Right on Cue : "Little Boy"

From a distance, all the kids in the Lion Cubs tee-ball team looked the same. Dressed in their honey-yellow jerseys featuring an adorable stencil of a lion cub mid-roar tucked neatly into white and black pin-striped pants, they were all identical - all except the little boy up to bat with the long golden hair flowing out from under his batting helmet, and the Thomas the Tank Engine briefs sticking out prominently above his sagging pants. 

“Remember, Artie.” Asher encouraged, kneeling down beside the tee so that the smaller boy could get a good look at his baseball cap - the word ‘COACH’ plastered proudly on the front panel in clear white letters. “You need to hit the ball and then run. Not just one or the other.” 

The boy narrowed his blue eyes in disdain. “I know how to play fu-” He stopped himself. Last time Asher had caught him cussing in front of the other Lion Cubs he’d taken him over his knee right there and given four firm swats to his cartoon-clad hiney - one for each year of his ‘age’, he’d said. Then, he’d had to sit on the bleachers watching the ‘big boys’ play for the rest of practice, with nothing but his thumb to suck for comfort. “I know how to play frikkin tee-ball…”

“I know you’re a big boy, Artie.” Asher sympathised, seeming to relish each patronising syllable. “But you’re the littlest in the team. So you need to listen to your coach.” 

Art puffed out his cheeks, red from frustration. Asher had been making him practice with the Lion Cubs for two weeks now, though this was the first time he’d been dragged along to an official fixture. Despite actually starring in his middle school’s baseball team three seasons in a row, Asher’s ‘power of suggestion’ had all the grown-ups convinced that he was no more than an adorable four-year-old interloper, technically too little for the team of five to seven-year-olds but making up for his missing year in gumption and enthusiasm.  It was about the most humiliating thing Art could imagine - which is, he supposed, exactly why Asher had orchestrated it. 

“You don’t know the first thing about baseball.” Art grumbled, taking one hand off the ridiculously light-weight bat and going to tug at his underpants. He squinted as the glint from the sun reflected off his bat, surveying the much more formidably named Rapid Raptors fidgeting impatiently in their burgundy uniforms.  Tee-ball didn’t keep an official score, but by Art’s estimation they were even five runs to five against these jokers - despite the Raptors’  first basemen being pulled off the field after a random nosebleed, and their pitcher throwing a tantrum about a bee landing on his shoulder. The way Art saw it, that was all down to Asher’s frankly abysmal strategy. “I’m easily your best hitter. “ he complained “It doesn’t make any sense for me to be last.” 

“Good thing we’re playing tee-ball, then.” Asher dismissed. “Besides, it only makes sense that the youngest kid goes last. You’re still only four, Artie-pants.” 

The smaller boy rolled his eyes. Asher’s powers might have fooled the parents, but the kids weren’t so suggestible. Afterall, it was obvious! Even if some of the seven-year-olds seemed freakishly tall for their age, he was still bigger than every single one of them. And what kind of four year old could play baseball like he could? They could tell. No matter how many times Asher asked him if he needed to go potty or swatted his bum and put him in a thumb-sucking time-out, those kids weren’t convinced. 

Still, Art decided to keep his mouth shut. The longer he’d observed, the more convinced he was that Asher’s powers didn’t work on little kids whatsoever. Even better, Asher somehow seemed not to have noticed - or at least seemed not to care. A bunch of little kids weren’t much as far as allies went, but if there was any way out of the infantile prison that Asher had constructed over the last few weeks, he had to take it. 

“Whatever.” Art dismissed petulantly. “Can I hit the ball now?” 

“Hold your horses. Do you need to go potty?” Asher insisted. 

“No.” Art was happy to confirm. He’d been extra careful to drink as little as possible before tee-ball, and he’d successfully avoided any ‘potty emergencies’ in the presence of the Lion Cubs so far. They might not have believed he was four, but a performance like that was still sure to destroy any semblance of his social standing. 

“And you’re still dry?” Asher continued, taking the opportunity to tug back Art’s briefs to carefully examine the folded wad of toilet paper pinned to the inside. 

