Damn! I… I have Kevin’s freaking boner,” Mark muttered, half in awe, half in horror, staring down at his little brother’s unfortunate enthusiasm.
“What’s that?” came a voice from across the room.
Mark’s heart nearly burst out of Kevin’s chest as he whipped around—and there stood Kristoff, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, and the telltale smirk of an older brother who’d just caught something very suspicious.
“Whoa-ho-ho,” Kristoff drawled, leaning against the doorframe like he'd just stumbled into the best blackmail opportunity of the year. “Kevin, buddy… we need to talk.”
Mark froze. He tried to stand casually, tugging the waistband of Kevin’s shorts back up like he hadn’t just been in the middle of a full-on identity crisis and a deep-dive into the body he now has unfamiliar anatomy.
Kristoff didn’t budge. His smirk only widened. “So. You and your little... striker having a team meeting, huh? Want me to call the coach? Maybe this counts as extra practice?”
Mark’s face burned—Kevin’s face burned. He couldn’t even figure out what expression to make. Should he be indignant? Embarrassed? Laugh it off? Whatever Kevin would do, he sure as hell hoped Kristoff couldn’t read through it.
“I wasn’t doing anything, jeez!” Mark barked, trying to channel Kevin’s usual brash tone. “The AC’s cold! I was just—like—adjusting... it, alright?”
Kristoff laughed. A full-bellied, wicked older brother laugh. “Sure, adjusting. Man, I remember when I was your age. Hormones flying everywhere, hands in places they shouldn’t be...” He clapped his hands. “Time for the talk, little bro.”
Oh god.
Mark’s brain short-circuited. He tried to edge past Kristoff, but the older brother wasn’t about to let him escape. Not now.
“You know about protection, right? Birds, bees, weird late-night google girls urges or guys—whatever it is, I’m not judging,” Kristoff continued, somehow enjoying every second of Mark’s squirming. “But just… maybe not in the shared bathroom, yeah?”
“I wasn’t—” Mark tried to protest.
Kristoff raised a finger, silencing him with the kind of smug authority only a big brother could wield. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Look, I used to do the same thing. But just so we’re clear: if you ever start ‘training drills’ with any of your friends, please do not let Mom find out the way I did.”
Mark’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what?!”
Kristoff shrugged like it was ancient history. “Walked in on me and Mandy Fields in the laundry room. I was 14. She was 15. Mom nearly exorcised us.”
Mark just stood there in Kevin’s skin, slack-jawed, barely processing this new info bomb when—
“BOYS! FOOD’S READY!” came Mom’s voice from downstairs.
Like a bolt from the heavens, salvation.
“Saved by the bell,” Kristoff said, chuckling as he turned to leave. “Clean up, champ. I’ll see you downstairs. Maybe keep your pants on at the dinner table, yeah?”
As soon as the door clicked shut, Mark groaned and covered his face.
“This… is hell, why did i choose Keven, should of thort more.”
But hell or not, he had to keep playing the part. He pulled Kevin’s jersey straight, shoved his feet into worn socks that still smelled like turf, and descended the stairs with Kevin’s gangly limbs and a stomach that hadn’t quite settled from the stress of earlier. His thoughts were buzzing: 40 minutes. Just 40 more minutes and this cursed sticker would time out and snap everything back to normal. He just had to keep playing the part until then—keep Kevin’s weird preferences, quirks, and all his soft-hearted crap in check until the finish line.
The dining table was already set, and the smell of home-cooked food hit him like a nostalgic slap to the face. He half-lurched into his seat, catching the eyes of two of their sisters—Sarah and Janine—already on their phones, barely acknowledging him. Their plates were adorned with kale, tofu, some kind of roasted squash, and a sad-looking bean patty. Great. The vegetarian option. seeing the same thing on Kevin’s now his plate.
Mark blinked. Right. Kevin’s a vegetarian. He could already hear Kevin’s whiny voice in his head, spouting off about animals having souls and pigs being smarter than dogs. Mark, meanwhile, used to call bacon “a reason to wake up in the morning.”
“Here you go, hon.” Their mom said finishing serving up his plate. It had steamed vegetables, a bean patty that smelled like cardboard, and a side of quinoa. Mark almost gagged.
He offered a weak “Thanks, Mom,” and tried to look pleased. Inside, he was screaming.
Kristoff slid into the chair across from him, a smug little glint in his eye, and a juicy, perfectly seared steak on his moms and dads plate. Mark’s borrowed stomach growled traitorously.
As everyone started to eat, Mark forced himself to take a bite of the bean patty. The texture was like wet chalk. He nearly choked but managed to keep a straight face. This is for survival, he reminded himself. You’ve eaten worse in school.
“So Kev,” Kristoff began, cutting into his steak with deliberate exaggeration, “no temptation? This cow died for a good cause, man. Just look at that marbling.”
Mark fumbled with his fork. “N-no thanks. I’m good.”
Kristoff smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “Still on your moral high horse, huh? Guess you're more of a ‘hands-on’ animal lover these days, huh?”
Mark froze.
The sentence sat there, innocent enough on the surface… yet loaded. Sarah didn’t even glance up. Janine just scrolled through something about horoscopes. Mom was busy pouring iced tea.
No one noticed. No one but Mark. He stared at Kristoff, who just gave a slow, deliberate wink.
Mark nearly dropped his fork.
He crammed a huge forkful of quinoa into Kevin’s mouth just to avoid responding. Bland, grainy punishment. He could feel sweat beading under his collar. His eyes darted to the microwave clock: 30 minutes left.
Just 30 more minutes of enduring this awful food, this awkward performance, and Kristoff’s slowly escalating innuendos.
“You okay, Kev?” Janine asked casually, finally glancing up. “You look pale.”
