Chapter 5 - Smells Like Teen Spirit
Fairview Ridge. Thursday. 7:20 a.m.
The day when madness truly began — not with fireworks or screams, but with one dumb laugh that refused to shut up.
Noah woke again to the smell of coffee. But this time, it was real coffee. Not his dad’s premade mix, not the capsule stuff, not even the ironic-mustached barista brew from the hipster café down the block. This was filter coffee — strong, dark, aggressive. The kind of smell that, for one dangerous second, made you believe adulthood might not be a scam after all.
He dragged himself up with a groan, blinking against the light slicing through the bent blinds. His Interpol t-shirt clung damp on one side of his chest and dried on the other, as if his body had spent the night arguing with itself over a temperature and lost.
His feet hit the floor. Then. Sounds. Kitchen sounds. Pans. Something sizzling. He stood, cautious, tugging down the hem of his shirt as though the fabric might protect him from reality.
Step by step, he crept downstairs, toward the kitchen door. And then he saw it.
Not a dream. Not a hallucination. A damn boy! Flesh and blood, standing barefoot at the stove like he owned the place. White tank top glued to an abdomen no twelve-year-old had any business possessing. Gray shorts hanging low over thighs — actual thighs, developed ones. His tanned skin gave off faint steam from the shoulders, like he’d just walked out of a training montage. His blond hair spiked in every direction, like someone had paused an anime transformation mid-frame.
And the face — none of the soft, rounded kid-features. It was all angles, all structure. A jawline so square it needed a construction permit.
The boy turned, eyes gleaming.
— Oh, you’re up! — he grinned, like it was just another Thursday morning and not the beginning of a cosmic breakdown.
Noah opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The boy didn’t wait. He grabbed two mugs from the counter, filled with jet-black coffee, and handed one over with the poise of a commercial barista.
— No cream, no sugar — he said brightly. — Better for testosterone.
Noah accepted the mug like it was radioactive.
— I’m your bro! From the egg! — the boy announced, radiant. — Hatched while you were asleep. I’m good. I’m strong. Wanna see my traps?
That was, officially, the most disturbing sentence Noah had ever heard in his life. And he had watched every season of Real Housewives — ironically, of course — with Lucy.
Before he could answer, the PROTOFORM-9 on the counter lit up with a cheerful BZZZT. The tiny 16-bit Coach leapt onto the screen, eyes narrowed in cartoon fury.
— BREAKFAST IS THE FOUNDATION OF LEGENDS! 💥
— AND PUT ON SOME DAMN PANTS, SLACKER! 💢
Noah looked down. Yep. Just boxers.
He sipped the coffee. Strong. Bitter. It burned a little. But somehow it grounded him. He looked back at the stove.
The boy had made the scrambled eggs. Not a plate — a platter. The kind of thing you feed an entire football team after a playoff. Towering, fluffy, glowing like an ad.
Noah sat down. Not that he chose to sit — it just… happened. The boy slid a fork in front of him.
— Dig in, big bro. Gotta feed that body.
And for reasons unknown, Noah ate. Forkful after forkful. Salty. Buttery. Perfect texture. His stomach should have revolted, but it didn’t. On the contrary — it begged for more.
— I don’t even like eggs.
Noah, still dazed, tried again.
— Okay, no. What is this? What are you? Why are you here? Why am I eating like I’m prepping for a bodybuilding championship—?
— NO THINKING WHILE CHEWING! 🥩 — Coach bellowed from the device.
— CHEW, SWALLOW, EVOLVE. SAVE THE EXISTENTIAL CRISIS FOR LEG DAY! 🦵🔥
Noah turned toward the screen, fork frozen midair.
— FOCUS, CHAMP! 💪 YOUR GAINS ARE BLEEDING OUT YOUR MOUTH WHILE YOU FLAP YOUR JAW! 💥
He opened his mouth again. Paused. Looked at the eggs. Took another bite.
Every time he tried to form a logical, real question, Coach cut in with some slogan soaked in gym-bro jargon, and his brain shut down like someone had yanked the plug straight out of his frontal lobe.
The boy offered him more eggs. Noah accepted. There was no winning here. Only food.
And slowly — like watching your reflection warp in a funhouse mirror — Noah realized something: he wasn’t even resisting anymore.
By the time he scraped the plate clean, he didn’t know if he’d just had breakfast or signed some kind of contract. His stomach was heavy. His head buzzed, like Coach’s slogans had been etched on the back of his eyes.
The kitchen still smelled of butter and salt, but the space already felt reprogrammed by the boy’s presence. He followed Noah out with the ease of someone who belonged there, carrying both coffee mugs like it was his sacred morning duty.
On the stairs, Noah half-expected him to dissolve into smoke. Or glitch out and vanish like a frozen livestream. But no. Every time he glanced sideways, the boy was still there — barefoot, in his tight tank top, that sharp sunny smile — like he had always been.
And underneath it all, buried under the strangeness, a nagging sensation: familiarity. The way the boy walked one step behind, humming, bumping his shoulder against the banister like it was a game… it was wrong. But also… normal. As if Noah’s brain whispered: relax, it’s just Bulklet, your buddy. Nothing weird about it.
In his room, Noah stared at himself in the mirror, half his shirt already lifted, watching the reflection like it was a shady roommate. The boy leaned against the doorframe, sipping coffee and studying him with a bright curiosity — like Noah was the experiment.
His hair was still a mess, plastered flat on one side with sleep-sweat, sticking up wild on the other. The Interpol t-shirt sagged, and his boxers drooped with the elastic of a war veteran. He looked… unfinished. A draft. Maybe someone else entirely if you squinted and tilted your head.
There was a smear of egg on his jaw. He wiped it away mechanically.
— You’re kinda floppy — said a voice behind him.
Noah jumped like someone had fired a starting pistol right next to his ear. He spun. And there he was — barefoot, tank top stretched tight, glowing with the shine of something freshly “hatched,” stamped with the body of an action figure straight out of the box.
— I mean, for a big brother — he added, thoughtful, like he was filling out a customer satisfaction survey. — But it’s fine. You’ve got potential.
Noah pointed to the door with the authority of someone who had exactly none.