“Yes!” Art hissed, shivering in embarrassment at the weird papery feeling against his skin as the make-shift training pants snapped back into place again. 

“Good boy. Alright. Give Rory a kiss.” Asher instructed, producing a cuddly stuffed lion cub that served as the team's mascot. 

Asher had shown the stuffie to every member of the team, letting each kid stroke or squeeze it for good luck before they went up to the plate - but it seemed Art was the only one who was actually expected to kiss it! He blushed, turning his head and letting Asher briefly press the toy against his lips. He quickly turned away again, scrunching up his face like he’d been forced to bite a sour lemon. 

“That’s gross…” he mumbled to himself, somberly putting both hands on the bat again and turning towards the tee. 

“Hang on! You can’t run with your pants around your ankles, Artie!” Asher interrupted, hitching up Art’s Thomas themed undies as high up as they would go and tucking the baby-blue cotton waistband over the back tail of his jersey. Art winced at the friction, feeling the toilet paper pad tugged coarsely between his legs. Then, Asher  repositioned the baseball pants just a teensy bit higher than they’d been before, reaching around and securely re-fastening his belt to ensure the perfect view of the Thomas and Friends logo would remain as clear as his uniform number when the boy went toddling around the bases. “There. Now you won’t trip.” Asher smiled, smoothing out the back of his shirt and smiling up goofily as if he’d done him a huge favour. 

“Thanks.” Art spat, relieved to see Asher finally retreat to the ‘dug-out’ - really no more than a small cordoned off area near the bleachers where the other Cubs were watching. 

“Aaaand now up to the plate, we’ve got Artie ‘Thomas’ O’Ryan!” A balding old man with white tufts of hair and a large red megaphone announced from the sidelines. Apparently, he was the grandpa of one of the Raptor kids, and came to all their games to ‘announce’ the players up to bat. The parents certainly seemed to get a kick out of it, but Art couldn’t help but shoot the old codger a foul look. 

“Little Artie is a rookie this season - just four years old. His coach tells me he’s still recovering  from a broken arm after taking a fall playing with his Little Tikes tee-ball set in the garden back in the spring. But he’s going to give it his best go this afternoon!”  A sympathetic coo went up from the bleachers, making Art cringe so hard his batting arm all but froze up. He took a deep breath and tried to shut out everything but the ball and the bat, remembering what his real coach had taught him about dealing with hecklers. “Artie also loves playing with his trainset, and all things Thomas the Tank Engine. Although I think we already knew that.” Art squeezed the bat even tighter as a smattering of adoring chuckles went out, determined to hit the ball out of the park. “Let’s all give a big hand for Artie O’Ryan!” 

Art didn’t wait for the applause to die down. He clenched his teeth, imagining the ball was Asher’s stupid grinning face as he brought the bat forward with all the strength he could muster. The bat and ball made contact with a crystal clear ‘ding’, flying clean up and out far away into the distant outfield. Art smiled with satisfaction at the empty tee, not able to resist shooting a boastful smirk back towards his team mates. 

“Remember to run, Artie!” Asher shouted, spoiling the moment. 

“I was going to remember!” Art retorted petulantly, brandishing the bat in his general direction. 

“Then run!” 

Art briefly looked over his shoulder, realising that a couple of the Raptors were already scrambling around in the outfield attempting to retrieve the ball.  If that had been a proper pitch, it would have been out of the park no question - but he guessed that wasn’t really possible hitting from a tee.  “Shit.” Art muttered to himself, hurriedly dropping the bat and scrambling as fast as he could towards first base, toilet-paper stuffed underpants rustling all the way. 

The parents roared in adoration, clearly surprised. He thundered past the first base, and then the second, and then the third - the Raptors helpless to stop him as they all converged on the ball rolling along the field like bees to honey, clumsy six-year-old fingers failing to scoop it up. Just as Art was zooming towards home plate, one of the kids finally managed to grab it - and for a moment Art’s heart was in his throat - but the throw was outrageously wide. He made a point of stamping his foot extra hard onto the plate as he crossed, throwing his hands into the air in celebration. He only remembered that his Thomas briefs had been showing the whole way around when he felt his jersey untuck from underneath the elastic waistband - making it snap against his bare skin. 

