Summary:

A loon calls from across the lake, a long, mournful, warbling sound, and Shane is consumed with laughter. “It sounds so… dramatic. Like it just read tragic Russian literature.” Rozanov snorts, which only makes Shane laugh harder. “He is not dramatic. He is expressing the existential plight of the waterbird! It is deep!” Shane wipes his eyes, gasping. “The plight… of the loon… oh my god.” He laughs until he’s breathless, sagging against Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov’s arm comes around him, warm and solid, his own chest shaking with silent laughter.