— I… okay… out. I need to change. Alone. Privately. Zero Yelp reviews about my “floppiness.”
The boy just crossed the room and plopped down cross-legged on the bed, like it was summer camp.
— I can help. You should pick something sporty. Shows off your frame.
— You will. Coach says it’s all about mindset.
BZZZT. The PROTOFORM-9 on the nightstand lit up like it had been waiting for its cue.
— AESTHETICS DON’T BUILD THEMSELVES, RECRUIT! 💪
— EVERY DAY IS A DRESS REHEARSAL FOR DOMINATION! 🔥
— BUTTON THAT SHIRT LIKE YOU’RE GOING TO WAR! ⚡
Noah rubbed at his temple.
— This is like getting yelled at by a whey protein commercial.
The boy tilted his head, as if that was the highest compliment imaginable.
BZZZT. The device flashed again, its pixels swelling into a flexed bicep.
— HYDRATE THAT CARCASS! 💦
— CRUSH UNTIL YOU GROW! 🏋️
— 100% PURE. 200% MINDSET! 🚀
Noah groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
— See? That! That right there. That’s exactly what I mean.
He yanked open a drawer and pulled out a pair of jeans. Tried to put them on too fast. Fell off the edge of the bed. Dropped to his knees. Cursed under his breath, breathless. The boy watched, calm.
— You’re going to school like that? — he asked, gesturing vaguely at Noah’s torso.
— You look like a tired version of Timothée Chalamet.
— YOUR SPINE IS A QUESTION MARK! ❓
— STRAIGHTEN UP OR LIFE WILL SWALLOW YOU WHOLE! 🐍
Noah clenched his teeth and straightened slowly. Shoulder blades back. Chin lifted. Chest open. He looked like a reluctant military recruit in a department store mirror.
— Better — the boy said brightly. — Now you’ve got big brother energy.
— Stop saying it like it’s some kind of job title!
— But it is — he replied, bouncing lightly. — You lead, I follow. That’s how brothers work.
Noah turned to the pile of t-shirts. Grabbed one. Pulled it on. Paused. Took it off. Picked another — one that didn’t make his arms look like wet spaghetti. He didn’t comment on the switch. But he caught the boy’s approving nod.
He sat on the floor to pull on socks and sneakers. A little worn. Standard.
The boy narrowed his eyes.
— Weird… kinda small, isn’t it? I think.
— Are you… foot-shaming me now?
— Not shaming!! — the boy said quickly. — Just thought it was odd. You're a big brother. Kinda expected... you know. Bigger steps.
— TINY FEET, TINY PRESENCE! 👣
— WE’RE GONNA FIX THAT, CHAMP! 🏆
— A REAL LEADER STOMPS BIG! 🦖
Noah glared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. Then looked down at his sneakers as if they had committed some terrible crime.
— This is officially the most insane conversation I’ve ever had — he muttered, tying his laces way too tight. — And that includes the time I went live-streaming commentary on season five of Pretty Little Liars while doped on meds.
Coach laughed. A glitchy, 16-bit belly laugh, pixels bursting like confetti.
— HE SAID PRETTY LITTLE LIARS LIKE IT WAS A REAL THING! 😂
— SOMEBODY GET THIS GUY A THERAPIST! 🛋️
— AND SOME SIZE THIRTEENS! 👟
When Noah stood, shoulders squared, spine rigid, backpack slung across, he realized he had basically been conscripted into a self-improvement program without ever signing a contract.
The boy clapped like he’d just witnessed a Broadway finale.
And somehow, against all logic, Noah felt like maybe he actually was. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and started down the hall, the boy so close behind he could feel the heat radiating off him. He didn’t look back. If he looked, it meant admitting this was happening — that a boy had hatched out of a digital egg and decided they were family now. So he kept his eyes forward. Straight line. Normal pace. Everything chill.
The boy hummed softly, running his fingers along the wall like he owned the house. Every few steps he leaned in, like he was about to say something, but only smiled, watching Noah the way a dog watches its owner — anxious, certain, loyal.
Noah reached the door at the end of the hall and stopped, hand on the knob. Let the air out slow. Inside, the house felt heavy, warmer near the stairs, thick with coffee and eggs. Outside, birds chirped like the universe wasn’t collapsing. Like it was just another Thursday. He checked the clock. Late. Too late for math. Too late for anything normal.
Behind him, the boy straightened, almost taller, as if the silence inflated him. He smiled again, expectant, like Noah was about to give some grand speech. He wasn’t. He wouldn’t even try.
So he opened the door. The heat smacked his face, thick and lazy. The world was still out there, pretending everything was fine.
He adjusted the backpack. One strap already bit his shoulder like a vindictive pinscher. His sneakers — now officially tiny thanks to unsolicited commentary — squeaked with shame against the concrete. One deep breath. Two steps forward.
The voice cut the air like a dart straight to his forehead: sharp, bright, but carrying the weight of a court summons. Noah froze, every neuron begging don’t turn, don’t turn, just keep walking and enroll in witness protection. But his neck betrayed him, turning slow, like a nature documentary zooming in on a gazelle that definitely isn’t getting away.
The boy stood in the doorway, barefoot, still rocking the P.E.-tank-and-shorts combo, like it was Spirit Week at the High School of Delusion. His skin glowed with the sheen of someone freshly “born,” as if basted in butter and left under a heat lamp. Arms crossed. Smile so wide it could’ve been rented out as a billboard.
— Ready… for what? — Noah asked, in a tone so lifeless you could smell the funeral candles. — To ruin me emotionally?
— To go with you! — the boy announced, chest puffed out, like it was the surprise finale of a Pixar movie. — We could train before school. Quick session! You show me your routine, I’ll be your partner — it’ll be legendary.
Noah blinked. Once. Twice.
— …You want to work out? With me? At the gym?
— Well, yeah! — The boy’s eyes shone with raw optimism, the kind of optimism only found in people who’ve never filled out health insurance forms. — Coach said my growth curve is expo… expon… it’s like… destiny!
— TRAINING OPPORTUNITY DETECTED! 📈
— YOUNG LIFTER SEEKS GUIDANCE! 🏋️
— DON’T BE A COWARD, RECRUIT! ⚡
Noah gawked at the glowing screen in the hallway, radiating motivational heat like a toaster possessed by a boy-band ghost. Then back to the boy:
— I am not taking a twelve-year-old mutant to the gym.
