Home for the New Year

Chapter 1
Full story

The lakehouse was two and a half hours away, depending on traffic, which was why Matthew had already decided this whole thing was punitive.

“Next year,” he said, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other drumming against the door, “I’m not answering my phone in December.”

Jacob, slouched in the passenger seat with his knees pulled up, snorted. “You say that every year.”

“This year I mean it.”

Their mother’s voice came through the car speakers, tinny and maddeningly calm. “You’re answering your phone right now.”

Matthew sighed, long and theatrical. “Because you guilt-called me.”

“I didn’t guilt-call you. I checked in.”

Jacob tipped his head back against the headrest and stared at the car ceiling. “We were going to Sam’s place,” he said. “Everyone’s already there. They’ve got champagne. And fireworks. Real ones.”

“You shouldn’t have pranked your sister,” their mother said lightly.

There it was. The reason.

Their mother doesn’t raise her voice. She never does when she’s angry — that’s how Matthew knows she is.

“I’m glad you’re both going to your grandparents’,” she says into the speaker, carefully enunciating. “Your father and I agreed it would be… healthier. For everyone.”

Jacob snorts. “It was a joke.”

There’s a pause. Long enough that Matthew glances at the dashboard clock.

“You posted an AI-generated image of your adult sister,” their mother says evenly, “in a diaper, in her bed, framed as if you’d had to ‘step in and take care of her.’”

Jacob opens his mouth.

“And you didn’t post it privately,” she continues. “You didn’t send it to friends. You posted it publicly. With a caption that implied she wasn’t capable of managing herself.”

“It was obviously fake,” Jacob says. “There was a watermark.”

“Yes,” their mother agrees. “At the bottom. That most people didn’t notice. Including her coworkers. Including her boss.”

Silence.

“She had to explain why her employer thought her brothers were babysitting her. She had to explain why clients were messaging her asking if she was ‘okay.’ She had to explain why people thought she needed help getting to bed.”

Matthew shifts in his seat.

“You thought it was funny,” their mother says. “You thought it was clever. You framed it as care. As concern. That made it worse.”

Jacob mutters, “We took it down.”

“After it had been shared,” she replies. “After screenshots were taken, and after she spent an entire afternoon being asked whether she was ‘safe.’”

The car hums along the highway.

“So,” she finishes, brisk now, like closing a file, “you’re going to help your grandparents. You’re going to stay through New Year’s. And you are going to give your sister time to exist without being exposed to either of you.”

Neither of them argues.

The navigation voice chirps cheerfully from the dash, counting down the miles as if nothing at all has been irrevocably reframed.

Matthew tightened his grip on the wheel. “It was just a joke.”

Their mother hummed, the sound meaning I am unconvinced and you know it.

“Well,” she said, after a beat, “now you get to help your grandparents. They’re excited. They don’t have the energy they used to, and New Year’s is a lot of work.”

Matthew glanced at the dashboard clock. Still early. Too early. “We could’ve helped tomorrow. Or literally any other weekend.”

“No,” she said. “You promised. You’re strong boys. They’ll put you to work.”

Jacob smiled faintly at that, like it was meant to be reassuring. “We can chop wood,” he offered. “Or shovel. Or—”

“Oh, I don’t think Grandpa wants you anywhere near an axe,” she said quickly, almost distracted. “You’ve always been a little… enthusiastic.”

Matthew shot Jacob a look. Jacob frowned back.

“That was when we were kids,” Matthew said. “I’m twenty-one.”

“And Jacob is nineteen,” their mother added, as if ticking boxes. “I know. But to them you’re still—you know.”

She trailed off.

“Still what?” Jacob asked.

There was a pause on the line. Long enough to feel intentional.

“Still their grandsons,” she said finally. “And they’ve missed you.”

Matthew felt something twist, low and uneasy, not fear exactly. More like misalignment. Like a sentence that didn’t quite parse.

Jacob shifted in his seat, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself. “It’s been, what, ten years since New Year’s there?”

“Something like that,” Matthew said. He tried to picture the place. The long dock. The smell of pine and cold water. Beds that had always felt too small, even when they weren’t.

“You loved it,” their mother said. “You both did. You used to fall asleep before midnight every year.”

Jacob laughed. “No we didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

Matthew opened his mouth to argue — and then stopped.

The memory came hazy, unfocused. Firelight. Blankets. Someone lifting him, the sensation of being carried blurring into sleep.

He shook his head, sharp, like clearing water from his ears.

“That’s not relevant,” he said.

“Well,” their mother replied, brisk now, cheerful in a way that didn’t invite debate, “you’re almost there. Be good. Help out. And try not to make things harder than they need to be.”

The call ended before Matthew could respond.

The car filled with road noise again.

Jacob was quiet for a moment, then said, softly, “Do you feel weird?”

Matthew glanced at him. “About being grounded at our grandparents’ lakehouse? Yeah.”

“No,” Jacob said. He pressed his heel into the floor mat, then shifted it again, restless. “I mean… like I forgot something. Or like—”

He stopped, embarrassed.

“Like what?” Matthew prompted.

Jacob frowned, searching. “Like this is… smaller than it should be.”

Matthew snorted despite himself. “That’s just the house. Everything felt bigger when we were kids.”

Jacob nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

Up ahead, the trees thickened. The road narrowed. The lakehouse turnoff sign appeared — older than Matthew remembered, paint flaking, letters rounded by time.

As Matthew slowed the car, a strange certainty settled over him, quiet and heavy:

Whatever they’d been on their way to before —

Whatever version of New Year’s this was meant to be —

They weren’t driving toward it anymore.

The lakehouse looked exactly the way Matthew remembered it — and somehow not at all.

The driveway curved down through pines heavy with frost, opening onto the broad wooden house that sat low against the lake, all windows and wraparound porch. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney. The lake beyond was a flat sheet of gray glass, the far shore blurred into winter haze.

Jacob let out a breath. “Okay,” he said. “I forgot how nice this place is.”

Matthew nodded, easing the car into park. His shoulders loosened despite himself. The house still carried that old, specific gravity — the sense that time moved differently here, slower, thicker.

The front door opened before they could knock.

“Matthew!” Grandma called, already smiling, already stepping forward. “Jacob! There you are.”

She wrapped Jacob in a quick hug, then Matthew, her arms warm and firm and familiar. Grandpa appeared behind her, steadying himself on the doorframe.

“Took you long enough,” he said, fond rather than sharp. “Roads all right?”

“Fine,” Matthew said. “Clear.”

“Good, good.” Grandpa’s gaze slid over them, lingering a moment too long, like he was checking something and finding it satisfactory. “You both must be starving. Breakfast is ready.”

Inside, the house smelled like coffee and buttered toast and woodsmoke. The entryway was crowded with boots — too many, Matthew thought absently — and coats hung low on pegs that felt oddly closer to the floor than he remembered.

But he shook it off. Memory played tricks.

The kitchen was warm in the way only someone else’s kitchen ever was—heat that didn’t belong to the room so much as settle into it. The old radiator ticked softly beneath the window, a sound Matthew remembered without remembering when he’d last heard it. 

Outside, the lake was a sheet of dull winter light, frozen and pale, the far treeline blurred by frost.

Grandma moved between counter and stove with a practiced ease that felt untouched by time. She hummed—off-key, tuneless, something without words—while sliding plates onto the table. Grandpa sat already, newspaper folded beside his coffee, glasses perched low on his nose.

Jacob’s stomach growled audibly. He flushed. “Sorry.”

Grandma laughed. “No need to apologize. Sit, sit.” She said, waving them in as if they might wander off otherwise. “It’ll get cold.”

Matthew and Jacob exchanged a glance, the small, automatic kind. They sat.

The table was set neatly, almost ceremonially. Bowls of oatmeal steamed gently. Toast sat stacked beneath a folded cloth. A small dish of sliced fruit—soft things, peeled and cut—had been placed closer to Jacob without comment.

Matthew noticed this only because it was almost right.

He reached for the coffee pot out of habit, fingers closing around empty air. The pot wasn’t there. He paused, then reached again, slower this time, as if the second attempt might correct the first.

Grandma slid a mug toward him instead. Tea, already poured.

“There you go, dear. Careful, it’s hot.”

Matthew blinked. “Oh—thanks.”

The word coffee hovered somewhere behind his teeth, unspoken. He didn’t chase it.

Jacob was already eating. Or—no. He was trying to eat. His spoon scraped the side of the bowl with more sound than necessary, oatmeal slopping slightly as he lifted it. Grandma’s hand appeared briefly, steadying the bowl, guiding it back toward him.

“There we go,” she murmured. “That’s it.”

Jacob flushed faintly, but kept going. He didn’t protest. He didn’t even look surprised.

Matthew watched him for a second too long.

They ate in comfortable silence at first. Grandpa asked about school. Jacob answered, animated, talking about his classes. Grandma listened with that same soft, slightly distracted smile she’d always worn, nodding along.

“You sleep all right?” Grandpa asked, not looking up from the paper.

“Yeah,” Matthew said automatically. “Fine.”

Jacob nodded, spoon paused halfway to his mouth.

“That’s good,” Grandma said. “You’ll need your energy today.”

“For…?” Matthew prompted.

She smiled at him, bright and distracted, as if he’d asked something charming rather than practical. “Oh, you’ll see. Plenty to do. It’s New Year’s, after all.”

The words we were supposed to go out flickered through Matthew’s mind—unformed, unfinished. He took a sip of tea instead. It tasted like honey and something floral he couldn’t place.

Jacob shifted in his chair, frowning faintly. The chair creaked, a soft complaint. He adjusted again, then again, movements small and restless.

“You okay?” Matthew asked under his breath.

Jacob nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just—chair’s weird.”

Matthew glanced at it. It looked like the same wooden chair he remembered from childhood. Too small, maybe—but that was ridiculous. Jacob had always fit just fine.

Hadn’t he?

Grandma noticed the movement. She crossed the room in three steps and pressed a gentle hand to Jacob’s shoulder. “All right there, Jakey?”

Jakey.

Jacob didn’t react. The name seemed to settle on him without friction.

“Yes,” he said. Then, after a beat, “I think so.”

“Good boy,” she said, already turning away. “Eat up.”

Matthew’s spoon paused. The phrase echoed oddly—not wrong, exactly, but… misfiled. Like a coat hung on the wrong peg.

Grandpa folded his paper at last and looked over the table. “We’ll need to stop by the shops later,” he said. “Couple things we forgot.”

“Oh, I can go,” Matthew offered. “We can help.”

Grandma laughed, a light sound. “Oh no, no. You’re not running off on your own today.”

The words landed gently. Too gently.

Matthew smiled anyway. “I meant—we can come with you.”

“Yes,” she said easily. “That’s what I said.”

Jacob’s spoon clinked against the bowl again. He frowned down at it, then scooped with exaggerated care. A bit of oatmeal slipped off and landed on the table.

“Oh!” he said, startled.

Before he could react further, Grandma was there with a cloth, wiping it away as if it had never happened. She dabbed Jacob’s chin too, quick and practiced.

“There. All gone.”

Jacob froze, a hot flash of embarrassment cutting through him. His shoulders dropped a fraction, arms close to his chest as he shrank in on himself. 

Matthew felt something twist low in his stomach. Not fear. Not yet. Something more like… anticipation, maybe. Or the absence of it.

He glanced at the clock above the sink. He couldn’t remember noticing it tick before, but it did—slow, patient seconds. Plenty of time.

Outside, the lake didn’t move.

Grandma set another spoonful into Jacob’s bowl, smaller this time. “After breakfast,” she said, brightly, “we’ll see about keeping you two busy.”

Jacob nodded.

Matthew did too, though he wasn’t sure why. He shook his hair briefly before reaching for the salt.

“Careful, sweet girl,” Grandma said, gently. “You don’t want to spill.”

Matthew froze.

Jacob looked up, confused. “What?”

Grandma blinked. “What?”

Matthew swallowed. “You just—”

“I just what?” she asked, still smiling.

He hesitated. The word felt suddenly slippery. “You… called me a…a girl—”

“Did I?” Grandma laughed lightly, waving a hand. “Oh, nonsense. Eat before it gets cold.”

Jacob frowned at his plate, then at Matthew. “Did she—?”

“I didn’t,” Grandma said firmly, but not unkindly. “You’re imagining things.”

Grandpa cleared his throat. “She’s right. Eat up.”

The conversation moved on.

Matthew’s pulse thudded in his ears. He stared down at his eggs, appetite gone. The moment replayed in his head, precise and undeniable.

Sweet girl.

He hadn’t imagined it.

But no one else reacted. Jacob looked uncertain, but he didn’t press. The normality of the room pressed in around them, smoothing the edges of the moment until it felt unreasonable to object.

After breakfast, Grandma stood and began clearing plates. “Jacob, you can help your grandpa outside in a bit. And you—” her eyes flicked to Matthew, then away again, seamless, “—you can stay with me. There’s plenty for us to do indoors.”

Matthew opened his mouth. Closed it.

Jacob glanced between them. “I can stay inside too.”

