “I miss you, Shane,” he mutters. “Good night.”
He leans in and presses a quick peck to the tip of Shane’s beak.
Right before Ilya closes his eyes, he sees it. A faint shimmer in the air, like a heat haze on a summer road, followed by a soft, absurd little pop. Shane’s body does a lazy wiggle, feathers smoothing out, and then—without any drama—it simply unfolds into Shane.
Naked, human, and sprawled half on top of him.
Shane blinks a couple of times, brown eyes clearing. Pushing up onto one elbow, he immediately starts checking himself over. He flexes his fingers, runs his hands down his arms and chest, pats his thighs, bends one knee, then reaches back to feel along his spine and backside. No feathers, no webbed feet, no beak. Just the usual setup.
Ilya just watches him. After the last two days, he feels he is unable to truly give this its deserved dramatic reaction.
“Everything where it should be?” Ilya asks, voice dry.
“Yeah,” Shane says, giving his forearm one last squeeze before finally looking over at Ilya. A smile spreads across his face, and Ilya can see the warmth in his eyes, the relieved joy of being back. He leans up just as Shane leans down, and feels himself smile ridiculously against Shane’s lips.
“I missed you,” Shane whispers against his mouth, his palm on Ilya’s chest.
“You were here the whole time,” Ilya teases. He grabs Shane’s hand and presses it closer, right against his heart.
“Shut up,” Shane said, settling back down against Ilya’s side. “You were just telling me you missed me a minute ago.” His hand stays on Ilya’s chest. His thumb moves in a slow circle, and after a day without Shane, it feels grounding to Ilya. “Two arms, two legs, no wings. Back to normal.”
Ilya hums. His fingers drift up to Shane’s hair, stroking through it with the same idle rhythm he’d used on Shane’s beak. “Thank fuck.”
Shane stays quiet for a beat, then says, “I remember it all. You didn’t lose your shit at all. You just dealt with it.” He smirks. “That was fucking solid, Captain.”
Ilya smiles, giving a one-armed shrug. “Beefcake of a bird shows up, starts nodding when I ask if I am sexy, follows me around everywhere. Do not think there is any other way to do that other than to just deal with it.”
Shane huffs a little incredulous laugh. “Who taught you the word beefcake?”
“Urban Dictionary,” Ilya deadpans, and Shane shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
They’re silent for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes in contentment. Shane continues rubbing soothing shapes on Ilya’s skin.
“No idea how any of it happened,” he says. “One minute I’m normal, next minute, I’m a fucking loon.” Shane glances down at his own legs again, confirming they are in fact human legs.
Ilya’s hand keeps moving through Shane’s hair. “Just don’t turn into anything else, I much prefer this version of you.”
Shane’s mouth curves. “Deal.”
The room settles into quiet, the low hum of the house at night filling the space between them. Ilya doesn’t push for any more information tonight. Doesn’t ask about the camping trip, or where Shane was when he changed or how it felt or any of that. Tomorrow is soon enough for piecing it all together.
For now, the familiar weight of a human Shane against him is enough.
– 🦆–
Epilogue
Hayden’s leaning against his kitchen island, scrolling his bank app while he waits for the sponsorship deposit to clear. Instead, a weird charge jumps at him.
“Jackie,” he calls over the sound of kids thundering upstairs. “What’s this transaction? Six hundred and sixty six bucks to an Etsy seller called HexxedYaWitchcraft? You buying more cursed candles?”
Jackie glances up from sorting laundry on the couch, unfazed.
“Nah. Paid a witch to turn Shane into a loon.”
Hayden’s thumb freezes. “You hired someone on Etsy… to turn my best friend into a bird?”
“A loon,” she says, folding a tiny hockey jersey. “They mate for life, howl when they’re lonely. Felt right.”
“Why?” he asks slowly.
Jackie shrugs, a soft smile creeping in.
Hayden stares. Upstairs, a kid yells something incomprehensible; something crashes.
“You’re terrifying,” he mutters, giving a shake of his head.
Jackie winks. “I love my friends. Sometimes love costs six hundred and sixty six dollars...”
Giving her a wary look, Hayden pockets his phone before heading upstairs to stop the riot.
Somewhere in Ottawa, Shane Hollander still has no clue his existential bird crisis came courtesy of Jackie’s Etsy cart.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
“5/5 stars, definitely recommend! The curse worked exactly as advertised and was just what my friends needed! Thank you 🦆” — Jackie P
– 🦆–
(art by hilarynights on tumblr)