— I’m not twelve — the boy said, frowning like a cartoon character trying to solve algebra. — I'm twelve-ish. That's a growth window.
— Growth window — Noah repeated, dead inside. — You’re literally barefoot. You hatched yesterday. You don’t have clearance for public spaces. You don’t even have… I don’t know… socks. Or a birth certificate. Or bones I can trust not to melt randomly.
The boy’s smile trembled, tragic. Literally trembled. His lower lip looked ready to star in a Jell-O commercial.
— I thought you were my big bro.
— I am not your… — Noah’s voice cracked like a freshman trying out Hamlet. He sliced the air with his hands. — Look, I didn’t agree to any of this. I don’t know the rules! You just… showed up. Now there’s eggs, coffee, and motivational harassment from a bargain-bin fitness influencer and—
— YOU’RE LOSING MOMENTUM! 🏃
— AND YOUR SPINE IS COLLAPSING! 🦴
Noah, against his will, planted his feet. Shoulders back. The betrayal was instant. Complete.
The boy’s lip quivered again.
— I just thought… we could train together. Like real brothers. You showing me stuff. Warm-up. Chest day. Maybe how to yell motivational lines at the mirror without getting kicked out of the gym.
Noah froze. He knew this wasn’t safe. Knew he should lock the door, shut the cursed game off for good, call NASA, maybe a priest. But the words that left his mouth were:
— You… you can’t come. But — if you stay quiet, no crazy experiments, no eggs, no Coach speeches—
— MOTIVATION ISN’T A CRIME! 💥
— …then maybe we’ll do some push-ups later. Maybe. Okay?
The boy’s face lit up like Times Square cashing a tax refund. He smiled like Noah had just promised Disneyland, a puppy, and a creatine candy stash all at once.
— Sure — Noah lied, in the flattest voice you could iron clothes on. — Later.
— Sweet! — The boy nodded so hard he nearly launched into orbit. — Chest and triceps. I already have ideas.
Noah turned. Stepped off the porch. The sun slapped his face like a rolled-up locker room towel. He didn’t look back. Not when the door creaked shut. Not when Coach muttered about “discipline” and “legacy.” Not even when his phone buzzed in his pocket — probably reality itself, desperately trying to get back on schedule.
He didn’t look. Because if he did, he might stay.
And if he stayed, he might start to believe. That he really was a big brother now. That leading a barefoot, egg-born boy toward glory was somehow part of his fate. That the buzzing in his chest wasn’t panic. That maybe it was pride. Or worse. The stupid, subtle beginning of pectorals.
As soon as he stepped out of the house, Noah had to sprint the last few yards to catch the city bus. The air was thick and sticky, like the whole town had decided to slow-cook itself for dinner. The asphalt rippled. The trees stood rigid, refusing to get involved. Above, the sky was a flat blue, too painted-on to feel real.
Inside, the bus sighed and groaned. The A/C puffed out air that smelled like old vinyl and forgotten snacks. Noah collapsed into a cracked seat, pressed his forehead against the glass, and tried to ignore how his shirt clung to his back in a new, uncomfortable way.
His phone buzzed. Again. Zach. Notifications stacked up:
Noah opened the chat. His thumbs shook. He typed fast:
[8:51] Noah: dude, you’re not gonna believe this but—
[8:51] Noah: so, there was this kid in my room and—
[8:52] Noah: it’s fine, just—
[8:52] Noah: I know we said today but don’t come over
[8:53] Noah: I’ll explain at lunch, ok?
He hit send before he could chicken out. Shoved the phone back in his pocket like it was burning him. Closed his eyes. Let the bus’s dull rumble carry him, pretending this was normal. Pretending everything wasn’t already slipping out of control.
English class felt like a torture chamber. Fluorescent lights buzzed over the desks, the teacher recited modernist poetry with cult-level fervor, and Noah could barely sit still. His t-shirt felt tighter. His jeans squeezed against his thighs.
At break, he faced his reflection in the bathroom mirror and froze.
His jawline… was it squarer? Or just a shadow? No — it really was sharper. And his arms… not exactly cut, but thicker than they had any right to be. He tugged up his sleeve, staring at the discreet curve of a bicep. Nothing dramatic, but undeniably there.
A half-assed push-up session and a plate of eggs didn’t do that. That wasn’t how bodies worked.
The thought weighed on him. Like fog leaking away, leaving behind an uncomfortable clarity. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Back in the hall, he heard voices behind him — two girls from art class, whispering low, thinking he couldn’t hear:
— “Did he always have those shoulders?”
— “Noah. I think he’s been working out.”
His stomach flipped. He quickened his pace.
By last period, dragging itself toward lunch, Noah felt like a compressed spring. He’d decided: tonight, he was going to tell his dad. He was going to say it out loud, even if it sounded insane. Because if he didn’t, he was going to lose his mind for real.
But then, when he glanced out the classroom window, the ground vanished under him.
There, sitting on a bench in the courtyard, was the boy. Same tank top, same shorts, still barefoot, like he’d walked straight out of a summer camp brochure. Only bigger. Taller. Straighter. Tossing something in the air over and over. Noah squinted, but couldn’t make it out.
Whatever it was, the boy caught it every time without even looking, smile plastered on his face, like he had all the time in the world.
Noah muttered something about a stomachache and bolted before the teacher even noticed. One hand pressed to his belly, but only as cover — because the real sickness was out there, waiting on that bench, growing more confident by the hour.
The sun beat down white and cruel over the courtyard, like a divine spotlight fixed on the school. Noah shuffled down the steps sideways like he was escaping a prison, crossing the concrete on tiptoe as if every square might explode beneath his sneakers. Every step sounded too loud. Every student brushed too close.
And then — there he was. Sitting on the bench near the fence, like he owned the place. The boy turned, flashing a grin far too wide for the situation:
Noah practically collapsed onto the bench, whispering through clenched teeth:
— What the hell are you doing here? You can’t just show up at my school! If anyone asks, I’m dead!
The boy swung his legs, relaxed, like a cartoon character.