“No, no,” Grandpa said quickly. “I’ll need you outside for a man's job.” He chuckled as if amused by a joke. “Oh, just for carrying. Nothing heavy.” Grandpa chuckling tampered off, as if righting something that had spilled. 

Jacob shrugged, standing. “Okay.”

As they rose, Matthew caught his reflection in the dark windowpane: same sweater, same jeans, same face. Nothing visibly different.

And yet.

“Your room is upstairs,” Grandma said to Matthew as she gathered the dishes. “You remember. Same as always.”

Matthew did remember.

But when he climbed the stairs later — the steps narrower than he recalled, the banister oddly low under his hand — and opened the bedroom door, something inside him faltered.

The room was exactly right.

And entirely wrong.

Two beds. Closer together than he remembered. Posters he recognized, but positioned slightly lower on the walls. A dresser with rounded edges, its top crowded with things he didn’t recall owning — old trophies, a stuffed bear pushed carelessly to the side.

Jacob stepped in behind him. “Huh.”

“It got… smaller,” Jacob said slowly.

Matthew nodded. “Or we got bigger.”

But even as he said it, the words didn’t sit right.

Downstairs, Grandma called up, “Don’t make a mess! And tell me if you need help getting settled.”

Getting settled, Matthew thought.

He sat down on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dipped more than expected.

He stood up again immediately.

Something was wrong.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just — off.

And whatever had started at breakfast hadn’t finished yet.

Grandpa was already pulling on his coat when Jacob reached the bottom of the stairs.

“There you are,” he said. “Come on, then.”

Jacob shot Matthew a look — you good? — and Matthew nodded, though he didn’t feel it. He lingered in the doorway as they left, watching Grandpa place a hand at the center of Jacob’s back, steering him gently but firmly out onto the porch.

The door closed.

The house settled.

Grandma turned from the sink, drying her hands on a towel. “All right,” she said brightly. “Let’s see what we can do in here.”

Matthew waited for instruction.

She opened a cabinet, paused, then shut it again. Opened another. Hummed.

“You can carry these,” she said finally, handing him a stack of folded napkins.

He stared at them. “Just… napkins?”

“Yes,” she said, as if that answered everything. “Set them on the table. Carefully.”

“I can carry more than that.”

She looked at him — really looked — and her smile shifted, just a fraction. Not annoyed. Not amused.

Concerned, almost pitying.

“Oh, I know you think you can,” she said gently. “But there’s no rush. One thing at a time.”

Matthew’s jaw tightened. He took the napkins.

The dining room table was already half set. He placed them where she gestured, aligning the edges. His hands felt clumsy, over-aware of their own movements.

Behind him, Grandma busied herself with decorations — simple things. Streamers. Paper stars. She handed him tape, then almost immediately took it back.

“I’ll do that part,” she said. “You can hold the end.”

“I don’t need—”

“I know,” she said, again cutting him off without raising her voice. “Just help like this.”

Time passed strangely. Tasks that should have taken minutes stretched long and thin. Every time Matthew tried to anticipate the next step, he was gently redirected.

“No, not there.” “Wait, I’ll show you.” “That’s a bit sharp, isn’t it?”

At one point she asked him to carry a small box from the sideboard to the coffee table. Halfway across the room, she followed close enough that he could feel her presence at his shoulder.

“Watch your footing,” she murmured.

“I’m fine.”

“Mmhmm.”

He set the box down. His heart was racing for no reason he could name.

Outside, Jacob stood beside the woodpile, breath fogging the air. Grandpa handed him a pair of gloves — thick, padded.

“These are a bit big,” Jacob said.

“They’ll do,” Grandpa replied. “You just stack. I’ll handle the axe.”

Jacob watched him split the first log with an easy, practiced motion.

“I can do that,” Jacob said.

Grandpa chuckled. “No, no. Not today.”

“I’ve chopped wood before.”

“I know,” Grandpa said, placing another log on the block. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”

Jacob frowned. “Why?”

Grandpa paused. The axe rested against his shoulder.

“Well,” he said slowly, “you never know when someone might get distracted.”

Jacob opened his mouth to argue — then hesitated.

Distracted how? he almost asked.

Instead, he stacked logs.

Each piece was heavier than expected. Grandpa corrected his grip twice, guiding Jacob’s hands into place like he was teaching him something for the first time.

“There,” Grandpa said. “That’s better.”

Jacob swallowed his irritation. He told himself it didn’t matter. That this was just how old people were. Overprotective. Out of date.

But when Grandpa asked him to step farther back — farther than necessary — a cold unease settled in his stomach.

Inside, Grandma poured cocoa.

She handed Matthew a mug with both hands. “Careful. It’s hot.”

He wrapped his fingers around it. The ceramic was warm, not scalding.

“I can handle hot drinks,” he said.

She smiled again. “I know.”

She did not let go until he nodded.

They sat for a moment in the living room, the fire crackling softly. Grandma watched him over the rim of her own mug.

“You’ve been very helpful,” she said. “Thank you.”

Matthew didn’t know why that made his chest ache.

Outside, Grandpa clapped his hands together. “That’s enough for now.”

Jacob exhaled in relief.

“Lunch soon,” Grandpa added. “You must be worn out.”

“I’m not—” Jacob began.

Grandpa was already walking toward the house.

Jacob followed.

Neither of them mentioned how strange it felt — not the words, not the hands, not the way the day seemed to be gently narrowing around them.

But when they met again in the hallway, Jacob leaned in and whispered, “This is weird, right?”

Matthew nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

And neither of them noticed how easily the word weird slid into place — like it had been waiting for them to use it.

“Lunch is on the table kids” Grandma called from the kitchen, a soft scent of herbs and tomato wafting through the house. 

The soup smelled good.

That was the first thing Matthew noticed — warm, familiar, comforting in a way that didn’t match the unease tightening in his chest.

Grandma set the bowls down one by one as they entered and took their seats.

One in front of Grandpa. One for herself. Metallic clangs as she set the spoons down on the woodened surface of the table. 

Then a bowl in front of Matthew, along with dull thud. A green plastic spoon sat alongside his bowl. Bright, slightly flexible. The kind that bent but wouldn’t snap no matter how much you pressed it. 

Matthew slid his eyes over to Jacob, only then noticing his meal was already set out.

No bowl.

Just a plate with a sandwich cut into small, uneven triangles. Crusts removed. The pieces were arranged neatly, almost carefully, with a napkin tucked under the edge.

Jacob stared at it.

Matthew stared too.

They looked at each other in a long slow glance, Jacob raising his eyebrows, just slightly.

Matthew shrugged, a faint, what? movement.

“Did you… run out of soup?” Jacob asked lightly, like it was a joke.

Grandma laughed. “Oh no, no. This is better for you.”

“For me?” Jacob repeated.

She had already turned away, busying herself with something at the counter.

Grandpa set Matthew’s bowl closer to him, adjusting it so it sat just right. “Careful now, Matty,” he said. “It’s hot.”

Matthew froze.

“…Matty?” he echoed.

Grandpa didn’t react. Just smiled, the way people did when they thought you were being silly.

“Take it slow,” he continued. “Little sips.”

Matthew glanced at Jacob again, whose mouth had fallen slightly open.

“I’m fine,” Matthew said, a little tersely. “It’s just soup.”

Grandma reappeared instantly, a hand hovering near his elbow. “We know, sweet girl. Just don’t rush.”

Sweet girl.

Jacob watched as Matthew lifted the spoon.

The plastic flexed faintly under the weight of the soup.

Matthew noticed it too. His grip adjusted without him meaning to, fingers tightening, then loosening again as Grandpa nodded approvingly.

“That’s it,” he said. “Good.”

Jacob picked up one of the sandwich pieces.

It was smaller than he expected. Too small to be satisfying. He took a bite anyway.

Grandma noticed immediately.

“Chew properly, Jake.”

Jake.

He paused mid-chew, heat creeping up his neck. “I am.”

“Mmhmm.” She smiled, unconvinced. “Small bites.”

Matthew swallowed.

The soup was warm but not hot. Still, Grandpa leaned forward every time Matthew lifted the spoon, eyes tracking the movement with focused attention.

“Blow on it,” Grandpa reminded him.

“I did.”

“Again.”

Matthew did.

Jacob ate in silence, suddenly aware of how watched Matthew was — and how he wasn’t. Not really. Grandma glanced at Jacob only to nudge his plate closer, or to rotate it so the sandwich pieces stayed in easy reach.

Halfway through the meal, Grandpa sighed. “Oh — we forgot the sparkling cider.”

Grandma stopped short. “Did we?”

"Yes, and the ice.”

“And the batteries for the lanterns,” she added, frowning. “Oh dear.”

Jacob brightened. “We can go. Just tell us what you need.”

Matthew nodded. “Yeah, we’ll be quick.”

The grandparents exchanged a look.

Then Grandpa chuckled. “No, no.”

Grandma shook her head gently. “Absolutely not.”

Jacob blinked, “Why not?”

“Well,” Grandma said, as if it were obvious, “we’re not leaving you behind.”

“We weren’t going to stay behind,” Matthew said. “We’d go to the store.”

Grandpa reached over and lightly tapped the table near Matthew’s bowl — not touching him, just close enough to redirect his attention.

“We’ll all go,” he said. “Together.”

Jacob frowned. “That’s… unnecessary. You said you needed help.”

“And you’re helping,” Grandma replied, pleased. “Right here.”

Matthew lowered his spoon.

The soup was half gone.

His appetite had disappeared entirely.

Jacob pushed his plate away, suddenly aware that his sandwich was gone too — eaten without him really noticing.

Outside, the lake lay flat and grey beneath the winter sky.

Inside, the house hummed softly, as if it were settling them into place.

Neither brother said anything more.

But both of them felt it — the sense that lunch had marked something.

Not a change.

A confirmation.

Coats and jackets were thrown on in a flurry, before they all braved the snowy driveway. 

A moment passed with them all standing by the cart, keys jingling Grandpa’s pocket as he tried fishing them out. 

Matthew glanced at the backseat, then at Jacob, then back at the car.

“…You sure?” he asked. “There’s four of us.”

Jacob snorted, “I mean, I can fold, but—”

Grandpa laughed, already opening the driver’s door. “Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

Grandma waved a hand dismissively. “It’s much roomier than you remember.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think the laws of physics have changed since last—”

“Hop in,” she said, cheerful but firm.

They did.

At first, Matthew braced himself out of habit — shoulders tensing, knees drawing in, already planning how to angle his legs so they wouldn’t jam against the seat in front.

Then he stopped.

His feet touched the floor.

And kept going.

There was… space.

Not exaggerated, not cartoonish — just enough. His knees didn’t press into the back of the front seats. Jacob shifted beside him, stretching one leg experimentally, then the other.

“Huh,” Jacob said. “Okay. That’s… weird.”

Matthew leaned back. The seat didn’t crowd him. His shoulders settled comfortably against the upholstery.

“This is actually… roomy,” he admitted.

Jacob laughed softly. “Did we misjudge the car? Or did it—”

The thought slid away before it finished forming.

Grandma leaned between the front seats, turning slightly so she could see them both. Her eyes flicked down, then up.

“Seatbelts,” she said, suddenly serious.

Matthew blinked. “Yeah. Obviously.”

“Mm,” she replied, unconvinced. “Let me see.”

They both reached automatically.

The belts came easily to hand — closer than Matthew expected. He pulled, felt the smooth slide, the familiar click as it latched.

Jacob did the same.

Grandma watched carefully, eyes moving from one to the other, then nodding once, satisfied.

“All right,” she said. “Good boys.”

Matthew stiffened at the word.

Jacob glanced at him, mouth twitching like he wanted to comment — but Grandpa had already started the engine.

The car pulled away from the house, gravel crunching under the tires.

Matthew shifted slightly in his seat.

The belt lay comfortably across his lap, not tight, not pressing — just there. He adjusted it once, then stopped. It didn’t need adjusting.

Jacob leaned his head back, staring out the window. “You ever get the feeling,” he said slowly, “that things are… fitting us a little too well today?”

Matthew watched the road unfold ahead of them, the lake slipping out of view.

“…Yeah,” he said. “I was just thinking that.”

The car hummed steadily onward.

And behind them, in the backseat, there was still room.

The drive passed in a rushed blur of snow covered trees and cabins until they reached a small mall with a boxstore sitting on the edge of town. 

The parking lot alone felt louder than it should have.

Car doors slammed, voices overlapped, shopping carts rattled past in uneven lines. The mall entrance glowed too brightly against the winter-dark sky, spilling people in and out like a tide that refused to settle.

Grandma paused just outside the doors, turning back to them with a look that was half fond, half stern.

“All right,” she said. “You boys stay close now, okay? I do not want to lose you in there and have to call your mother.”

Matthew opened his mouth.

Jacob shot him a look.

They didn’t say anything — but the thought hit them both at the same time.

Call our mom?

They had phones. They were adults. They could drive. They had driven here.

But the protest never made it to Matthew’s tongue. It slid off, unfinished, replaced by a vague unease he couldn’t name.