Mark cleared his throat. “I’m fine! Just—uh—soccer drills. Super intense today.”
“Uh huh,” Sarah added dryly, not looking up. “That’s what you said yesterday when you nearly passed out after your kale smoothie.”
Kristoff made a dramatic sniffing gesture toward him. “He does smell like effort. Or maybe shame.” Another bite of steak, another grin.
Mark dug into the veggies like they were armor. Shut up, shut up, shut up, he screamed inside. He was going to lose it. But the worst part? Kevin’s body… liked this food. The stomach didn’t protest. The tastebuds didn’t revolt. In fact, there was even a little hum of contentment from somewhere deep in the gut it was only the texture he did not like in this stupid body.
“This is insane,” Mark muttered under his breath, picking at his tofu. “I think I’m starting to like this crap…”
“Did you say something, sweetheart?” Mom asked.
“Just… said this is great, Mom. Love the...beans.” He gave a thumbs-up like some kind of malfunctioning droid.
Kristoff leaned in across the table, dropping his voice just enough that only Mark could hear.
“You sure you’re feeling okay, Kev? You’re acting kinda… out of body today, like you been pulling on something too much recently and tierd your self out.”
That damn smirk again.
Mark clenched his fork so tight he could hear it creaking.
25 minutes. That was all he had left to keep it together. After that, he’d be out of this cursed flesh suit, back in his own body, and Kevin could deal with the weird comments and bean burgers on his own, and it was odd how no one has even menchond him Mark right? does the stickers do something to the person who using them?
He just had to hang on.
Mark scraped the last forkful of soggy vegetables off Kevin’s plate and shoved it in his mouth with grim resolve. The second his plate was clean, he muttered something about being tired and bolted from the table. He barely heard Kristoff’s parting “Sweet dreams but dont make them too sweet, lil’ Kev,” as he climbed the stairs two at a time, feet slapping on the wood floor with awkward, slightly-too-small strides.
Once inside Kevin’s room, he slammed the door shut and locked it.
The clock read 7:01 PM.
Alright, Mark thought, breath shallow. Any second now. Any second. Sticker said four hours max. It’s been exactly that.
He sat on Kevin’s cluttered bed, surrounded by dirty socks and worn-out shin guards, staring at the mirror across the room. Kevin’s face stared back. His floppy hair was a mess. There was a faint smudge of quinoa at the corner of his mouth. Mark wiped it off with the back of his hand and waited.
Five minutes passed.
Nothing.
He paced.
Ten more.
Still nothing.
He checked the spot where he stuck the sticker on Kevin’s back earlier. There was nothing there now—no glow, no sign it had ever existed. His heart thudded louder in his chest. He took a deep breath, muttering every curse he could think of sounding odd coming from Keven's young voice,, and flopped back on the bed.
7:36 PM. Okay, maybe it's slow. Delayed reaction. Yeah… yeah, that makes sense.
He laid there, staring at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark soccer ball sticker Kevin had slapped up there years ago still shone faintly in the dim light.
8:00 PM.
Still Kevin. Still trapped.
Mark began to sweat.
8:30 PM.
A knock.
“Kevin, honey,” came Mom’s voice through the door. “Bath and bed. No more video games tonight, alright?”
Mark sat up like he’d been slapped. What? No! Not more pretending!
“Okay!” he called back automatically, voice cracking with panic. He hadn’t touched a controller all day, but clearly, that was what she expected from her youngest.
Footsteps padded away. Mark stood still for a moment, fists clenched at his sides.
This wasn’t a bit of fun like he expected. This was a hijacking.
No, no, it’s temporary, he tried to tell himself. It's gotta be. Maybe it resets overnight. Maybe it’ll happen at midnight… or sunrise… or he needs to be asleep when he finely gets out of this body?
But even as he made excuses, something cold curled around his gut. A thought too big to say aloud.
What if this is permanent?
He dragged his feet into the bathroom, mind numb. Kevin’s toothbrush stared at him from the holder. His own, the electric one he’d gotten last Christmas, was gone. Like he’d never existed? but did not really think of that at all, Mark washed "his" face. Brushed Kevin’s teeth. Stripped out of the clothes.
Then he paused.
The mirror.
His reflection showed Kevin’s body, bare and starts of being teenage-thin, tan lines and all. The awkward angles of growing muscles, the subtle shifts of puberty still working its course. Seeing Kevin naked… while being him… it was a whole different level of surreal. It should’ve felt like a joke. It didn’t, he should of felt well embarist looking at his brothers body and the small dick he now has but he didn't, it felt "normal"? like it was ment to be all his now.
He turned away before the reflection could unsettle him more and stepped into the bath, the warm water filling around him as he sank down and hugged his knees.
The air smelled like Kevin—like cheap soap and yesterday’s sweat. He didn't even bother rinsing his hair properly. The bath wasn’t about getting clean for him right now. It was about going through the motions. Acting out the life he was now stuck in right now.
By 9:00, he was back in Kevin’s bedroom, in Kevin’s soft childish pajamas, lying on Kevin’s bed.
The door creaked open gently.
Mom peeked in with that same warm, doting smile she’d always given Kevin. Not Mark, with mark being 2 to 3 years older and not needing it.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” she said, stepping in to adjust the blanket over him like he was five years old again. “No sneaking back to the PlayStation, okay?”
“I won’t,” he said softly.
She kissed his forehead.
“Sweet dreams.”
The door closed.
Mark lay still in the dark, Kevin’s body rising and falling with each slow breath. The posters stared down at him like spectators. The ceiling sticker above him glowed like a mocking star, as he clost his eyes hopping sleep will take him and he will be out of this body and wake up in his again.