— I wanted to see you. I missed you.
Noah groaned. There was no comeback to someone saying that with golden-retriever eyes begging for approval.
The boy puffed his chest.
— I grow when you’re not looking. Like Pokémon.
— That’s not how Pokémon— Noah raised his hand to argue, then froze. Now he saw what the boy was tossing into the air.
Not a coin. Not a bottle cap.
Noah’s stomach dropped. He lunged forward, snatching the device midair like his life depended on it.
— Are you out of your mind?! If anything happens to this— if anything happens we don’t even know what it could do to you— ugh, forget it. This stays with me.
The screen flared alive, and Coach’s voice oozed out with smug superiority:
— BIG BROTHER INSTINCT ACTIVATED! 💪 THAT’S WHAT I LIKE TO SEE! 🔥
— Shut up — Noah hissed. — I knew you were behind this little field trip stunt.
Coach didn’t even bother denying it.
— BOYS IN CO-DEVELOPMENT STAGES NEED EACH OTHER! 🧬
Noah pinched the bridge of his nose.
— Don’t remember the way — the boy said, his eyes already drifting to the football field. A group was running drills, helmets flashing under the sun. — And I wanted to play with them.
— Not a chance. Never. You’re not even old enough.
— How old do I have to be?
— At least… I don’t know, fifteen? You gotta be in high school to—
The air cracked. Literally — like something invisible had shattered. Noah’s breath caught as the boy stretched taller, broader, his features shifting in disturbing silence. His voice, when it came, was deeper, firmer:
But the boy — now looking about fifteen — was already grinning.
And before Noah could grab him, he shot straight onto the field.
Too late. The boy cut right through the middle, slipping into the drill like he owned the ball. A pass sailed through the air — and he just caught it, clean, like he’d been training his whole life. Pivoted on his heels, tore down thirty yards with flawless form, long strides, fast as if he’d been born into the sport.
The coach — Dolphins cap, whistle dangling, lungs like a drill sergeant — exploded.
— HEY! HEY! Who the hell is that kid?!
The whole team froze. Helmets turned in unison, whispers rippling through. Noah arrived at the fence breathless, chest heaving more from panic than effort.
— He’s… he’s my cousin! — he blurted. — From out of town. Just visiting!
The coach narrowed his eyes.
— Uh… — Noah’s mouth went dry. — Tyler. Tyler Carson.
The coach stared a moment longer. Then snorted, turning back to the squad:
— Well, this Tyler’s got more talent than the rest of you slackers put together!
The boy — Tyler now — beamed ear to ear, spinning the ball in his hand like he’d just been drafted.
The coach jabbed a finger at Noah:
— And you. With a lot of training, maybe you’ll get to his level. Maybe. If you stop walking like you’ve got a ghost riding your back.
Noah froze. It wasn’t exactly a compliment. But it landed. Because somehow… it made sense.
The coach blasted the whistle violently:
— I want this Tyler here tomorrow. Seven a.m. I want to see if he can take a real hit.
Noah nodded slowly, not sure if he’d just agreed to a tryout or signed his own death warrant.
He didn’t go back to class that day. For the first time in his life, he just… skipped the rest. Walked home in silence. Beside him, Tyler — tall, absurdly strong for someone who hadn’t even existed two days ago — carried Noah’s backpack like it was a grocery bag. Easy strides. No worries.
When they stepped inside, the Protoform lit up on the couch by itself. The screen flashed green and Coach appeared with that square, pixelated grin, smugger than ever.
— MISSION ACCOMPLISHED, RECRUIT! 🏆 CONGRATS! NOW IT’S TIME TO STRUCTURE YOUR TRAINING! 🏋️
Noah hurled the device onto the couch.
— This isn’t real. It can’t be real.
Tyler dropped the backpack on the floor, shrugged, and said:
— Real or not, football feels fun.
— You didn’t EXIST two days ago! — Noah shouted, throwing his hands in the air.
Coach tilted his head on the screen, arms folded.
— WRONG MINDSET, RECRUIT! ❌ HE’S ALWAYS EXISTED — IN POTENTIAL! 💥 YOU JUST UNLOCKED HIM! 🔓
— What do you know? You’re a program! — Noah spat.
— I’M A COACH! 💪 — The word boomed through the room, flashing bright across the Protoform’s screen. — AND IF YOU DON’T HAVE THE DISCIPLINE TO HANDLE THIS, MAYBE YOU NEED MORE MENTAL CONDITIONING! 🧠🔥
Noah dragged his hands down his face, exasperated.
— What the hell does that even mean, you roided-up psycho pixel?
But then Tyler stepped closer. His voice wasn’t the eager, excited one from before. It was smaller. Vulnerable. Like a younger brother who just wanted to be accepted.
The guilt hit like a punch. Noah drew in a heavy breath, shoulders sinking.
— I do. I just don’t understand how any of this happened.
— OF COURSE YOU UNDERSTAND! 🎯 YOU’RE THE TRAINER! HE’S THE REFLECTION OF YOUR PROGRESS! 🪞
Noah shot a dagger-glare at the screen.
— ISN’T IT? ⚡ LOOK AT YOURSELF! TALLER! STRONGER! 💪 CONFIDENCE: GROWING! 📈 FOCUS: REALIGNED! 🎯
The words landed deeper than Noah wanted to admit. He looked at his own arms. Veins rising. The outline of muscle that hadn’t been there last week. The way his thoughts felt… sharper. Heavier.
Tyler leaned in closer, clear eyes full of that childlike eagerness, almost hopeful.
— You’ll take me tomorrow?
Everything in him screamed no. It was dangerous, impossible, insane.
And yet, what came out of his mouth was:
— I’ll take you. No promises, but… I’ll take you.
Tyler’s smile broke open like the sun, so wide it hurt to look at. And before he knew it, Noah was smiling too.
Coach’s screen pulsed that radioactive green.
BOND: 40%.” 🔗⚡ EMOTIONAL SYNCHRONIZATION ACCELERATING. 💥🪖
Leaving Noah standing there, still smiling — and realizing, terrified, how natural it was already starting to feel.