Jacob leaned in slightly. “Did she just—”

“Yeah,” Matthew murmured. “But—never mind.”

They went inside.

The noise hit immediately.

Voices bounced off the high ceilings, music bled from half a dozen storefronts at once, children darted unpredictably between legs and carts. Every sense seemed turned up just a notch too high.

Jacob felt it first — that tightening in his chest, the sudden awareness that there were too many directions, too many bodies moving at once.

He stuck closer to Grandma without consciously deciding to.

Matthew noticed himself doing the same with Grandpa.

And then the fear came — sharp and irrational.

What if we lose them?

The thought startled Jacob so badly he almost laughed.

Lose them?

They were the ones who knew the place. The ones with keys and cars and money.

Except… the feeling didn’t go away.

It settled instead, heavy and wrong, as if the danger wasn’t being alone — but being unclaimed.

Grandma stopped near the central aisle, pulling a folded list from her coat pocket.

“All right,” she said briskly. “We’ll split up. It’ll be quicker.”

Jacob’s stomach dipped.

“I’ll take Jacob,” she continued, already turning slightly toward him. “And Grandpa, you take—”

“Maddie,” Grandpa said easily, hand already settling at the small of Matthew’s back.

Matthew froze.

Jacob’s head snapped up.

“Maddie?” Matthew echoed.

Grandpa didn’t look at him. “Come along now, sweet girl, we’ll just be a minute.”

Sweet girl.

Jacob opened his mouth — and then closed it again as Grandma gently but decisively steered him toward the opposite aisle.

“Eyes up, Jakey,” she said. “Stay with me.”

Jakey.

They were already being carried away in opposite directions when Jacob’s attention snagged on something to his right.

A display.

Toddler clothes.

He didn’t know why he looked. He just… did.

There was a small mannequin dressed in thick corduroy overalls, the knees reinforced with darker patches. A striped long-sleeve shirt underneath. A cartoon dog was stitched onto the front pocket.

Jacob slowed.

It struck him as… cute.

Not ridiculous. Not embarrassing.

Just — oddly appealing, in a way that made his chest feel warm and soft for a split second.

“Jacob,” Grandma prompted.

He turned —

—and heard Matthew yelp.

Jacob spun back around trying to locate his brother only to pause.

Matthew stood a few feet away, staring down at himself.

Pink fabric. A soft dress — not a costume, not exaggerated, but unmistakably a dress. A gentle flare at the hem, a faint ruffle at the collar, and a ribbon accentuating the waist with a little bow sitting on his stomach. Lilac tights stretched smooth over his legs, tucked neatly into simple Mary Jane shoes.

The dress fit him.

That was the worst part.

It didn’t hang wrong. It didn’t strain or pull. It sat on his shoulders, stretched across his pecks, as if it had always belonged there.

“What the hell—” Matthew started, then stopped.

His voice sounded thinner. Unsure.

Jacob just stared.

“You… look different,” he managed.

Matthew swallowed. “So do you.”

Jacob frowned and looked down.

The world tilted.

He was wearing the overalls.

The same ones from the mannequin. The striped shirt snug under the straps. Light-up sneakers blinking faintly when he shifted his weight.

They fit him too.

Perfectly.

“This isn’t—” Jacob said slowly. “This isn’t what I was wearing.”

Matthew nodded sharply. “I know. But—”

But what?

The memories didn’t line up. Matthew could almost remember the hem of the dress catching on the car door earlier. Almost remembered smoothing it down without thinking.

Almost.

Jacob shifted his feet.

Something thick and unfamiliar pressed between his thighs, forcing his stance a little wider. The fabric beneath the overalls wasn’t just cloth — it crinkled softly when he moved.

His breath caught.

“What—” He stopped himself, cheeks warming. He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. He didn’t even know what the question was.

Matthew’s eyes flicked down, then back up, troubled.

Before either of them could say more, hands settled on their shoulders.

“Okay,” Grandma said brightly. “Let’s go. We’re already behind.”

Grandpa nodded. “Come on, Maddie. Don’t dawdle.”

They were guided away — gently, firmly — each in a different direction.

Jacob glanced back once.

Matthew was already being led forward, pink skirt swaying slightly with each step.

Jacob looked down at himself again, at the cartoon stitched over his chest, at the way the bulk beneath his clothes shifted when he walked.

Nothing made sense.

But the mall swallowed them whole before they could try to make it.

Matthew walked beside Grandpa with his hands clasped in front of him, fingers worrying the soft fabric of the skirt without quite meaning to.

“Oh, look at that,” Grandpa said, slowing near a display. “Isn’t that pretty?”

Matthew followed his gaze.

A pastel bedspread. Ruffles along the edges. Small embroidered flowers.

His stomach dipped.

“That would look lovely in your room,” Grandpa continued. “You always liked soft colors. Maybe we’ll put it on your birthday list.”

Matthew nodded automatically, the way he did when he didn’t know what else to do.

His birthday.

Why was Grandpa talking about his birthday like that?

They kept walking. Grandpa gestured again — this time to a shelf of plush toys. A unicorn with oversized eyes. A rabbit in a little dress. A bear clutching a heart.

“Oh, that one’s sweet,” Grandpa said. “Don’t you think?”

Matthew forced a smile.

Inside, his thoughts tripped over one another.

Why does he think I’d want this?

Why is he showing me this?

Why does none of this feel wrong to me!?

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to hurt Grandpa’s feelings. And there was something else, too — a strange, creeping sense that objecting would require an explanation he didn’t have access to.

As if the words were missing.

He adjusted his tights again.

They kept sliding down, no matter how carefully he pulled them up. The elastic seemed too soft, too forgiving, bunching slightly at his thighs. Every few steps, he felt them slip, the fabric whispering against his skin.

The shoes didn’t help.

They made a sharp, hollow clack against the tile with every step. Too loud. Too noticeable. The skirt swished when he walked, brushing against his legs in a way he couldn’t tune out.

He tried to walk quietly.

He failed.

He was painfully aware of himself — of how much space he seemed to take up sonically, even as something inside him insisted he was taking up less space physically.

Grandpa chatted easily beside him, pointing out decorations, commenting on colors, occasionally resting a guiding hand at Matthew’s elbow as if steering him away from oncoming carts.

“You remember this place, don’t you?” Grandpa said. “You used to love coming here with Grandma.”

Matthew nodded again.

And then — unbidden — a memory surfaced.

A suitcase on his bed.

Folded clothes.

Not jeans.

A nightgown.

Soft underwear. Thick panties.

This dress.

His hands smoothing it down that morning, checking the hem, stepping carefully into the tights.

The memory felt complete. Solid.

And yet—

Another memory pressed up against it.

Jeans.

A sweater.

Boots.

Laughing with Jacob in the car about being overdressed for their grandparents’ place.

Both memories existed.

Side by side.

Neither one erased the other.

Matthew swallowed and smoothed his skirt again, fingers pressing into the fabric as if trying to anchor himself to something.

If he remembered putting on the dress… then this made sense.

Didn’t it?

The thought settled uncomfortably.

As they moved deeper into the store, something else began to demand his attention.

A pressure.

Low and insistent. Not sharp — more like a dull ache that came and went, tightening when he stood still too long, easing slightly when he shifted his weight.

He frowned.

It felt familiar.

But he couldn’t quite place why.

He slowed, then took a few quicker steps to catch up with Grandpa. The movement made the pressure change — not worse, exactly, but different. More noticeable.

He pressed his thighs together.

The tights resisted slightly.

His breath caught.

Grandpa noticed.

He always noticed.

“Maddie?” he said gently, stopping and turning to face him. “What is it, sweet girl?”

Matthew opened his mouth.

Nothing came out, aside from a wheezy desperate exhale.

All words for whatever it was, were gone. 

The pressure pulsed again, a little sharper this time, like his body was trying to get his attention in a language he no longer spoke fluently.

He shifted, embarrassed without knowing why.

“I—” He stopped. Tried again. “I think… something’s wrong. I’m…this dress-I think-”

Grandpa’s expression softened immediately, the way it used to when Matthew scraped his knee as a kid.

“Oh,” he said, nodding as if everything had just fallen into place. “I thought so.”

Matthew blinked.

“You did?”

Grandpa smiled, already turning them gently toward the nearest hallway.

“Come on,” he said. “I know exactly what this is.”

And before Matthew could ask what that meant, Grandpa was guiding him forward — past storefronts, past curious glances — toward a door marked with a symbol that made Matthew’s stomach drop for reasons he couldn’t yet explain.

The pressure inside him swelled again.

And this time, he was certain it wasn’t going to wait much longer.

Matthew barely had time to protest before Grandpa was already steering him toward the door.

“No, no,” Grandpa said gently, as Matthew hesitated, fingers tightening in the fabric of his skirt. “You’re a big girl. You can do this on your own.”

The words landed strangely.

Big girl.

“I—” Matthew started, then stopped. He didn’t know what he was objecting to. The sentence hadn’t formed yet.

Grandpa leaned closer, lowering his voice. Matthew was suddenly aware of how much taller Grandpa seemed, how he had to tilt his head up to meet his eyes. That hadn’t been the case earlier. 

Had it?

“I’ll wait right outside,” Grandpa continued, calm and certain. “If you really need me, we can figure something else out. A family restroom. A disabled stall. But”—he gestured lightly at the door, at the stylized figure in a dress—“this isn’t for me.”

He chuckled softly and tugged at his own jeans as if to underline the point.

Matthew followed the gesture.

The symbol.

Then himself.

No, not at Matthew, at his skirt. 

Something in his head clicked into place—not understanding, but permission.

Right.

I’m wearing a dress.

So—

“Okay,” he said, though the word felt borrowed.

Grandpa smiled, squeezed his shoulder once, and stepped back.

The door swung closed behind Matthew with a soft, final sound.

Inside, the bathroom was bright and busy. Tile floors. The echo of footsteps. A low hum of conversation. Water running somewhere. Women moved around him naturally, not pausing, not staring.

No one reacted.

That unsettled him more than anything else.

He stood there for a moment, just inside the door, unsure what came next. His reflection caught his eye in the long mirror opposite the sinks. He looked… different. smaller, maybe. Or just framed differently by the dress. 

A woman entering behind him glanced over. “Are you waiting for a stall?”

Matthew blinked.

Waiting.

“Yes,” he said, a beat too late.

She nodded and turned away.

He moved, almost automatically, toward an open stall. The door closed behind him, the latch clicking into place. The space felt suddenly very small.

The pressure inside him swelled again, insistent now.

Okay. 

I know this. 

I know what this is.

But when he tried to think through the steps, they slipped away from him, like instructions written in a language he’d forgotten how to read.

He reached for his tights first, tugging them down with more force than necessary. They bunched awkwardly at his knees. His underwear followed, before he awkwardly bunched up the skirt of his dress to sit on the white chair. 

He paused.

White chair? No…that’s not right.

When he looked down, something else grapped his attention, the underwear bunching between his knees with the tights. 

They looked…different.

Thicker than he expected. 

Structured. The fabric didn’t fold the way it should. There was a reinforced panel down the center, and the color—pink, undeniably pink—looked strange against his skin.

He turned them in his hands briefly, confused, then distraction caught his attention, as an unexpected wave of relief flooded through him, a wave so strong it made his shoulders sag. 

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The noise of the bathroom seemed to recede, replaced by the sound of rushing water that grew louder, then softer again.

Was that him?

Or the sinks outside?

He couldn’t tell.

He just knew the pressure was gone.

He stared at the stall door while it happened, at the scuffed paint, the metal hook, the graffiti scratched into the side. His thoughts floated, untethered. 

This is normal. 

This is what you do. 

You’ve done this a thousand times.

And yet everything about it felt new.

When it was over, he stood, pulling the underwear back into place. They settled against him with a weight he hadn’t expected. The tights came next, stubborn and clingy, then the skirt.

As he opened the stall door, someone else entered the stall behind him, wrinkling their nose slightly.

“Ugh,” the woman muttered. “Did someone not flush?”

Matthew’s stomach dipped.

Was that—?

He didn’t look back. He copied what the others did, walking to the sinks, turning on the tap, scrubbing his hands the way he’d seen everyone else do it. He watched himself in the mirror while he did, careful, methodical.

Something brushed his cheek.

He startled, then relaxed when he saw it was just a loose strand from one of his pigtails slipping free.

Right.

“Oh,” he murmured. 

That’s mine.

His hair brushed his cheek as he turned, pigtails swaying when he moved his head. He looked at them in the mirror.

When did my hair grow this long?

He frowned and lifted a hand to touch the bow fastened to one of the pigtails, as a memory of his mothers hand pulling his hair into place that morning flashed through his mind.

He turned off the tap, dried his hands, and headed for the door, heart beating a little too fast.

Grandpa was waiting just outside, exactly where he’d said he’d be.

Grandpa looked down at him, studying his face with gentle concern. “You feel better now?” he asked. “Everything go okay in there?”

Matthew nodded automatically. The motion felt delayed, like it had to travel a long way before reaching his neck. Yes. He did feel better. The pressure was gone. Whatever had been wrong had eased, and that counted for something.

