David reached into his pocket while Oliver was distracted by the aisle of toys they passed through, idly squeezing the tiny woolen mitten he had plucked from the care package. He had no knowledge of the long-ago family vacation to Canada that had precipitated its purchase, but its tininess alone alone gave the man a pretty good idea of how young Oliver must've been the last time he wore it.
"These are the wrong clothes, silly." Oliver giggled at David's obvious confusion as the man started picking out clothes that were babyish even by a pre-schooler's standards. "I'm notta baby."
"Of course you're not, sweetie," David grinned as he dropped a set of baby-blue fleece jammies into the cart. He made a show of looking the boy over as the jammies were joined by tiny sneakers and socks, by colorful shirts and shortalls, each item more cuddly and adorable than the last. "Gosh, you just look so mature sitting there in your grown-up shirt and your Sesame Street undies. You must be, what, ten? Eleven?"
"I'm four!" Oliver squealed with laughter at David's silliness. "I mean, I'm ac-shully twenty-three but right now I'm four."
"Exactly right," David chuckled. "Right now you're four."
Though Oliver was given pause by David's comment - and by the fact that the man had filled the cart with clothes for babies, a category Oliver very proudly did not belong to - it wasn't until they reached an aisle filled with images of swaddled infants and toddling tykes that the boy really started to grow concerned. The giddiness that bubbled within him drained into a slow cold knot in the pit of his stomach as he watched David pluck a frowning little teddy bear from the shelf. Oliver's eyes went wide with growing alarm as he watched it join the tiny clothes in the cart, followed by a bottle of baby powder and a pacifier that matched the soft periwinkle of the footie pajamas. Though he knew by then that something was up, it wasn't until the final item - a pack of size four Pampers - joined the collection that Oliver could find his tiny voice.
"David?" He peeped. "What are you doing?"
To this David only smiled, humming to himself as he guided the cart towards the changing area in the middle of the store. Oliver's heart raced. He hastily scanned his surroundings for a means of escape but quickly realized that his distance from the ground - which he had found so amusing a moment prior - might as well represent a chasm for the good jumping from his current height would do him. Even if Oliver could get to his feet unharmed and make a break for it, David could track him down and scoop him up before he could so much as escape the aisle - and if he cried or screamed all anyone would see was a bratty kid in the midst of a tantrum. Oliver was a child. A helpless little boy.
"Here we are," David beamed as he stashed the cart in front of a changing room. Frozen by terror and indecision, Oliver could do nothing but tightly grip David's shirt as the man scooped him up out of his seat, balancing the tyke on one forearm as he carried a cache of supplies and clothes under the other. With the door closed behind them, David set down the supplies, sat on the bench and pulled Oliver into his lap - where the four-year-old gasped at what he saw in the mirror that hung on the back of the door. Obviously he knew what he looked like - knew just how tiny and cute he'd become, how adorably his grown-up shirt engulfed his little preschooler self - but he hadn't to this point seen how he looked while sitting in David's lap. How - with David's big strong arms wrapped around his skinny chest, with the man holding him once more in that irresistibly warm embrace - he looked no different than any other little boy being cuddled by his daddy.
"There he is," David cooed as he kissed Oliver's soft, curly hair. "There's my little Ollie-pollie. Doesn't that boy look happy, sweetie? Doesn't he look like he loves being hugged and held by his daddy?"
Oliver frowned and squirmed, making a show of trying to struggle out of David's embrace but in reality wanting nothing more to be pulled deeper into it. The boy whimpered as each whispered word slithered into his subconscious, loosening his fears and inhibitions, compelling the boy to give in to the warmth and love of David's cuddle.
"You don't have to say anything, buddy. I can tell how much you love this. And I can also tell that you want nothing more than to go even deeper."
Without a word he plucked the mitten from his pocket, Oliver watching with distant awe as the man pulled the tiny blue glove onto his stubby fingers.
"Looks like you're still a little too big," David smiled when the mitten wouldn't go any further. "But I bet you know how to change that, don't you Ollie? You're such a smart little boy. So bright and clever. If you thought about how nice it'd be to be daddy's little baby again, why, I bet that nice warm mitten would fit like a glove."
"Notta baby," Oliver whispered, unable to take his eyes off of the soft blue wool, unable to think about anything but how nice and warm it felt against his soft skin.
"Of course you are," David laughed, as though the boy were being silly. His voice dropped to a mesmerizing murmur. "You're daddy's sweet little baby boy. You want to be even littler for him. Littler and cuter and cuddlier. A little baby. A little baby boy."
Weak little cries dribbled from Oliver's lips as a war of wills raged within his mind. On one hand fought the stout adult, determined to hold onto what little maturity he had left and to get away before David could drag him into babyhood - opposed by the child who had been seduced by David's warmth and care, by hugs and kisses and cuddles, who wanted only to make his daddy happy and to keep being little and loved.
Oliver scrunched his eyes shut, torn by the struggle, praying for the victor to emerge.