The room felt sealed shut for hours. The air was dense, warm, a stifling heat that clung to the skin and left no space to breathe. Outside, the sun had started to tilt across the sky, light filtering through the warped blinds in strips of dirty gold and dusty orange. Each beam fell across the carpet and desk like a theater spotlight, illuminating particles of dust that drifted suspended, tiny ghosts floating in space.
Noah was hunched over the desk, body slumped inside a baggy gray t-shirt, damp with sweat along the back. His hair, freshly washed, fell in uneven tufts across his forehead, matted and rebellious all at once. The fan on the floor turned lazily, dragging itself through the motion like it resented the work. His math homework mocked him: two answers legible, three half-scribbled, the rest just a scrawl from a worn-out mind.
Behind him, a sound: thump… thump… thump… Not loud. But distinct. Noah didn’t turn. He already knew.
The voice carried satisfied monotony. Tyler sprawled on the bed in nothing but shorts, shirtless, his new muscles holding steady as if they’d always been there. The gray fabric strained against his thighs, every stitch begging for mercy. He stretched out on his stomach, feet swinging idly in the air, a smirk painted across his face like a dare, bouncing a tennis ball lazily against the floor. The late light spilled across his shoulder, warming his skin with the glow of someone fresh out of another practice.
Noah didn’t lift his eyes from the page. The pencil tapped against the desk in an irritated rhythm.
Tyler huffed, rolling onto his side, propped on his elbows, abs carved as if sculpted in hours instead of days of existence.
— It's numbers. Who cares?
— I do. — Noah still didn’t look up. — Also my GPA. Also the state of my mental health. Also..
Tyler interrupted him, almost offended:
Noah turned slightly in his chair, just enough to make eye contact over his shoulder.
— You promised first. Remember? 'I'll stay home, be good, don't worry big bro.' Then you show up at my school like you're guest-starring in a CW reboot.
Tyler grinned lazily, unbothered.
— Not fair. I just wanted to see you.
— You don’t even go there.
— That's not my fault. I'm not officially enrolled. Yet.
Noah shut his eyes, breathed deep, counted to five. The pencil slipped from his fingers.
Tyler sat up cross-legged now, eyes fixed on him with stubborn boyish determination that refused defeat.
— You said we’d train together. That was the deal.
— Yeah, after you stayed out of trouble. What did you do? You caused trouble. — Noah turned back, but his hand didn’t reach for the pencil this time.
— I helped you. — Tyler shot back quick. — You impressed the coach... I think.
— I lied about your identity.
Silence returned, broken only by the hum of the fan and the pencil rolling to the desk’s edge. Noah slumped into the chair, his back cracking, body aching in places he hadn’t remembered having.
— I just want — he muttered — one night where I sit, breathe, and feel normal. That’s it.
Tyler stood, stretching long, his frame swelling larger against the backlit glow. His shadow spilled wide across the wall, solid, impossible to ignore. He walked slowly toward Noah, bare feet creaking on the floorboards, and crouched beside the chair. His eyes shone in the dim light.
— Please?Just thirty minutes — he said, voice softened. — In the yard. We don't even need equipment. Just you and me. Throwing passes.
Noah stayed still. Breathing heavy, eyes locked on a sheet of paper that no longer said anything. Tyler nudged the chair with his knee, almost playful, almost childlike.
— You’re not gonna focus anyway. You're already mad. Might as well get sweaty and distracted with purpose. Use the crankiness in the game. With me.
For a moment, Noah felt that strange spark in his chest. Warm. Wrong in all the ways that should’ve scared him, but still burning, soft. He didn’t know what to call it. Only that it was there.
He turned slowly, met Tyler’s face up close. That small, patient smile. That certainty that shouldn’t exist.
— I finish this first. — He pointed at the page, but his voice lacked conviction.
Tyler’s grin spread like victory.
— Deal. I’ll get the ball.
And just like that, he padded off toward the closet, light, eager, like he already owned the place. Like he always had.
Noah leaned back over the worksheet, forcing his eyes across the equations as if stubbornness alone could wring meaning out of the paper. The pencil sat between his fingers but didn’t move.
Across the room, his ears caught the sound of Tyler rummaging in the closet — dull thuds, a metallic creak, then a muffled “got it!” full of playground triumph.
— Don’t break anything — Noah called, though his voice had zero conviction.
— I only break records — Tyler shot back, reappearing with the football tucked under his arm, like he’d just been drafted first round. He spun it once in his hand, testing the weight, grin widening.
Noah pinched the bridge of his nose.
Tyler tilted his head, smile softening.
Noah didn’t get the chance to react. Before he could form a response, Tyler was already bounding out of the room toward the back door, barefoot, the creak of the floorboards echoing down the hall.
Noah sat frozen a second longer, staring at the half-finished worksheet. The numbers swam. The pencil rolled out of his fingers. With a low sigh, he pushed the chair back and followed.
The backyard felt smaller than Noah remembered. Maybe it was the way the light hit it now — low and golden, dripping through the trees like the end of something important. Maybe it was the tall grass, uncut for weeks, curling back toward the earth as if it wanted to retreat underground. Or maybe it was Tyler, already out there barefoot on the uneven lawn, spinning the football between his palms like it had always belonged to him.
The air was humid, thick in that suffocating late-summer way. It clung to Noah’s skin as he stepped outside, sticky as honey. The sun hung low and swollen behind the house, throwing long, crooked shadows across the fence. Somewhere, a sprinkler tick-ticked uselessly in a neighbor’s yard, hissing against dry concrete.
Noah hesitated on the porch. He wore a faded gray t-shirt clinging to his back and his softest pair of sweatpants — the kind that used to hang loose, but now tugged a little against his calves. His sneakers felt tight. Not painful, just… full. As if his feet were starting to grow beyond them.
Tyler stood barefoot in the grass, still in the same white tank and shorts from earlier — though now the tank clung tight across his chest and the shorts rode higher, caught on thicker thighs. His skin glistened, damp with sweat or humidity, maybe both. His hair caught the last of the light as if animated. He tossed the football lazily into the air and caught it against his hip with one hand.
Noah watched from the steps. And for one fleeting moment, he thought of his dad. Not the dad now — tired, distant, stretched thin between pain and work and unspoken things. But the version from before. The one who wore backward caps and grilled on Sundays. The one who taught him how to throw a spiral in this very yard, years ago, when the grass was lower and the shadows seemed smaller.