“Good,” Grandpa said, satisfied. “I thought so.”

They started walking again, back into the noise of the mall. Matthew followed half a step behind, trying to hold on to that sense of okay. But as he moved, he became aware of something else — a faint, lingering discomfort. A cool, slightly damp feeling where his underwear rested against him, not enough to panic over, but enough to notice.

He frowned faintly, distracted.

Maybe he’d missed something, he thought. Maybe there’d been another step he hadn’t done right.

He didn’t know what that step was — only that the feeling stayed with him as they rejoined the crowd.

…

“I’ll take Jakey,” Grandma said cheerily, reaching for Jacob’s wrist.

The contact was light. Careful.

Jacob’s shoulders dropped.

He hadn’t noticed they were tense.

Matthew let himself be turned by Grandpa, pulled gently into motion, skirts swishing loudly. The crowd parted around them, and with the movement came another wave of that same feeling—lightness. 

Behind him, Jacob stumbled, as Grandma insistently stepped away, hand on his wrist. 

It wasn’t dramatic—just a small hitch in his step—but it was enough to make Grandma stop immediately.

“Oh! No, no, sweetheart,” she said. “Let’s not rush.”

“I wasn’t—” Jacob began, then stopped.

The words didn’t line up. He had been rushing. Or maybe he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure anymore. His legs felt… strange. Heavy in a way he couldn’t account for. Like they weren’t quite agreeing with the floor.

Grandma looked at him for a long moment, her expression shifting—not alarmed, not surprised. More like recognition.

She paused at the edge of the aisle and glanced down at the list in her hand. “We’ve got a few bulky things to grab,” she said, almost to herself. “Let’s get a cart.”

“I can get it,” Jake blurted, too quickly. He stepped forward, eager to do something, to feel useful, to shake off the buzzing wrongness that had followed him since they walked in.

He barely made it two steps.

His foot caught awkwardly, his balance tipped, and he windmilled slightly — not enough to fall, but enough to jolt him. There was a strange resistance in his stride, a heaviness low on his body that hadn’t been there before, pulling his legs wider than he expected.

“Oh— no, no,” Grandma said at once, reaching out. “Don’t run off now. I’ve got it.”

She steered him gently back, already turning away. “You wait right there.”

Jacob blinked.

The next moment didn’t arrive the way moments were supposed to. It slid into place.

“I won’t—” he started, then faltered as she lifted him—not lifted, exactly, but guided him, hands firm and practiced, settling him into the child seat at the front of a shopping cart.

Not standing beside her — sitting in the child seat of the shopping cart, legs through the openings, hands resting on the plastic bar. The transition was so smooth it didn’t even feel like movement, just… a change in perspective.

The seat held him snugly, the edge pressing against his hips in a way that made him exhale without meaning to. His feet rested on the bar. The world rose slightly, changing perspective.

He looked down at himself, startled.

He fit.

Not barely — comfortably. There was room. His knees weren’t jammed. His back rested against the molded plastic in a way that felt oddly supportive. The strange weight between his thighs settled, contained, no longer throwing him off balance.

A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding left him all at once.

The anxiety that had been crawling under his skin since they entered the mall loosened, drained away like water through a sieve.

Jacob blinked.

“Oh,” he said, quietly.

Grandma smiled, pushing the cart forward. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Jacob nodded without thinking. It was better. Safer. The world felt less sharp from down here, less loud. He felt… held.

Just as soon, a frown tugged at his lips, a crease settling into his forehead as he wondered.

Why is it better?

He tried to sit forward, then back. The seat supported him either way. There was no wrong position. No demand on his legs, his balance, his awareness.

It was a solution, but to what?

Across the aisle, Matthew felt it too—the echo of it. The way the space around him seemed to narrow as Grandpa guided him forward, away from the chaos, into a quieter corridor of displays and soft colors.

His chest loosened. His steps slowed.

He felt… smaller, somehow. No, not smaller—just less responsible for holding himself together.

The realization made his stomach drop.

He turned back sharply.

Jacob was already being pushed away atop a cart, humming faintly under his breath, thumb drifting upward without comment.

Their eyes met one last time.

Matthew opened his mouth.

Jacob looked relieved.

That was the wrongest part.

Grandma turned the cart smoothly, the wheels clicking into rhythm, and Jacob disappeared into the crowd—contained, settled, carried—while Matthew stood frozen for a heartbeat too long before Grandpa’s hand urged him onward.

“There we go,” Grandpa said. “No need to worry.”

Matthew let himself be led.

But the unease followed him, quiet and persistent.

The world had solved something.

And neither of them had been asked what it was.

Jacob didn't remember agreeing to sitting in the cart. He’s still wasn't sure how he even fit.

One moment he’s stumbling after his grandmother, a little too eager, his balance pitching forward strangely, the weight at his hips tugging him off-center — and the next, the world tips, blurs, and settles with a soft plastic creak beneath him.

He’s sitting.

That realization arrives late, like an echo

Not perched, not crouched — seated, snug and secure, the curved rim pressing gently behind his knees. His feet dangle just enough to feel it, the faint swing of them oddly soothing. The seat fits him in a way he doesn’t want to think about too closely. It isn’t tight. It isn’t cramped.

He blinks down at himself. His overalls bunch differently when he sits like this, the fabric puffing out at the front, riding higher at his waist. There’s a soft resistance there when he shifts, a fullness that presses back. He adjusts instinctively, wiggling once, twice, until the pressure eases into something warm and dull and… quieter.

It is better. The sharp, buzzing anxiety he didn’t realize he was carrying since entering the mall, which intensified when his brother walked off with Grandpa drains away, leaving behind a heavy calm. The mall noise fades to something distant and cottony. The cart rolls forward, and the gentle vibration through the seat hums straight through him.

He brings his hand to rest against mouth without noticing, like a shield of some kind. He doesn’t understand why or how, but just its presence close to him sooths his already easing nervousness.  

Grandma doesn’t comment. She just pushes the cart, one hand steady on the handle, the other rifling through her list.

Jacob leans forward, letting his head rest between Grandmas hands on the steering bar of the cart and breathes out, slow and deep, like he’s been holding something tight in his chest without realizing it. The mall noise is still there — carts rattling, voices overlapping, the dull roar of too many people — but it feels farther away now, wrapped in cotton.

The cart hums beneath him as Grandma pushes it forward.

He watches the floor slide past below his dangling shoes, the pattern of tiles breaking and reforming, and it takes him a moment to remember that he isn’t walking anymore. That the strange, heavy effort of moving his legs isn’t necessary..

He shifts experimentally. The seat responds, firm but forgiving, rising slightly between his thighs, nudging them apart in a way that feels deliberate. There’s resistance there — not painful, not sharp — just present. He wiggles again, a small, instinctive movement, and the sensation settles, redistributing itself.

It feels… safer.

His thumb slips through his lips without ceremony, from the hand resting against his mouth. He sucks on it absently, not hungry, not upset — just needing the steady pressure, the anchor of it. The noise dulls further. The fluorescent lights seem softer somehow with that soft presence in his mouth, less aggressive somehow.

He would have laughed, earlier. The idea of fitting here would have seemed absurd. Now it feels obvious. Natural. The seat holds him just right, his weight settled low and centered, like he’s been placed where he belongs.

Grandma starts walking again.

As they move, Jake becomes aware of a different sensation — something subtle and internal, a fullness he hadn’t noticed building. It’s not urgent. Not sharp. Just… there. He shifts, instinctively leaning forward a little, then back again.

The movement helps.

Something underneath him compresses softly, the seat crinkling faintly. The sound is quiet but distinct, oddly loud to his ears. He freezes for a second, listening, then relaxes when nothing happens.

No one is looking at him.

The warmth comes gradually.

At first he thinks it’s just the seat — the way plastic holds heat, the way sitting still can make you feel warmer. But the warmth doesn’t fade when he shifts. It spreads instead, low and broad, pooling beneath him, seeping outward.

He frowns, trying to make sense of it.

It reminds him, inexplicably, of oatmeal, warm, mushy and lumpy.

The image is so clear it startles him: a bowl left too long on the counter, thick and heavy, slumping when disturbed. The thought makes his stomach loosen, a wave of relief rolling through him that doesn’t quite match the image but feels tied to it somehow.

He lifts his hips slightly, curious.

The seat beneath him yields with a soft give. Something settles. The warmth deepens.

Jacob exhales, long and slow.

That pressure inside him — the one he hadn’t known what to do with — eases. The tension drains away, leaving behind a heavy calm that presses him gently into place. His limbs feel thick, distant. Comfortable.

Grandma stops the cart.

They moved through the aisles, the cart rolling smoothly. Jake twisted slightly, trying to look forward instead of backward — the reversed motion made his stomach flutter — but every time Grandma’s hands left the handle, even for a second, his attention snapped back to her. He tracked her movements closely, an uneasy tug in his chest whenever she stepped away.

She noticed.

“Still here,” she said lightly, tapping the cart. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He relaxed again.

She dropped sparkling cider into the cart. Chips. Crackers. She asked his opinion once — which flavor — and he answered earnestly, pleased to be included. Then they turned into another aisle, and something shifted.

The shelves here were stacked high with bright, plush packages. Soft colors. Rounded shapes. Familiar, somehow.

Jake felt it before he understood it — a deep, sinking warmth in his chest. 

Comfort. 

Recognition.

Grandma reached out, lifted one of the packages, and held it up. “Is this your brand?”

The word your landed strangely.

Jacob stared at it, and memory flickered — not one memory, but two.

His parents’ hands tearing open a package like that. The crinkle of plastic. Seeing them stacked under a sink. A bag in the car. A quiet bathroom with the light too bright.

And, at the same time: packing his own duffel bag. Jeans. Socks. Folding things himself. Being independent.

The images overlapped, refused to sort themselves.

“They’re… mine,” he said suddenly, too loudly.

Grandma chuckled. “Shh. Indoor voice.”

She added the package to the cart. Then wipes. Then a small container of powder.

“Your parents didn’t pack nearly enough,” she said, shaking her head.

Jake frowned.

My parents?

Why would they have packed anything for me?

Another memory tried to surface — sitting on the floor, his pyjamas puffing up, crinkly between his thighs, watching his parents pack for him, asking what color he wanted, holding up soft clothes for approval. He could almost feel the carpet under his hands.

At the same time, he remembered packing alone last night.

Both felt real.

He looked down at himself, trying to orient. His view stopped short, blocked by his own knuckles gripping the cart bar. Why did it feel like he was sitting so… high?

He tried to reach down, to feel what he was wearing, to confirm something — anything.

His hand didn’t move.

Because his thumb was in his mouth.

He noticed it with mild surprise, considered removing it — and then didn’t. The comfort of it outweighed the question.

He let his hand drop back to the bar instead, thumb still warm against his tongue, and watched Grandma push the cart forward, the soft rustle of the packages settling around him like padding.

For now, that was enough.

They pass shelves stacked high with soft, bulky packages. Jake’s eyes linger on them, drawn by the colors, the rounded shapes, the faint rustle as Grandma lifts an less familiar one, pink, with stars and moons on the waistband according to the photos on the packeging. 

She notices him looking, and smiles, “For Maddie, big guy, don’t worry, you won’t have to worry about pull-ups for a while.”

Her tone eases him, even if he doesn’t get her point. 

Of course I don't want to wear pink pull-ups. 

Something, - the oatmeal? - shifts beneath him again — not sharply, not suddenly. Just a spreading softness, a subtle rearranging of weight. The seat seems to cradle him differently, the padding beneath him compressing as though accommodating something new. He lifts his hips slightly, curious, then settles back down.

The warmth lingers, spreading, soft, edging towards his lower back.

A smell reaches him. 

He frowned, nose wrinkling.

Then — faint, but unmistakably wrong. Not sharp. Not immediate. Just… unpleasant, earthy, curling at the back of his nose.

At first, Jacob decided it had nothing to do with him.

He frowns again, glancing around.

Someone else, he assumed immediately. Someone nearby.

The mall is full of people and smells. It could be anything. Food courts. Crowds. It could be anything. The explanation felt adequate enough that he didn’t bother pursuing it, though its earthy, familiar tinge kept nagging at the back of his mind.

He breathed through his mouth instead, thumb still tucked between his lips, thumb bobbing in his mouth and the smell recedes to something manageable. He is nearly able to forget about it as Grandma turns the cart down another aisle. 

At the turn of the cart he body shifts unconciously. 

The warmth from before spreads slowly again, not all at once—an uneven, creeping sensation that didn’t match any single thought. It pooled beneath him, soft and oddly heavy, like he’d sat down somewhere he shouldn’t have.

The seat must be warm, he thought.

That made sense. The cart had been sitting under bright lights. Plastic held heat. That was a thing. He shifted slightly, testing the theory.

The warmth stayed.

It expanded, settling lower, pressing outward in a way that made him adjust his legs without quite knowing why. The cart didn’t tip. Nothing spilled. There was no obvious cause.

Maybe it’s my overalls, he tried next.

Maybe it’s bunched up wrong.

