Your throat tingled as the potion slid into your stomach. Other than a slight fizzy sensation in your belly, nothing seemed to be happening. Your throbbing boner deflated and you poked experimentally at your new gut. Well, at least you didn’t seem to be changing any more. Maybe your world wasn’t going to alter after all. So… Now what?
Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion sweeps over you, even though you had just woken up. Dizzily, you stagger over to the bed and climb in, noticing that at your new height your toes stick out the bottom of the blanket. As your mind drifts away, a single thought floats into the back of your mind. It’s your dad’s birthday tomorrow. You’ll have to remember to get him a… ZZZZ….
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Sun streaming. Birds chirping. It’s morning again. You must have slept through the entire day! That potion was small, but it sure packed a punch. You examine your body, but thankfully, nothing seems to have changed any further. Your fuzzy gut is no larger, your bulky muscular frame has the same layer of fat hanging off of it. Your chest hair is still thick and dark. The only thing that has changed is your facial hair, a day’s growth adding length to the whiskers on your cheeks, giving you a full chestnut brown beard that overtakes your goatee.
You throw on a white T-shirt and some gym shorts and step out into the hall. You need to piss like a racehorse. You notice that all the furniture seems shorter thanks to your newfound height. You scratch your hairy belly and grab the knob to the restroom door, but it doesn’t budge. You hear the shower running inside. Weird. Timmy should have been at school already. Maybe he called in sick for dad’s birthday.
You pound on the door. “Timmy, hurry up! I need to pee so bad, my back teeth are floating!” You cringe at the awful joke, but you secretly thrill in your deep, masculine voice.
The water stops and you hear a towel being pulled from the rack. The locks snaps in the door and hot mist comes pouring into the hall, revealing a massive, towel-clad figure.
You’re startled by the man, who seems oddly at home in your bathroom. His blonde hair is shaggy and hangs over his broad face, where he wears a thick mustache on his upper lip. His bare torso cuts an Adonis-like figure, stacked with thick, plump pecs and washboard abs. He clearly waxes his chest, but shorn blonde stubble is beginning to poke through. He’s about an inch shorter than you, but nevertheless imposing.
“Come on, I’ve asked you to stop calling me Timmy.” Said the man. “It’s Tim now.”
“I’m… sorry?” Your mind reels in confusion.
He steps out into the hallway. “Well, you should be. Hey, can you believe mom and dad converted my old room into a guest room? I JUST graduated. I mean, I know they did it to yours, but it’s too soon, man.” He glances up at you. “You alright, big bro?”
You gape at him, realizing that this behemoth was your little brother. “I’m fine. They changed my room?” You glance back through the doorway and realize that the bed you just stepped out of is a queen size with lime green sheets. The walls are stripped bare, your old posters are no more.
“Yeah, like a decade ago. I think you had too much to drink last night, man. Look, let me get changed and I’ll fix you my patented hangover cure.” He stepped into his room and shut the door.
A hangover cure? Your brother couldn’t drink. He’s only ten! This Tim guy looked to be about 25! There’s no way he- A sudden realization dawns on you. If you’re 30, the normalization potion must have also aged your family by 15 years! As soon as you make the connection, a memory surfaces like a bubble. Yes, Tim is 25 and just graduated med school. He’s in town for your father’s 55th birthday. 55? Yikes! So the 40-year-old body you were halfway to inhabiting doesn’t even exist anymore.
Tim emerges from the bedroom in jeans and a Blink-182 tee. His mustachioed face now feels discomfortingly familiar. “Come here, you big lug. Let’s get you fixed up.”
You grin. “The only one who needs fixing here is you!” You get him in a headlock and give him a noogie.
“Now there’s my brother! It’s just like old times. God, can you believe dad’s 55?”
“I know. It feels like only yesterday that we celebrated his 40th.” You notice a tribal tattoo snaking around Tim’s beefy forearm. “You got a tattoo?”
Yeah, man. My graduation present to myself. Theresa loves it. She thinks it looks sexy.” He makes some exaggerated bodybuilding poses.
“Aren’t you worried that they won’t take you seriously at the hospital?”
“Every doc has ink these days. God, you sound just like dad.”
“Well, I guess I take after him more than you, Dr. Thug Life.”
“Don’t I know it, Tubbo.” He pokes your belly and you swat his hand away.
“At least I don’t look like a carnival act!” you retort.
“Ha ha, very funny. Let’s go downstairs, mom made pancakes.”
“In a sec, I still need to piss.”
“Suit yourself.”
You step into the bathroom and empty your bladder, enjoying the heft and weight of your adult member. After you wash your hands, you wipe the steam away from the mirror. Those wrinkles around your eyes and that receding hairline are brand spanking new, but you face looks utterly familiar. As you stare into your 30-year-old visage, your mind fills with fifteen years of memories in this house: homework, parties, getting ready for prom, a long succession of birthdays that stretch back to a year you shouldn’t be able to remember… It’s all a little overwhelming, but it feels right. You belong here.
There’s a knock on the door. “Son, I hear you’re having trouble getting started this morning.” Your dad’s voice still has its gravelly power, but you detect a bit of a warble beneath it. You open the door, saying, “No, I’m fine. Happy birthday, Dad.”
He gives you a hug and you feel a substantially larger gut separating the two of you. His bald patch has extended to a full horseshoe and his remaining hair is greying, but he still looks incredibly strong for his age.
“Let’s go downstairs, huh?”
As the two of you walk into the kitchen, your mother – who has cropped her grey hair short and looks a tad plumper – sighs happily. “You two are just spitting images of each other.” She motions to a chair. “Here. Eat.”
You tuck into a stack of pancakes, surprising yourself at how much you can put away. Your mom stands at the counter, cutting a grapefruit. “So how are things at the firm?”
You work at a law firm? Ugh, boring! “Um… Same old, same old.” Your brain is suddenly awash with memories of graduating law school, sitting the Bar, and getting a series of swift promotions. Knowledge rushes into you like a tide and suddenly your job doesn’t seem so dull after all.
“We’re doing this copyright defense for Mattel and the paperwork is brutal, but the case is really satisfying. If I play my cards right, it might just set a precedent for the entire country.”
“That’s great, honey. We’re so proud of you.”
You talk over breakfast and you begin to settle into your new life. You’re 30. You were born in 1986, your favorite team is the Orioles, you studied at Northwestern. You love puns, black coffee, bowling, and fantasy novels, but beyond that you’re you. Just… older.
After a nice day (including a visit to the park where you explored your new body’s limits with a rousing game of touch football), you hug your parents again, fist bump Tim, and hop in your truck, a brand new Toyota.
You don’t quite remember where you live, but your subconscious takes over, driving you to a condo downtown. You unlock the gate and walk into your home for – in your perception at least – the first time.