He could still hear his voice:
“Thumbs together. Aim for the chest. Don’t overthink it — just feel.”
Noah couldn’t remember if the pass landed. Only the laugh that came after. A laugh he hadn’t heard in years.
— Ready? — Tyler called, spinning the ball. His voice carried a new depth — not exactly deep, but fuller. Confident.
Noah took a breath and stepped into the yard.
— Let’s just get this over with.
The first throw thudded awkwardly against his chest — not painful, but startling. He caught it on instinct, more of a hug than a reception, stumbling a step back.
— Okay then… we’re starting from zero.
— I caught it — Noah muttered.
He lobbed it back — a pathetic spiral, wobbling through the air like it doubted itself. Tyler caught it effortlessly.
— That was... gravity-defiant.
— Shut up and throw, idiot.
Noah’s second throw was a little better. The third, worse. The fourth smacked Tyler square in the stomach — which he pretended not to notice.
They kept going. Back and forth. Back and forth. Noah messed up. Tyler corrected. Noah messed up again. Tyler slowed down. Showed him how to plant his feet, how to drive power from the hips, how not to panic when the ball spun through the air.
And slowly — impossibly — Noah improved. He landed a clean catch. Then a solid pass. Then a run across the yard, catching the ball in motion with a surprised laugh that nearly startled him.
They kept playing as the sky went purple. As the heat sank into the earth and the breeze finally returned — soft, brief, rustling the overgrown hedges. The house behind them glowed with the warm yellow of the porch light and the kitchen windows.
Noah’s t-shirt clung with sweat, lungs burning, legs aching. But he was smiling. He hadn’t smiled like this in ages. Not at school. Not at home. Not anywhere that mattered.
At some point, he tripped in the grass and fell flat on his back. The ball rolled into a tangle of weeds. He didn’t move. Tyler dropped beside him, hands behind his head, eyes on the sky.
— That fall was… graceful — he said.
— Shut up — Noah answered, breathless.
— Cowboys energy, for real.
They played for almost two hours. The sun sank behind the fence. The sky softened.
Noah turned his head slowly.
— …You want pizza with milk?
Noah laughed. Loud and stupid and full of life. His chest shook. His legs kicked at the grass. It wasn’t just funny. It was relief. It was idiotic, impossible, absurd — and it was real. No effort here. No chaos. None of that thin wire of tension that seemed to hum through everything else. Tyler, who didn’t belong to this world, but somehow fit into Noah’s space like he’d been carved to belong there. Tyler, who ate like an animal, smiled like a cartoon, and threw a ball like dreams actually meant something.
It was new. It was strange. It was… comfortable. Like breathing easier for the first time in years — and realizing only then you’d been holding your breath the whole time.
While they waited for the pizzas to arrive, Noah’s phone buzzed. Tyler was back to bouncing the tennis ball against the wall, restless in the small living room like he had infinite energy. Noah answered before the second ring.
— Hey, champ — his dad’s voice came hurried, dishes clattering in the background and a muffled TV humming. — Just calling to check: did you eat?
— I’m ordering delivery — Noah shot back quickly, trying to sound casual. — With… Zach.
Almost like it was rehearsed, Tyler leaned close to the phone and, in a fake deep voice he clearly thought sounded cool, said:
— Extra pepperoni, coach.
On the other end, silence for a beat.
— That didn’t sound like Zack.
— He’s sick — Noah blurted, pulse spiking. — Like… throat’s all messed up. Sounds like some jazz singer who smoked too much.
The silence on the other end lasted a second longer than Noah wanted. His dad cleared his throat, suspicious:
— Hmm. Weird… didn’t sound like him.
Noah shut his eyes tight, scrambling for words that sounded solid:
— Yeah, Dad, it’s real bad. You can barely recognize his voice. — He forced out a short, awkward laugh. — I’ll make him tea later, he’ll be fine.
Another pause. The kind that burns worse than direct accusation. Noah swallowed hard, then:
— Oh, pizza’s here — he cut in fast, before his dad could ask for a video call and blow the whole thing — Gotta go, okay?
— …Alright. — His dad’s voice still carried weight, suspicion. — Just take care of yourself, son.
— Always — Noah answered, ending the call before the lie could collapse.
He tossed the phone onto the couch with a thud and turned to Tyler, who was still laughing at his own joke.
— Dude, you’re an idiot. — Noah’s voice came out more tired than angry, like scolding a dog that stole food off the table.
Tyler threw his hands up in fake surrender, smile unshaken.
Noah dragged a hand down his face, feeling the fresh weight of the lie press against his chest. The thought hit like a punch to the gut: what the hell was he going to do when his dad found out? There was no excuse big enough. No logical explanation for a boy who’d stepped out of a game, who grew bigger every day, who lived here as if he’d always belonged.
All he could do was hide it. Hide it well.
Like Hopper hiding Eleven in that cabin during season two of Stranger Things.
Noah let out a long, exhausted sigh.
The idea of Tyler not being there, of not being part of his life, didn’t even cross Noah’s mind. It wasn’t an option.
Then the doorbell rang, and Tyler practically launched himself at the boxes, ripping them out of the delivery guy’s stunned hands, laughing and balancing them like trophies. In seconds, he already had a slice folded in his grip, grease dripping onto the floor. He chewed with his mouth full of molten cheese and still shoved the box toward Noah like it was a prize.
And suddenly, the panic evaporated. Noah collapsed onto the couch, let the smell of melted cheese and Tyler’s ridiculous laughter drown out the worry. Ate with him — fast, messy, like nothing else mattered.
They tore into the pizza like castaways stumbling into civilization. Tyler dove in first, stacking three slices into a wobbly tower and folding them into one monstrous bite. Strings of cheese stretched like rubber bands, snapping against his chin, and he didn’t care — just chewed with the raw joy of someone who had never heard of table manners. Grease glistened on his fingers, smearing across his shorts when he wiped them.