He reached behind himself—only to find nothing out of place. No folds. No fabric trapped beneath him.

The sensation didn’t feel like fabric anyway.

It felt… yielding.

Like sitting in something that gave way when you pressed down, then stayed where it had been pushed.

Jacob swallowed.

The warmth deepened, spreading with a strange deliberateness, and with it came an unexpected sense of release. The tightness he hadn’t noticed—because he hadn’t known to notice it—eased. His shoulders dropped. His breath slowed.

“Oh,” he murmured, barely audible.

The relief startled him more than the warmth.

That’s not right, he thought, distantly.

He tried again to explain it away. Maybe he was tired. Maybe sitting still had made his legs fall asleep. Maybe—

The idea slipped out of reach.

Something about the sensation made thinking feel unnecessary. Not impossible—just… optional. Like the problem had resolved itself and no longer required attention.

For a moment, he considered telling Grandma.

The thought surfaced fully formed: I should say something.

He turned his head, mouth opening slightly.

Then—nothing.

The reason vanished.

Not the urge to speak, but the content of it. He couldn’t remember what he’d wanted to say, only that interrupting her felt wrong now. She was comparing packages, muttering softly to herself. This was not the time.

The warmth continued.

It settled against him with increasing insistence, filling space he hadn’t realized existed. His legs shifted farther apart, guided by the bulk beneath him rather than any conscious decision. The cart seat cradled him perfectly, as if it had been shaped for this exact posture.

Jacob stared at his hands.

They looked small where they rested on the plastic edge.

The thought drifted by without comment.

He sagged slightly, his back rounding, chin dipping toward his chest. Without noticing the movement, his thumb found its way back to his mouth. The pressure there—gentle, grounding—made everything feel quieter.

He only knew that whatever had been uncomfortable before was gone.

And that sitting exactly where he was—held, supported, contained—felt like the correct solution to a problem he no longer remembered having.

By the time Grandma turned back to him, Jacob had stopped trying to understand, but he couldn’t help the pang that curdled his stomach when he saw her nose wrinkle vaguely as she leaned closer to him.

“Oh,” she says softly, inquiringly. “Did we make an upsie?”

Jacob looks at her, thumb still tucked and bobbing softly between his lips, and stares hollowly at her.

He doesn’t know what that means.

He is just sitting in the cart, sucking his thumb.

I didn’t do anything.

She smiles, gentle and knowing, and reaches for the cart handle again, before turning to walk in a new direction.

As the cart starts moving, Jake shifts once more, becoming suddenly aware of the weight beneath him — heavier now, fuller. The seat seems tighter around his hips, the space between his thighs more firmly occupied.

It’s strange.

But it isn’t frightening.

He sucks his thumb again, deeper this time, and lets his head tip back as the lights pass overhead in steady intervals.

Whatever just happened — whatever he doesn’t quite understand — feels finished.

For now, that is enough.

A wrongness stirs at the edge of his awareness, but it dissipates as his suckles his thumb harder. 

She sighs softly after a moment — not annoyed, just resigned — and reaches into the cart for a different package, tucking it beneath her arm as she turns them toward the back of the store.

“That’s all right,” she says gently. “We’ll take care of it.”

Jacob watches the ceiling lights pass overhead, one by one, the cart rolling smoothly forward. The warmth settles. The confusion blurs at the edges.

Whatever it was, it seems to have passed.

And somehow, that feels like the most important thing.

He doesn’t notice when they stop.

The cart slows, then turns, the wheels squeaking faintly as Grandma steers it away from the bright, open aisle and into a quieter corridor. The noise of the store dulls here, swallowed by carpet and distance, and Jake becomes aware—only then—that he’s very still.

Grandma parks the cart beside a door that looks nothing like the rest of the mall. No mannequins. No advertisements. Just a plain sign with a soft symbol he doesn’t quite parse, and a handle worn smooth by use.

“This way,” she says, gentle but certain.

He doesn’t ask where.

He doesn’t think to.

She lifts him out of the cart with surprising ease, settling him against her side for a moment before setting him down again. His feet touch the floor, but he sways slightly, the heaviness at his middle throwing his balance off. Grandma’s hand stays at his back, warm and steady, guiding him forward.

The room inside is small, quiet, and softly lit.

Jacob takes it in in fragments.

A counter.

A padded surface against the wall.

A small bin with a lid.

Shelves stocked with things in neat rows — folded fabrics, pastel packages, containers that look clinical and domestic at the same time.

It smells clean. Not sharp. Not unpleasant. Just… prepared.

Grandma moves around him with purpose, setting things out without looking at them directly, as if she knows exactly where everything will land. The rustle of packaging fills the space, rhythmic and methodical.

Jacob stands where she leaves him, trying to reconstruct what just happened.

He remembers the cart.

The warmth.

The strange relief.

He remembers oatmeal, and that makes no sense at all.

His gaze drifts downward, but stops short of clarity. Whatever he’s wearing beneath the overalls feels different now — heavier, fuller — and when he shifts his weight, there’s resistance, a soft insistence that wasn’t there before.

He swallows.

Grandma hums under her breath.

“Alright,” she says, as if concluding a thought he wasn’t part of. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

Comfortable.

The word lands oddly. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable, exactly — just wrong, in a way he can’t articulate.

Like wearing someone else’s shoes without realizing it until you try to walk.

She guides him toward the padded surface. He sits when she presses gently at his shoulders, his movements clumsy, overcareful. The surface is warm beneath him, deliberately so, and he has the strange sense that this is a place designed for waiting.

Grandma’s hands move efficiently.

Fabric shifts.

Fastenings open.

Something bulky is removed and set aside, its weight leaving him abruptly lighter, cooler.

He flinches at the sensation, instinctively reaching for his thumb again, grounding himself in the familiar pressure. The calm returns in a muted wave.

He doesn’t watch closely — can’t, really. His attention slides off the specifics, catching instead on details that feel safer.

The sound of wipes pulled from a packet.

The soft tap of a container being opened.

The faint puff of powder settling in the air like dust motes in sunlight.

She talks to him the whole time, but not about anything.

Just commentary. Reassurance. A steady narrative meant to keep things moving.

“There we go.”

“That’s better.”

“Just hold still for me.”

He tries.

He wants to ask questions — what happened, what went wrong, why this feels like fixing something he didn’t know was broken — but the words won’t line up. Each thought dissolves before it reaches his mouth.

Something new is lifted into place beneath him.

It’s bigger than what he remembers wearing before. He’s sure of that, even as his brain tries to insist otherwise. It crinkles faintly when he shifts, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and sits higher, firmer, holding him in a way that feels… deliberate.

Containing.

Grandma smooths it down with practiced motions, fastening it securely, checking the fit with a nod of satisfaction.

“There,” she says. “Much better.”

Better.

The word carries weight now. 

Better than what? 

What was wrong before?

When she finishes, she helps him stand, steadying him until his balance returns. He wants to ask what happened. 

The heaviness tugging on his hips is different this time — structured, supportive, crinkly, and lighter. It keeps him upright, keeps everything where it should be.

He doesn’t know how he knows that.

She pulls his clothes back into place, adjusting them so carefully it feels ceremonial, then brushes her hands together once, done.

“All set,” she says. “We’ll get you back to your sissy.”

Jacob blinks.

Who’s sissy?

The word grounds him more than anything else so far. Mathews face flashes across inner eye, and a surge of excitement and happiness runs through him. 

As she leads him out of the room, hand warm around his wrist, he tries one last time to understand what just happened — to assign it meaning, cause, logic.

All he can grasp is this:

Something went wrong.

Something was done about it.

And now, inexplicably, he feels calmer, lighter, and more at ease.

The door closes softly behind them, and the mall noise swells back into place, as if nothing unusual has occurred at all.

They find each other again at the register.

Not all at once — more like their awareness drifts, then snags.

Jacob is the first to notice.

He’s holding onto the side of the cart with both hands, moving in that careful, legs shuffling side-to-side. The cart rolls too fast if he keep pace himself, and the weight at his hips and groin makes his steps shorter, deliberate. He feels… wider than he expects to be. Like there’s something he has to account for now when he moves.

And then he sees Matthew.

Or — Maddie, some part of his brain supplies automatically, unhelpfully.

Matthew is standing close to Grandpa, fingers wrapped around his hand. He looks smaller than Jacob remembers. Narrower at the shoulders, softer through the middle, the dress hanging just a little crooked as if it was put on in a hurry. The skirt sways when he shifts his weight, brushing against his knees, peeking out in the lilac tights.

But it’s the hair that makes Jacob stop.

Pigtails.

Not tied clumsily, either — neat, even, secured with soft bands that match the dress. The ends curl slightly, brushing Matthew’s collarbones when he moves.

Jacob tries to place when that happened.

There is no memory of Matthew having long hair.

No memory of growing it.

No memory of cutting it short, either.

The absence is louder than any recollection.

Matthew feels Jacob’s stare before he sees him.

He turns, slowly, like he’s afraid of what he’ll find, and their eyes meet across the end of the checkout counter.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

They just… look.

Matthew’s gaze drops first — not out of shame, exactly, but out of instinct. He notices Jacob’s stance, the way his feet are set wider apart than necessary, the way one hand keeps slipping from the cart to hover uncertainly at his middle.

And then — the thumb.

Jacob doesn’t realize he’s doing it until Matthew sees it.

The thumb rests comfortably in his mouth, cheek hollowed around it, jaw relaxed in a way that feels old. Practiced. Something he’s done for a long time.

Matthew’s chest tightens.

He remembers Jacob doing that often.

The memory floats up, unanchored, like something from someone else’s life. Jacob standing in the kitchen each morning, a droopy backseat nearly pulling his pyjama bottoms down, a sleepy gaze in his eyes, his blonde locks tussled from sleep and the everpresent thumb solidly placed between his lips, accompanied by an obnoxisous slobbering sound, and loud breathing through his nostrils. It feels so familiar, so strong, like something he would have seen everyday for years.

Jacob notices Matthew staring and pulls the thumb out reflexively, wiping it against his overalls in embarrassment that arrives too late to make sense.

They exchange a look.

It’s not panic.

It’s not even fear.

It’s recognition.

Something is wrong.

Something has been wrong for a while.

And somehow, they are the only two who can see it.

The grandparents are busy. Coins clink. Cards beep. The cashier smiles indulgently, chatting about end-of-year crowds and how cute “the little ones” are being today.

Neither brother reacts.

They barely hear it.

They let themselves be shepherded back through the mall, the flow of people parting around them naturally, easily. No one stares. No one hesitates. A woman even smiles at Matthew and tells Grandpa, “She’s got such lovely hair.”

Grandpa beams.

“Doesn’t she?” he says.

Matthew doesn’t correct him.

Outside, the air is cold and bright. The parking lot stretches wide, and for a brief, disorienting second, Jacob expects to see their own car — the one they drove.

But Grandpa’s car is already there, waiting.

Open.

Ready.

They are helped in without discussion.

Jacob is lifted, guided, settled into a seat that seems to fold around him. Straps cross his shoulders, his waist, fasten snugly between his legs with a click that feels final. The seat holds him upright, secure, immovable. He squirms once, experimentally, then stills.

Matthew watches with a kind of distant horror.

Then it’s his turn.

A booster seat is already in place. Grandpa helps him up, adjusts the skirt so it doesn’t bunch, guides the belt carefully across his hips. It fits too well. It always has.

“Comfy?” Grandma asks, glancing back.

They hesitate.

Jacob opens his mouth — to ask when did this happen, or why, or what is wrong with us — but the question dissolves before it forms.

Matthew tries instead.

“Was this… here this morning?” he asks, vaguely.

Grandma laughs softly.

“Of course it was. You were dropped off just like this by your mom, sweetheart. Don’t you remember?”

Dropped off.

The word hits both of them at once.

A memory flickers — a car ride, a voice on speakerphone, their mother’s laugh, sunlight through a windshield — but the details refuse to hold still.

Another memory pushes in beside it.

Being buckled.

Being checked.

Being told to sit still.

Their mothers face hovering over them, then looking back from the drivers seat.

They don’t know which one is real.

The engine starts.

The car pulls out of the lot.

And as the mall disappears behind them, the brothers sit quietly in their seats, side by side, holding onto the same fragile certainty:

They came here together.

Something has changed.

And whatever this is — it isn’t finished with them yet.

They have to wait.

The engine goes quiet, the doors unlock, and still they sit where they are, held in place by straps and buckles that don’t release themselves. Jacob tests one experimentally, fingers worrying at the edge of the harness, but it doesn’t give. It isn’t meant to.

Grandma notices in the mirror and smiles.

“Hold on,” she says gently. “I’ll get you.”

The waiting stretches oddly. Jacob feels very small in the seat now, contained on all sides, the padding cradling him in a way that makes it difficult to imagine climbing out on his own. Matthew feels it too — the sense of being kept, of being something that must be retrieved rather than something that gets up and goes.

They are unbuckled one at a time.

Jacob first. Grandma’s hands are warm and sure as she frees him, lifting him down with a practiced motion that leaves him briefly weightless before his feet touch the ground. The driveway looks longer than it did this morning. The house taller.