Noah ate slower — but not by much. Tried folding the slice properly, the way his dad used to, but the crust sagged under the weight and the sauce slid down his thumb. He licked it off absentmindedly, more attuned to the soundtrack around them: the crackle of cardboard, mouths working, the lazy drone of the fan, and the TV in the background where Bear Grylls was already diving into a swamp that looked like a green nightmare.
Tyler’s eyes went wide. He pointed at the screen with his slice, sauce dripping down his wrist.
— That guy’s insane. Look at him. Legend.
Noah snorted, scattering crumbs. Chewed fast to reply.
— He’s nuts. You realize he drinks his own piss in, like, four different episodes, right?
Tyler blinked, swallowed, and broke into a huge grin — cheeks flushed, lips shiny with oil.
— You’re insane. — Noah shook his head, not angry, just disbelieving.
For a moment, the room tilted. Noah saw himself on the couch, eating greasy pizza and arguing about survival TV with something that, if he thought too hard, was probably just a hallucination — a boy born of circuits and code. A voice in his head given too much shape. The thought scratched at the back of his skull.
But then Tyler grabbed the gallon of milk, tilted it back like a pro athlete after a grueling game, and chugged in heavy, noisy gulps without a hint of shame. The jug made that wet glug-glug as the level dropped fast. When he finally lowered it, a white mustache clung to his lip. He wiped it with his hand, leaned back, and unleashed a burp that made the couch tremble like furniture in an earthquake.
Noah grimaced, nose wrinkling.
Aqui está a tradução integral desse trecho, mantendo o tom poético-irônico do narrador, o humor adolescente de Noah e o caos atrevido de Tyler:
Tyler licked a drop of milk from his finger, completely unfazed. His smile tilted sideways, cocky.
— Only ’cause you can’t do it like me.
— No, it’s because I had an actual upbringing. — Noah arched his brows, dry and sharp.
— I did too. — Tyler leaned forward, pretending to be genuinely offended, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.
Noah gave him a flat look.
— Tyler, a 16-bit little man obsessed with whey who calls himself Coach doesn’t count as upbringing.
— All I heard was a bunch of excuses from you dodging a challenge. — Tyler’s grin widened, dimples flashing. His shoulders shook with the laugh he was holding back, like he already knew he’d won.
Noah pressed his lips together, exhaled through his nose. And, against all logic, leaned forward, grabbed the jug, and took a long pull. The cold milk slid down, burning sweet in big gulps mixed with air. He braced his stomach, lifted his chin — and let it rip.
The burp that exploded was longer, louder, cleaner than Tyler’s — a deep thunder that echoed through the house. For half a second, both of them froze, eyes wide, the jug between them. Then Tyler’s face cracked into a grin, Noah’s followed, and the two collapsed into laughter so hard Noah nearly fell off the couch. His stomach hurt, his cheeks burned, his eyes watered.
And in that silly, uncontrollable laughter, Noah had the strangest, sharpest thought: Tyler had been made for him. As if he’d come into the world exactly as the brother Noah had never had — created to fill the space at his side, to fit without effort, without explanation. The bond was too easy. Too natural. Terrifying, if he thought too hard about it.
Noah was on the edge of sinking into that heavier, almost philosophical thought — the kind that squeezed the chest — when Tyler leaned back, puffed his chest, and burped again. Louder. Triumphant. The spell shattered like glass.
Noah groaned, grabbed a pizza crust, and tossed it across the couch. Tyler snatched it midair, bit down with a crunch, and threw his arms up like he’d just won the Super Bowl.
The TV kept rolling, indifferent. Bear Grylls was now somewhere tropical, shirt torn, holding a snake like it owed him money. The ceiling fan spun in lazy circles, slicing the heavy summer air into pieces too soft to matter. Pizza boxes gleamed under the yellow light spilling from the hall, pepperoni grease shining like varnish. The milk jug lay toppled on the table, drained and defeated.
Noah slumped back into the couch, limbs heavy, stomach round and full under his shirt. His eyelids drooped, weighed down by food and laughter. And in the silence that followed — that rare, almost sacred kind that only comes after too much fun — he allowed himself to breathe.
Tyler sprawled beside him, legs stretched out, hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted after all the running and wrestling. His face flushed, lips pink, chest rising slowly, satisfied. He looked like a dog after a sprint and a feast: ridiculous and perfect in equal measure.
The laughter faded into hiccups and little ripples, the two of them collapsed like rag dolls on the couch. The TV droned on, Bear Grylls now half-swallowed by a swamp somewhere on the planet, but neither paid it any attention. Tyler stretched until his tank top rode up, let out an exaggerated groan of relief, and dropped his arm across his face dramatically. Noah rubbed his stomach, sore from laughing, still snickering under his breath until the weight of food and fatigue settled over him.
For a moment, the house was nothing but the tick of the fan and the low hum of the television. Noah’s head lolled against the cushion, eyelids heavy. The mere thought of getting up — brushing his teeth, dragging himself upstairs — felt like a marathon. Still, he sighed, ran a hand down his face, and announced:
Tyler didn’t move. He stayed still, eyes shut, chest rising slow. Then, without opening them, he murmured:
— Gonna be tight in your bed.
Noah froze. Turned his head very slowly.
Tyler cracked one eye open, completely unconcerned.
— I said… — he repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world — it’ll be tight, but I’ll make it work.
— You’re not sleeping in my bed.
Tyler rolled onto his side, propped himself on an elbow, and blinked with fake innocence.
— Why not? I slept there yesterday.
Noah opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Finally exploded:
— Yesterday you were INSIDE a digital device the size of a matchbox!
Tyler narrowed his eyes and grinned.
Noah shook his head, muttering something dangerously close to what the hell is my life. Then Tyler sat up fully, cracked his neck, and clapped his hands once.
— Settled then. First one there gets the bed.
— What—? — Noah blinked, incredulous. — No, absolutely not.
Tyler was already on his feet.
He shot off like a missile, bare feet slapping against the hardwood without a shred of dignity. Noah jumped up, nearly tripped on an empty pizza box, and sprinted after him, heart pounding more from disbelief than effort.
— TYLER! That’s not how this works!
— It is now! — Tyler laughed, whipping around the corner.
They tore down the hallway like two noisy kids who had never learned about personal space or boundaries. Noah managed to grab the back of Tyler’s shorts for half a second, but the fabric slipped free like it had been greased.