Matthew follows, guided carefully, his skirt adjusted without comment so it doesn’t catch as he steps down.

Grandma looks between them, assessing.

“You’ll both need a nap,” she says decisively. “It’s going to be a long night.”

Neither of them argues, their minds are reeling as they shuffle along, Matthew taking care of his skirts, and Jacob shuffling around the bulge between his thighs.

Inside, the house feels… different.

Not rearranged, exactly — just expanded. The ceilings seem higher, the hallways longer. The furniture sits farther apart, leaving wide, open spaces that make Jacob instinctively stay close to Grandma’s leg as they cross the foyer.

The staircase looms.

Up close, the steps are steep, tall enough that Jacob has to lift his feet higher than expected. He goes slowly, both hands on the railing, breath catching with the effort. The weight between his thighs throws off his balance, and he has to stop halfway up, blinking hard, while Grandma waits patiently behind him.

Matthew struggles in a different way.

The skirt tangles around his knees when he lifts his legs too high, the fabric swishing and catching, forcing him to shorten his steps. He has to hold the hem in one hand to keep from tripping, cheeks warm with a discomfort he doesn’t know how to name.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway opens into something unfamiliar.

The bedroom door is the same.

The room is not.

The light in the room was wrong.

Not dim—soft. Diffused in a way Matthew couldn’t place at first. There was no single source casting sharp shadows. Instead, the glow seemed to come from everywhere at once: a small lamp tucked into the corner behind a shade patterned with pale stars, daylight filtered through gauzy curtains, the faint amber glow of something plugged in low near the floor.

The air smelled faintly of laundry soap. Not the sharp kind—something sweeter. Powdery. Warm.

Matthew paused just inside the doorway.

The room was quiet, but not empty. A low, constant hum vibrated beneath the silence, barely perceptible unless you listened for it. A fan, maybe. Or something electronic. Steady. Reassuring. Like a presence meant to be ignored.

Somewhere, a clock ticked.

Not loudly—just enough to be felt between breaths.

The furniture sat lower than he expected. The dresser came only to his chest. The nightstand beside the bed barely cleared his knee. Toys—actual toys—sit scattered along the walls — not carelessly, but available, as if they’re meant to be reached for. A shelf holds stuffed animals arranged in a way that suggests favorites, rotation, use.

Matthew took another step inside.

The floorboards didn’t creak under his weight.

That, more than anything, made his stomach tighten.

The room felt softer. Brighter. Pastels where there used to be darker wood and neutral tones.

Most noticeably, the beds no longer match.

Matthew’s is against the far wall, dressed in frilly pink sheets, a quilt folded neatly at the foot. Soft bumpers line the sides, rising higher than the mattress, giving the bed a contained, enclosed feeling.

Meanwhile Jacob’s—

Jacob stops walking.

It’s a crib.

Or… it looks like one.

But as he stares, it does that thing again — the subtle shift, the way objects seem to adjust themselves once he’s close enough to need them. The crib grows larger, deeper, its proportions stretching until it could comfortably hold him.

Comfortably.

Grandma doesn’t comment. She simply moves with quiet efficiency, starting with Jacob.

“Let’s get you comfy,” she says.

The overalls come off first, unclasped and slid down his legs. His sneakers follow. 

When his feet touch the floor again, he notices the thick fuzzy socks are still on his feet, warm, and when he shifts his toes, he feels the faint grip of rubberized pads underneath.

He hadn’t known they were under there.

The long-sleeved striped shirt stays on — until Grandma smooths it down and he realizes, distantly, that it doesn’t end at his waist. It fastens beneath him, snug and continuous, holding everything in place.

The bulky underwear he’s been vaguely aware of presses heavy and solid between his thighs now that the overalls are gone. It crinkles softly when he moves, a sound he recognizes without knowing from where. He stares down at himself, trying to reconcile the feeling with the idea of underwear.

This doesn’t feel like underwear.

Grandma lowers the side rail and helps him up, guiding him gently into the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, supportive and deep. She raises the rail again with a soft click, enclosing him.

He turns onto his side, thumb drifting back toward his mouth without conscious decision, and watches as she crosses the room to Matthew who stands stiffly by his frilly bed.

His dress is lifted away, folded neatly and set aside. Beneath it, the thick panties he’s been wearing feel suddenly exposed. Grandma notices the discoloration and wet patch on the crotch immediately.

“Oh,” she says mildly. “We’ll need to get that changed.”

Matthew blinks.

“Why?” 

The word comes out small, uncertain.

She just smiles at him, a familiar, indulgent expression. “Nap time,” she says, as if that explains everything.

She helps him step out of them, replacing them with something thicker, softer, designed for lying down. He doesn’t quite watch — an inexplicable feeling of embaresment courses through him, when she pulls out something pink and crinkly from a dresser drawer nearby. He focuses instead on the way the floor feels cool under his feet, the way Grandma’s hands steady him at the elbows.

He shivers when she passes his crotch briefly with a small wet cloth, then turns his reddened face away when she makes him step, one foot at a time into the underwear she brought him. 

Why does this feel so embarressing. Why do I want to protest wearing this underwear so much? I always wear underwear...don’t I?

Jacob watched his brother idly, thumb pausing, as he recognised the underwear getting pulled up securely to his brother’s crotch. Its the same as on the package Grandma looked at in the mall, pink, thick disposable, with sleepy stars and moons on the thick waistband now encircling his brother’s waist.

He couldn’t help shifting unconciously, noting absently that his own weird and crinkly underwear were must thicker. 

A nightgown slips over Matthews head next, light fabric falling around him, brushing his upper thighs. He looks down himself, and notes with dismay that the bottom of his underwear sits low enough between his thighs that it peeks from underneath his nightie. 

Grandma sits him on the edge of his bed and reaches up to undo the pigtails.

When the ties come free, his hair spills down his back, heavier than he expects, a soft curtain he can feel against his shoulders.

She helps him lie back, adjusts the bumpers, tucks the blanket up around him.

Jacob watches from his bed, eyes heavy, thoughts slow and unconnected.

The room hums quietly.

The house feels vast beyond the door.

And somewhere beneath the confusion, beneath the wrongness neither of them can quite name, there’s a deep, unsettling sense of being exactly where they’re supposed to be — for now.

Jacob tries to speak first.

It comes out wrong.

The sound catches around his thumb, wet and indistinct, more breath and spit than words. He makes a frustrated noise and tries again, brows knitting as if concentration alone might fix it.

Matthew watches him for a second, then says quietly, “Jake. Take your thumb out.”

Jacob hesitates.

The resistance surprises him — not defiance, just a deep, bodily reluctance, like being asked to stop breathing through one lung. He doesn’t know why it feels necessary. He only knows that pulling his thumb free feels like losing something important.

Still, he does it.

His mouth feels empty. Cold. His words come faster now, tumbling over one another.

“It’s— it feels—” He stops, frowns, tries again. “It’s wrong. I don’t know why. But it feels wrong without—” He gestures vaguely at his hand, then presses his lips together, confused by his own frustration. “I don’t know how to say it.”

Matthew nods slowly. His own voice feels steadier, but not by much.

“Everything feels like that,” he says. “Like… like it’s supposed to make sense, and it almost does, but then it doesn’t.”

They both fall quiet for a moment, the room heavy with soft pastels and unfamiliar shapes.

Matthew stares up at the ceiling. “We packed our own bags,” he says suddenly. “I remember that. Jeans. Sweaters. Normal stuff. And I was driving. I know I was..but the thought of it seems scary now, and somehow ridiculous.”

Jacob nods hard. “Yeah. You were driving.”

“But,” Matthew continues, carefully, “I also remember putting on that dress this morning. I remember it like it’s always been mine.”

Jacob swallows. “I remember… Mom packing for me. Like I was too little.” His face twists. “And I also remember doing it myself.”

The memories sit beside each other, incompatible and equally real.

“At the mall,” Matthew says after a moment, voice lower, “Grandpa took me to the bathroom.”

Jacob turns his head to look at him.

“The women’s bathroom,” Matthew adds. “And it didn’t feel… shocking. Just confusing. Like I knew I was supposed to go in there.” He rubs his fingers together, as if feeling fabric that isn’t there anymore, now replaced by plastic. “And my underwear was… different. Thicker. Not like anything I’ve worn before.”

Jacob shifts.

“And this new pair feels worse somehow…and I don’t understand why Grandma had me change my underwear just now, only that, it makes sense for taking a nap even if I hate it.”

The movement draws his attention sharply downward. The bulky garment between his legs presses back, warm and full in a way he still can’t quite process. The sound it makes — that soft, papery rustle — feels too loud in the quiet room.

“Like it feels safe?” Jacob asked in a feathery voice. 

Matthew snapped over to his brother. 

“I—” Jacob stops, breath hitching. “Grandma took me in the cart. And then… I don’t know how to say this without it sounding stupid.”

“Try,” Matthew says.

“It felt like I sat in oatmeal,” Jacob blurts. His cheeks flush immediately. “That’s the only thing I can think of. Warm. Soft. Like it didn’t belong there.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “And I didn’t know what it meant. I still don’t.”

Matthew listens intently.

“And then,” Jacob continues, voice smaller now, “she helped me change. Into this.” He shifts again, uncomfortable, the bulk making his legs sit wider than feels natural. “It’s huge. And I don’t know why I’m wearing it. And I don’t know why I didn’t… stop her.”

Matthew exhales slowly.

“I’m wearing the same thing,” he says. “For the nap.”

They lie there, two adults in beds that are not meant for adults, wearing garments that neither of them can quite name without circling around the truth of them.

“It feels wrong,” Jacob says softly. “But also…” He trails off, frowning. “It’s not hurting. It’s just… there.”

Matthew nods. “Yeah.”

Neither of them says the next thought out loud: that they don’t know how to ask for it to stop. That they don’t know who they would even ask.

Jacob’s thumb drifts back toward his mouth before he realizes it. He pauses halfway, looking at Matthew, unsure.

Matthew doesn’t tell him to stop this time.

They lie there, surrounded by soft walls and softened reality, trying to hold onto the edges of who they were — and feeling those edges blur, gently but relentlessly, as the house settles around them.

As the light through the curtain changes, they drift.

Not fully asleep — more like sinking, the edges of the room blurring until the soft colors smear together. Matthew isn’t sure how long he’s been out when a sound pulls him back.

“Mmm’tthee…”

It takes a second to realize it’s his name.

He turns his head. Jacob is upright in the crib, one hand clenched on the top rail, other thumb still in his mouth. His eyes are open too wide, glassy with something that looks like fear.

“Jakey?” Matthew whispers.

Jacob makes a small sound and pulls his thumb out, lips wet, words tangled and wrong. “It— it hurts. I don’t know—” He breaks off, breath hitching. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, knees knocking, like standing still is unbearable. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Matthew’s chest tightens.

There’s a certainty in Jacob’s face that terrifies him more than panic would — the certainty that this is familiar. That he should know what this feeling means.

“I know this,” Jacob whispers, voice shaking. “I just— I can’t think it.”

Tears spill over, silent and helpless.

Matthew swings his legs over the side of his bed, the bumpers catching at his calves. Climbing over them feels wrong, like wading through something thicker than air, but urgency overrides everything else.

He goes to the crib.

Lowering the side takes both hands and more effort than it should. Jacob reaches for him immediately, clinging hard. When Matthew tries to guide him out, Jacob’s legs don’t cooperate — they wobble, uncertain, like they don’t quite remember how to bear weight on their own.

“I’ve got you,” Matthew murmurs, though he isn’t sure he does.

Jacob presses close, breathing fast, fingers fisting in the fabric of Matthew’s nightdress. His body is tense with discomfort, every small movement a plea he can’t voice.

And then — a pull.

Not a thought. Not logic. Just a knowing that flares in Matthew’s chest.

“This way,” he whispers. “I— I know where to go.”

Jacob looks up at him, eyes searching. “Where?”

Matthew doesn’t have an answer. “I just… know.”

They move slowly, Matthew half-carrying, half-guiding him down the hall. The house feels enormous at night, every step echoing too loudly in Matthew’s head. Light pills from a doorway ahead — the grandparents’ room. Soft voices drift out, calm and unaware.

They freeze.

Matthew holds his breath, then inches them past, heart hammering. Jacob whimpers softly, thumb back in his mouth now, clinging harder.

The bathroom door is just beyond.

They slip inside and close it quietly.

For a moment, Matthew feels relief.

And then — nothing.

The certainty vanishes as if it was never there.

He turns to Jacob, ready to do something, anything — and his mind goes completely blank.

The room swims. The fixtures look unfamiliar. Jacob looks at him with naked hope, pain tightening his small face.

For a moment—just a moment—Matthew felt it click.

Not the word. Not the explanation. The shape of the action.

His body leaned forward before he’d consciously decided to move, hands lifting as if they already knew where to go. He reached out, fingers brushing Jacob’s sleeve, then hesitated—waiting for the next step to surface.

It didn’t.

The feeling collapsed in on itself, like a thought interrupted mid-sentence.

Matthew frowned, breath catching. “I—hang on. I know this. I do know this.”

He tried again, slower this time. Broke it down the way he used to with difficult problems: first step, then the next. He adjusted Jacob’s position slightly—something gentle, practiced—

—and immediately knew it was wrong.

Not because Jacob protested.

Because the room itself seemed to recoil.

The motion didn’t fit anymore. Like turning a key that used to open a door and now only scraped uselessly against metal. Matthew’s hands stalled, hovering uncertainly, and the certainty drained out of him all at once.

“No,” he whispered, more to himself than to Jacob. “That’s not… that’s not first.”

He tried to reverse it. Tried to undo what he’d just done. But even that felt out of sequence now, like he’d missed the point of entry entirely.

Jacob made a small, broken sound.

Matthew’s chest tightened.

“I swear I know how to help you,” he said, voice cracking with effort. “I’ve done this. I’ve always—”

The sentence fell apart.

There was no “always” left to anchor it.

He looked down at himself, at the unfamiliar layers, the unfamiliar rules written into his own body, and understood with a cold, sinking clarity that whatever system he’d learned before no longer applied.

Not because he’d forgotten it.

Because it wasn’t true anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he said, helpless now, hands lowering uselessly to his sides. “I’m so sorry. I thought if I just—if I did it the right way—”

“Help me,” Jacob wailed. “Please.”

Matthew’s throat closes.

“I—” He swallows hard. “I don’t know how.”

He gestures helplessly at Jacob’s clothes, at the unfamiliar fastenings, the layers that don’t make sense to him. “I know what I do,” he says, voice breaking, lifting his own skirt a little in frantic demonstration. “I know how it works for me. But this— I don’t— I don’t understand this.”

Jacob’s distress sharpened, cresting into something Matthew could feel but not interpret, and that was when the last fragment slipped away: not the knowledge of what was happening, but the knowledge of what came next.

Jacob’s lip trembles. He lets out a small, broken sound and curls inward, shoulders shaking.

Matthew reaches for him, but it’s already happening — the moment passing without permission.

Jacob goes still.

The relief came to him without instruction.

Without permission.

Matthew stood there as it happened, frozen in the space between action and understanding, aware only of the shift in Jacob’s breathing, the sudden slackness of his posture.

Something had resolved.

Something Matthew had failed to resolve for him.

And somewhere deep in his chest, Matthew understood the worst part:

The world hadn’t stopped him.

It had simply waited until he was no longer capable of interfering.

The tension drains from his body all at once, replaced by something heavy and spreading, something warm and strange. He blinks, confused, relief washing through him even as he doesn’t understand why.

“Oh,” he breathes, like the pain simply… stopped.

He stands there, stunned, staring down at himself, trying to connect cause and effect and finding nothing to hold onto.

Matthew does.

He smells it before he sees it, the groin of Jacob’s stripped bodysuit drooping heavily between his thighs.

His face tightens involuntarily. He turns away for a second, guilt flooding him immediately after — because Jacob looks better. Calmer. No longer in pain.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew whispers, even though he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for.

Jacob doesn’t answer. He doesn’t understand why Matthew is sorry for his sake. He’s still trying to make sense of the warmth, the heaviness, the sudden quiet inside his body. The room feels very small now. Very still.

The door opens softly behind them.

“Oh, there you are.”

Grandma’s voice is gentle, unsurprised.

She takes in the scene in a single glance — the confusion, the relief, the thing Jacob doesn’t yet understand and Matthew can’t explain. Her eyes settle on the heavy seat of Jacobs underwear, now stiff, warm and much less crinkly.

“There we go,” she says warmly, already moving closer. “You tried to do it on your own.”

Matthew looks at her, helpless. “I— I thought I knew what to do.”

She lays a hand on his shoulder. “That’s all right, sweetheart. That’s why I’m here.”

Jacob looked helpless between them, lost in the conversation he didn’t understand. 

Shifting unconciously, the feeling of overcooked oatmeal clinging to him flashed through his mind again, as his cheeks shifted stickily. 

Jacob leaned into his Grandmas touch instinctively, thumb returning to his mouth, the world softening again as she takes over — and the boys are once more guided, not understanding how or why, only that someone else knows what comes next.

“All right,” Grandma says softly, already turning the faucet. “Let’s get you both cleaned up and ready for New Year’s.”

The sound of running water fills the room, louder than Matthew expects. It echoes oddly, like the bathroom has stretched wider while they weren’t looking.

Jacob stands where she left him, suddenly aware of himself in a way that makes his skin prickle. The warmth from before has faded into something heavier, cooler, present. His clothes don’t sit right anymore. There’s a dull ache in his hips, a dragging sensation that makes him shift from foot to foot.

“I don’t like this,” he murmurs, not sure what this is.

Grandma’s hand settles reassuringly at his back. “I know. That’s why we’re fixing it.”

Matthew is guided first—not roughly, not hurried. Grandma steers him to the toilet as if this is the most natural thing in the world, resting her hands at his elbows to help him balance. The soft crinkly garment he’s wearing beneath his nightie is eased down and left pooled at his ankles. The position feels strange, exposed and unfamiliar, like he’s been placed into a memory he doesn’t quite own.

“There,” she says, satisfied. “You’ll have a moment to yourself there.”

To do what?

Matthew sits because he’s been told to sit. Nothing about it makes sense in his head, but his body accepts it with a vague, unremarkable compliance. Something happens—or maybe doesn’t. Time passes in a way he can’t track. When she helps him up again, he’s left with the uncomfortable feeling that something important has occurred without him understanding it.

Meanwhile, Jacob’s world narrows, as Grandma helps him lay on his back on a towel, in the centre of the bathroom. 

The floor is heated, which feels oddly nice. 

She kneels in front of him, her movements calm and practiced. She unsnaps the buttons at the bottom of his long shirt—buttons he hadn’t fully realized were there until they come free, beneath his groin. The garment lifts away in a way that exposes how wrong everything feels underneath.

Jacob looks down, bewildered.

This isn’t—” He stops. The sentence has nowhere to go.

The bulky thing he’s wearing is heavier than before, sagging slightly, unfamiliar in a way that makes his stomach twist. He wants it gone. The want is sudden and intense, though he can’t explain it even to himself.

“I don’t know why I don’t like it,” he whispers, eyes stinging. “I just— don’t.”

“That’s okay,” Grandma says gently. “You don’t need to know.”

She works efficiently, without commentary, cleaning him in a way that feels both invasive and oddly relieving. Taps at the front of his hips come undone with a oddly familiar noise, and Jacob turns his head away, overwhelmed by the mix of sensations—cool air, gentle pressure, the steady rhythm of her hands. He feels wrong, then slowly less wrong. Dirty, then cleaner. The ache eases. The heaviness lifts.

She makes a scraping motion across his groin and backside with the underwear itself, folding it up and discarding it in a bin nearby. Then an endless amount of wiping him down, from the top of his groin to his lower back. 

When it’s over, he feels lighter. Smaller. Calmer.

By the time she helps them into the bath, steam has begun to fog the mirror. The water is warm, almost too warm at first, and both of them flinch before settling.

Their legs tangle in the bath. Matthew is vaguely aware that it should feel embarressing and stupid to bathe with his younger brother, but the feelings simply don’t rise as he expected them to. 

Matthew is given space—soap placed within reach, quiet encouragement to wash where he can. He moves awkwardly, uncertain, copying motions from some half-remembered past version of himself.

Jacob needs more help, or maybe he’s just provided more help. The distinction seems unclear. 

Grandma steadies him, guides his hands, rinses his hair while he sits pliant and exhausted. The warmth seeps into his bones, and with it comes a deep, bone-level comfort he doesn’t question anymore.

This, at least, makes sense.

By the time they’re clean, wrapped in towels, the bathroom smells of soap and steam instead of confusion. Grandma hums softly as she works, as if this is simply another step in a long, familiar routine.

“There we go,” she says at last. “Much better.”

Jacob leans into her without thinking.

Matthew watches, quiet, the unease still there—but dulled now, softened by warmth and care.

Somewhere downstairs, the house prepares for celebration.

Here, in the bathroom, time pauses—holding them gently in a moment that feels less like an ending, and more like being readied for what comes next.

Grandma shepherds them back into the bedroom with the easy authority of someone who has done this a thousand times before. The room is warm now, the lamps turned on, soft light settling into the corners.

She pauses in the middle of the floor, hands on her hips, and looks between them.

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…” she murmurs, almost sing-song.

Matthew stiffens. Jacob blinks up at her, thumb hovering near his mouth.

Grandma smiles. “Jakey first. I don’t want to risk an accident on my carpet.”

The words slide past Matthew without landing properly. Accident? His brain reaches for context and comes up empty. Jacob doesn’t react at all—just lets himself be guided forward as if this choice has already been made somewhere else.

The changing table is already set up against the wall.

Matthew doesn’t remember it being there this morning. He’s fairly sure it wasn’t. But it looks like it belongs—sturdy, padded, dressed with a soft mat patterned in pale stars. Grandma helps Jacob climb up, lifting him easily, as if his weight is something she’s long accustomed to.

Jacob lies back without protest.

He looks… comfortable.

Warm from the bath, relaxed, limbs loose. He watches the ceiling while Grandma opens a drawer beneath the table. The faint crinkle of plastic follows.

Matthew’s chest tightens.

She pulls out a diaper.

For a heartbeat, Matthew’s thoughts snap sharp and clear: That’s wrong.

Then the moment slips.

The diaper comes from a package that’s already open, folded back neatly, several missing. That detail matters in a way Matthew can’t articulate. His mind supplies a correction automatically.

Of course it’s open. 

Of course there are some gone.

Because—when he really thinks about it—Jacob must have been wearing diapers already.

The thought settles with strange ease.

Images rise unbidden, fragmented and soft-edged: Jacob in a cap and gown, the hem brushing against something bulky beneath; Jacob at a dance, laughing awkwardly, the outline of a diaper peeking out of his dress pants unmistakable; teenaged pimpled Jacob slumped asleep on a couch at some long-ago family gathering, a blanket tucked carefully around his upper body, thumb resting in his mouth, pants missing as they often are, and a yellowed diaper on full display. 

None of it feels shocking.

None of it feels new.

It simply feels… true.

Grandma works efficiently, hands sure, practiced. She talks lightly as she goes, as if narrating a routine task.

“There we go. Nice and clean. That’ll feel better.”

Jacob frowns faintly, eyes drifting down, trying to understand what’s happening. There’s a brief flicker of confusion—why is this underwear bigger than before?—but it fades as quickly as it comes. Grandma wouldn’t do something wrong. Grandma wouldn’t put him in something he didn’t need.

Matthew catches his eye, standing eyelevel next to the changing table. 

Shouldn’t he be taller than a changing table?

While grandma looks away to locate a new bottle of powder in the lower drawers, Matthew leans closer, a wild startling look of realisation in his eyes. “It’s a diaper,” he whispers urgently, “You’re being diapered!” 

“Oh,” Jacob murmurs around his thumb, uncertain. Not upset. Just… processing.

Grandma’s face returns above his, before a cloud of white descends upon his groin. 

Then slowly, surely, the front of the diaper is brought up, fastened carefully by her hand with tabs over his hips and stomach. 

The diaper is snug, thick, unmistakable once it’s there. It sits high on his waist, filling the space between his thighs, reshaping the way he lies on the table. Jacob shifts once, then stills.

Grandma smiles. “That’s it. All sorted.”

Jacob watches, detached and intensely focused at the same time. A part of him knows he should be alarmed. Another part is already rewriting the rules of the world to accommodate what he’s seeing.

He needs this.

Of course he does.

When Grandma lifts him down, Jacob sways a little, as if unused to the weight. She steadies him easily and reaches for the pajamas laid out on the bed.

They’re footed—soft fleece, white and fuzzy, like a bear. Theres a hood with little ears on it, and mittens and footies that resemble paws. The feet even have textured grips along the soles, little rubber shapes that catch the light. The zipper runs along the back, hidden beneath a fabric guard, clearly designed so small hands can’t reach it easily.

Grandma guides Jacob into them, step by step. The fabric swallows the diaper completely, smoothing his shape into something rounder, softer. When the zipper is pulled up, it makes a quiet zzzip that seems louder than it should.

Jacob looks down at himself, puzzled.

“These are… warm,” he says finally.

“That’s the point,” Grandma replies, patting his back. “You’ll be much more comfortable.”

Jacob nods, accepting this explanation without fully understanding it.

Matthew swallows.

Somewhere deep in his mind, something is slipping into place—not because it makes sense, but because the world is insisting it does.

Grandma turns then, hands already reaching for the clothes laid out on Matthew’s side of the room.

“Maddie,” she says cheerfully, “you’re next.”

And whatever Matthew was about to question quietly dissolves, making room for what comes after.

Grandma moves toward the dresser on Matthew’s side of the room.

She doesn’t hesitate. Her hands know exactly where to go.

Matthew watches, unease prickling up his spine.

Matthew watches, unease prickling up his spine.