— I hate you! — he shouted, reaching for him.
Tyler grinned over his shoulder. — Impossible! I’m adorable!
He slammed into the doorframe at the turn and launched himself into Noah’s bed with a full-body dive. Landed with a heavy BAM, the mattress groaning audibly under the weight. One of the slats beneath gave that specific crack of something about to break. Noah burst into the room seconds later, wide-eyed.
— YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!
Tyler sprawled out like a king.
— Just making room for the muscle.
Tyler laced his hands behind his head, smiling like a billboard ad.
— You tried before. Didn’t work, remember?
Before he could think better of it — before the voice in his head could scream what the hell are you doing — Noah dove. They collided like drunks in a mosh pit, all knees, elbows, and muttered insults. The bed bounced like a trampoline, the springs crying out in metallic protest. Noah got an arm around Tyler’s waist, tried to pull him off, but the boy twisted easily, flipped him like a pancake, and shouted:
They rolled, legs tangled, pillows and half the blanket crashing to the floor.
Then, with a double thud, they tumbled off the mattress onto the floor. Silence. And then laughter. Wild, breathless, idiotic. Noah lay flat on his back, one leg still hooked halfway on the bed. Tyler sprawled beside him, arms out like he’d just done a trust fall with the universe. Both sweaty, disheveled, red-faced.
— You’re a psychopath — Noah gasped.
— You didn’t get here first.
— You smell like pizza and bad decisions.
— You love it — Tyler shot back, smug.
Noah didn’t answer. Just rolled onto his stomach, pushed himself up — and lunged again. Tyler shouted, too slow. By the time he got upright, Noah had already claimed the high ground — stretched across the center of the bed, wrapped in the blanket like a smug human burrito.
— Victory — Noah whispered, eyes shut.
Tyler stood at the foot of the bed, panting. Narrowed his eyes.
— You sleep on the floor. Peasant.
Tyler stuck out his tongue.
— If you want to stay in the room, you sleep beside. Not with.
A second of fake indignation.
— Fine then! Hey! Where are you going? — Tyler asked, watching Noah climb out of bed like it was no big deal.
— Getting the spare mattress, obviously! — Noah shouted over his shoulder. — If you’re in my bed when I get back— He stopped at the door. — I’ll cut your protein. Swap your post-workout shake for almond milk and kale. Don’t test me.
Tyler gasped like he’d been shot.
Noah didn’t answer. He crossed the hall in search of the guest mattress. The thing hit the floor of his room with a final bam. Foam against wood. No drama, no effort. Noah blinked. He’d expected a fight — sweating, cursing the dimensions of the old house, banging his knee. But the roll, awkward in shape, had slid into his arms like it weighed nothing at all. Weird, he thought quickly, but let it go. Everything had been weird that week. Just one more item in the pile.
Across the room, Tyler had kept his word: waiting (almost quiet) in the desk chair. He raised a lazy eyebrow when Noah came back.
— Took you a lifetime, man.
— I almost died of loneliness.
Noah shot him a sideways look as he tossed a folded sheet over the mattress.
— You sound like a husky that didn’t get enough attention.
Noah bent down to arrange the makeshift bed, his back popping as he moved — and caught Tyler staring again.
— What? — he asked, not lifting his head.
— You look different now — Tyler said, with the casualness of someone commenting on clouds.
— You’re delirious from too much milk.
Tyler grinned, settling into his throne on the floor.
— Yeah. — Noah replied. — Enjoy your peasant suite.
— Betrayal — Tyler groaned, theatrical. — After everything we’ve been through.
Noah flopped onto his own bed, blanket already pulled up to his shoulder.
— File a complaint with Protoform customer support. And if you find the number, let me know — I’ve got a list of things to report.
Tyler sighed, muttered something about “violations of brotherhood,” and sprawled across the mattress with exaggerated suffering, limbs spread like someone crucified for crimes against comfort. The room quieted. For the first time in hours, no pizza, no shouting, no crashes or sports commentary. Just crickets outside. The low hum of the fridge in the kitchen. The ceiling fan turning slowly above, its blades creaking like an old bird. Noah adjusted his pillow and stared at the ceiling, thoughts floating but never forming. Silence should’ve meant sleep. But of course, Tyler wasn’t done.
Noah sighed through his nose. — What now??
Tyler shifted under the blanket.
— You think Bear Grylls has a brother?
— Just saying, like, if I had a brother, we’d totally crush it out in the wild.
— You wouldn’t last an hour without cheese.
— You say that like it’s not an essential nutrient.
Noah grabbed the spare pillow beside him and lobbed it in a perfect arc. It landed on Tyler’s face with a satisfying thump.
— Okay, okay! — Tyler laughed softly, tossing the pillow back without force. — Just saying, if a bear attacks, I’ll save you first.
— I’d avenge you. Real dramatic. Eye for an eye.
— Sleep. Tryout’s tomorrow. You want to impress the coach, right?
A second of silence. Then, quieter:
Another sigh, but softer this time. The blankets rustled. The movements stilled. Tyler curled onto his side, one arm under his head. His breathing leveled almost immediately. And then… the snoring began. Not loud. Not annoying. Just… steady. A low, warm rhythm. Real and present. Stupidly comforting.
Noah stayed awake a little longer. Listening. Not to the house, not to his own thoughts — but to that. That sound. That weight on the floor beside him. That impossible boy, who hadn’t existed two days ago, now with a shirt stained in pizza grease and dreams muttered in his sleep.
He thought of Lucy — sharp, rebellious, wired for resistance. And Zach, chaotic and unfiltered, like a sitcom character. He loved them both. But this? This was different. It wasn’t laughing at the world. It was laughing with it.
Noah knew Tyler’s presence was impossible. And yet, he hadn’t tried to understand any of it that day. Hadn’t called anyone. Hadn’t asked what Tyler was. Hadn’t planned escape, confrontation, or logical solution. He’d just… lived.
And now, Tyler breathed beside him like he belonged there. Noah closed his eyes. And the last thing he heard before sleep folded over him was Tyler’s soft snore — like the engine of a new life, strange and ridiculous — humming low through the room.