From one of the lower drawers she pulls out a neatly stacked row of thick, crinkly pink pull-ups, folded with the same care as socks or undershirts. She lifts one, weighing it thoughtfully, then nods to herself as if confirming a decision already made.

Matthew stiffens.

Now that he’s fully awake, the thought comes sharp and sudden: These don’t belong on me.

The certainty flares—and then falters.

Grandma dusting a little powder into her palm is what breaks it. 

She rubs her hands together before motioning him closer. The scent rises soft and familiar, and Matthew’s gaze drifts—without quite meaning to—to the corner of the room near Jacob’s changing table

The soft, familiar scent fills the air, and Matthew’s attention drifts to the corner of the room where the diaper pail stands beside Jacob’s changing table.

He hadn’t really noticed it before.

Now, looking at it, something deep in his chest responds.

Not a memory exactly—more like an echo. The hollow thump of the lid closing. Over and over. Morning, afternoon, evening. A rhythm. A reassurance. A sound that means things are taken care of.

It means nothing has gone wrong.

It means he doesn’t have to think.

The sharpness of his objection dulls.

The pull-ups still feel wrong in theory—but standing there, letting Grandma guide him to step into them, the wrongness slides sideways, loses its edge. As they settle into place, as the soft bulk shifts against his hips, he feels something loosen in his chest.

He knows—without knowing how—that he needs them.

They make things quieter.

They make the world easier to bear.

Whatever it is he doesn’t have to worry about when he wears them feels important—urgent, even—but the shape of it slips away the moment he tries to grasp it. Like a thought that dissolves the instant you wake.

Grandma beams, clearly satisfied, and reaches back into the dresser.

“Now,” she says brightly, pulling out the next layer, “these go on next.”

The bloomers are pale pink, soft and gently structured, with neat ruffles gathered along the seat and cuffs. There’s a faint sheen to the lining inside—just enough to catch the light. Grandma pats them approvingly.

“Just for extra safety,” she says, as if that explains everything.

Matthew doesn’t know what they’re meant to keep him safe from. He doesn’t ask. He trusts her hands as she helps him into them, trusts the way each layer is added with purpose.

Then she reaches for the final piece.

The dress.

It unfurls in her hands like something ceremonial. Layers of fabric spill over her arms—white and blush and lavender, threaded with ribbons and tiny bows. The skirt is full and buoyant, supported by a petticoat that gives it shape and presence. The waist is neatly cinched, the bodice structured but soft, and the sleeves peplum gently at the shoulders, fluttering when she lifts it.

It’s… breathtaking.

Matthew’s breath catches.

He’s never seen anything so beautiful.

Grandma helps him step into it, smoothing the fabric down, adjusting the waist so it sits just right. The layers settle over him, the skirt blooming outward, hiding and accentuating the shapes beneath all at once.

“Sit still for me,” she says, guiding him to the edge of the bed.

She gathers his long hair—when did it get this long?—and deftly divides it into sections. Her fingers move with practiced ease, weaving and looping until his hair is arranged into two intricate braided pigtails, tied off with small satin ribbons that match the dress.

When she’s done, she steps back, hands on her hips, admiring her work.

“Perfect,” she says.

She helps him to his feet and turns him toward the mirror.

Matthew stares.

The skirt flares gently around him, the layers beneath giving it volume. As he shifts his weight, he feels how the pull-ups and bloomers spread his thighs, alter his balance, force a careful, swaying stance.

The sensation is strange.

And yet—familiar.

Images flicker at the edges of his mind: moving into his dorm room, standing awkwardly in a crowded hallway; sitting across from someone on a first date, that same underlying sense of containment, of safety. The feeling had always been there, threaded through his life, even when he hadn’t known how to name it.

He looks… ridiculous.

And beautiful.

The dress sits oddly on his broad shoulders, the waistline not quite matching the shape of his body. The layers add bulk where none should be. It should feel wrong.

Instead, it feels right.

It feels fun. It feels exciting. It makes him smile—an unguarded, genuine thing—mirroring Grandma’s delight.

Across the room, Jacob looks back at him from his crib, footed pajamas soft and bright against the bedding. They take each other in silently.

They look strange.

They look complete.

Safe.

Cared for.

Exactly as they are meant to be.

Something inside them clicks—not loudly, not all at once, but enough.

Just like that he’s ready, and Grandma takes him by hand, ready to lead them downstairs, where the table is set and Grandpa’s New Year’s feast waits.

“Oh dear, better not forget this,” Grandma stops suddenly, picking something up off the top of the dresser and clips it to the front of Matthews dress. 

He looks down at it. 

The clip is heavier than he expects. Not heavy, exactly—but noticeable. It tugs gently at the front of his dress when Grandma lets go, the string a soft ribbon against the fabric, and dangling at the end of it, a hot pink pacifier resting just below his chest like an ornament. It’s an odd thing to be given so casually, like gloves or a scarf. 

“I wouldn’t want you to go into the new year without your best friend,” Grandma says warmly, already turning away, as if the matter is settled.

And somehow it is.

Matthew doesn’t understand how the words land so solidly in him—only that they do. A quiet certainty settles in his stomach. Of course he wouldn’t want to be without it. Of course it belongs there. He doesn’t know what he would do with it, doesn’t remember ever wanting one, but the idea of it being taken away makes his chest tighten in a way he can’t explain.

He glances at Jacob.

Jacob is sitting in his crib, diapered, legs flared by the bulk of it, his thumb tucked into his mouth as he watches Matthew with open, curious eyes. There’s something strange about the picture—Matthew knows that, knows that Jacob is the odd one here—but the reason why slips away the moment he tries to grasp it. The thought dissolves, leaving only a vague sense of superiority that he can’t justify.

Grandma lifts Jacob out with practiced ease, settling him briefly against her hip as she turns then depositing him on wide jellied legs taking his free hand, then takes Matthew’s hand in her other one. Her grip is warm and firm, guiding. 

The stairs loom larger than Matthew remembers them, but he doesn’t question it. He follows.

Jacob struggles more. His feet fumble on the steps, his knees wobble, and when they reach the bottom he simply… sits. Plops down onto the rug, unbothered, looking up at Grandma as if this was always the plan.

“That’s all right,” she says, without a trace of concern. “Come along. Follow along.”

She leads Matthew into the dining room, leaving Grandpa to encourage Jacob forward. 

Grandpa’s delight is immediate when he sees them.

“Well, just look at you two!” he beams. “Aren’t you the prettiest thing, Maddie? And Jacob—oh, my goodness, so handsome.”

The praise washes over Matthew like warmth. His heart flutters, light and pleased. Being looked at like this—being approved of—feels good in a way that quiets everything else.

Grandma pulls out a chair for Matthew. It has an extra seat fitted to it, higher than the others, and she helps him maneuver his skirts and layers, guiding his hips down carefully as his pull-up crinkles loudly in protest. The petticoats puff and resist, and he’s acutely aware of how much space he takes up, how clumsy he feels. He’s grateful for her hands, for the way she fixes everything without comment.

Across the room, Grandpa coaxes Jacob forward. Jacob crawls—awkward, determined—until he reaches the high chair. Grandpa lifts him in and snaps the tray into place with a decisive click.

Matthew watches as a rubbery apron is slipped over Jacob’s shoulders, covering his arms and chest all the way down to the tray. Grandpa sets food directly onto it: soft vegetables, mashed potatoes drowned in gravy, an applesauce pouch squeezed open and placed within reach. No utensils.

For Matthew, it’s different—but not that different. He’s given a plastic plate and a spoon-spork hybrid that feels too thick, too rounded in his fingers. Grandma still ties a bib around his neck, wide enough to cover most of the front of his dress.

“I don’t need—” he starts, heat rising to his face.

“Oh, don’t be fussy,” she says gently, smoothing it down. “It’s just to protect your pretty dress. I know Maddie’s too big for it, but it’s a special occasion.”

The words too big settle uneasily, but before he can untangle them, Grandpa pours kiddie champagne into a plastic goblet and sets it in front of him. The bubbles fizz softly.

Matthew brightens instantly. He lifts it with both hands and drinks, the sweetness surprising and delightful. He forgets about the bib entirely.

Dinner unfolds slowly, ceremoniously. Grandma serves Matthew small portions at a time, cutting things up for him, nudging the plate closer when he hesitates. The spoon-spork feels clumsy, awkward to angle just right, and sometimes it’s easier—simpler—to pick things up with his fingers.

He notices, distantly, that he’s eating the way Jacob eats.

The realization doesn’t alarm him. It just… fits.

The living room settles into a different rhythm after dinner.

The lamps are turned low, throwing warm pools of light across the rug. The television murmurs for a while—some countdown program left on more out of habit than interest—until Grandma clicks it off entirely. Silence doesn’t rush in; it drifts, padded and soft.

Jacob’s discomfort comes first, though no one comments on it.

He shifts on the couch, frowning faintly, legs drawing in and then stretching again as if he can’t quite get comfortable. Grandpa notices immediately. He always does.

“Well,” he says lightly, pushing himself up with a quiet grunt, “let’s get you settled, hm?”

The quilt is laid out on the floor with care, smoothed flat, its edges squared. Jacob lowers himself down onto it, movements already a little clumsy, a little unguarded. There’s no embarrassment in his posture—just a vague, instinctive trust that whatever needs doing will be handled.

Grandma kneels beside him.

The change itself is unhurried but efficient. There’s no ceremony to it, no fussing—just practiced motions, gentle hands, the quiet rustle of fabric and padding. Jacob stares up at the ceiling while it happens, eyes unfocused, jaw slack, listening distantly to Grandpa talking about how loud the fireworks will be this year, how the lake echoes sound.

At one point, Jacob stiffens briefly—an instinctive flash of awareness, perhaps—but Grandma murmurs something soothing, presses a steadying hand to his knee. The tension drains out of him almost immediately, leaving him pliant again.

When it’s finished, he’s wrapped back into the quilt, heavier somehow, more anchored. 

Grandpa helps him scoot closer to the couch, tucking the blanket around his shoulders. Jacob sighs, deep and contented, and leans into him without thinking.

Matthew has watched the entire thing from his chair.

He doesn’t know why his chest feels tight.

The pacifier taps softly against his dress as he shifts. He’s been aware of it all evening—the gentle tug of the ribbon, the reassurance of its presence—but now it feels louder somehow, more insistent. His body feels warm, pleasantly heavy, the sweetness of the sparkling drink still lingering on his tongue.

Eventually, he reaches for it.

There’s a moment—just a flicker—where his hand pauses. Some distant part of him objects, whispers that this isn’t something he needs. That he should hold on a little longer.

The objection fades as soon as the pacifier meets his lips.

The relief is immediate and disproportionate. His breath slows. His shoulders drop. A low, almost embarrassed sound hums in his throat before he realizes he’s made it. Grandma notices, of course, and simply adjusts the cushion behind him, making sure his back is supported.

Time slips again.

They migrate to the window without discussion. Cushions are placed. A blanket is shared. 

The lake outside is a sheet of dark glass, waiting.

When the first fireworks bloom across the sky, Matthew straightens slightly, captivated. Color spills across the water—gold, then red—each burst followed by a distant, softened boom.

That’s when he feels it.

A pressure. Subtle at first, easy to ignore. He shifts on the cushion, drawing his knees in slightly, jaw tightening around the pacifier. His brow furrows. He tells himself it will pass—that he can manage it, that he should.

The pressure builds anyway.

Matthew’s breath hitches. His free hand curls into the blanket, knuckles whitening. There’s a moment of real effort—of holding, of resisting—his body tensing as if waiting for permission that doesn’t come.

Then it slips.

Not suddenly, but in a quiet cascade—tension giving way, warmth spreading where strain had been. His body sags as the magic absorbs the moment, cushions it, makes it gentle instead of shocking. The struggle ends almost as soon as it began, replaced by an overwhelming sense of ease.

Matthew exhales shakily.

The warmth lingers, comforting rather than alarming. His limbs feel loose, boneless. The pacifier bobs softly as he sucks, grounding him, anchoring him in the moment. Any remaining embarrassment dissolves under the weight of how right it feels to stop trying.

Grandma drapes the blanket more securely around his shoulders.

Outside, the sky fractures into light—blue, then white—reflections rippling across the lake.

Inside, time finishes folding in on itself, the old year slipping away without ceremony, leaving them safe, held, and exactly where they are meant to be. Matthew leans against the glass. The thick material at his groin reacts like a warm sponge, and the sensation sents a twinger up his spine. He looks out, warm, held, utterly still as the year turns over without him needing to do anything at all.

Authors note: 

I hope you enjoyed this festive little piece of mine, even if it is a few days late for new years, hopefully some of you are still in a festive mood like myself. And please comment and let me know what your thoughts are! I thought about posting this in batches, but then felt it took a bit away from the immersion in the story, so here you are! I'll see about finishing up a small cheeky epilogue for you all to really wrap a final bow on this. Feel free to let me know what you liked, and what you would like to see more of, as I always am searching for inspiration for new stories. I have quite a few pieces in progress, but my vacation for the holidays are coming to their end. I will see you in the comments hopefully for now ;)