Art’s teammates didn’t seem to care. They all run out from the bleachers, jumping up and down with him in celebration. It was only when the old man on the megaphone joined in, vociferously congratulating the Lion Cubs’ ‘littlest Rookie’ on his homerun, that Art remembered he was much too old for tee-ball - and much too old to care.

He calmed himself down, focussing on the score. The league the Lion Cubs played in was so lame that they didn't even record outs, instead letting every player in the lineup bat once before swapping over. They only played three innings, which meant that everything would come down to the bottom of the third.

“That puts us up six runs to five.” He explained wisely to the gathered little kids. “So if we can get through the bottom of the third without conceding, we win.”  

“What’s com-see-din?” Hudson, a dopey little five-year-old asked, very much bringing Art back to reality. 

Art sighed. “It just means we don’t let them score.” 

“You’re not really four, are you?” Jonah, one of the seven-year-olds, suddenly piped up. He was a serious looking kid with a short unkempt sprouting of black hair - and one of the very few outfielders Art could rely on not to get distracted picking grass. 

“He is. Coach Asher said he is.” Cayden, a different seven-year-old with mean piercing green eyes and a shaggy caramel mane insisted. Despite standing barely an inch shorter than himself, Art thought he was pretty useless as a player. It seems the kid got by on confidence alone, however. Boasting the pitcher’s mound in the field (although he didn’t actually pitch, of course) he fancied himself the Lion Cub’s unofficial captain - and certainly didn’t like being outshone by the likes of Art. “Look at his undies. Only babies wear undies like that.” 

“Four-year-olds aren’t babies.” Hudson corrected, but no-one really listened to him. 

“But he’s too tall.” Jonah continued, sharply. “There’s definitely no four-year-olds who are that tall.” 

“Coach Asher can pick him up!” Cayden pointed out - though given Asher’s ongoing growth spurt, he could probably pick up both Cayden and Jonah in each arm if he wanted to. “Asher told me he’s even his babysitter, and he picks him up all the time. He even gives him cuddles. Even kisses!” 

The kids all oohed at that, egging Cayden on. He grinned, very pleased with himself. “Artie is definitely four. He might even be three! Or two! And he wears diapers! I bet Coach Asher changes his diapers!”

There were a few scattered titters, but the crowd of kids seemed generally unimpressed by Cayden’s latest remark. Clearly, he’d gone too far. Artie saw his chance. 

“You can’t tell Asher I told you, but I’m not actually four.” He told the kids in a low-hushed tone, taking a moment to think how best to explain to a bunch of little kids. “The truth is that I’m kinda like…a secret agent! And Asher is like a super villain. He’s trying to turn me into a four-year-old because um…’cause I’m too good at baseball.” 

“That’s dumb. You’re lying.” Cayden poo-pooed him straight away, waving a dismissive hand. 

“It’s true! I was in a really big league team. I was the pitcher.” Art doubled down, adopting a low reverent tone. He supposed it was true, in a manner of speaking. “He already brainwashed all the grown-ups, and I’ve gotta escape soon or he’ll send me back to preschool - and then I won’t be allowed to play even for the Lion Cubs anymore.” he elaborated randomly, figuring some stakes might help focus the kids' minds. Even as he said it however, his heart twitched in fear. What was Asher planning to do about the upcoming school year? 

Cayden gave a dismissive raspberry, but to Art’s delight the other kids all looked enraptured. “What do we do?” Jonah asked fearfully. 

Art hesitated. What was his plan? Even with a whole army of six-year-olds, there was no getting around the fact that every grown-up Asher came into contact could be convinced that Art was a four-year-old with no more than a few choice words. It seemed the only logical first step was to somehow get out of Asher’s sight, and then as far away from him as humanly possible. He could make a better plan when he was over state lines. 

“Um…I just need you to let me play right field.” He decided, eyeing up the hole in the fence on the far right side of the diamond. “Then, after we win, just keep him talking for as long as possible.” 

Just then, a heavy hand echoed down on top of Art’s batting helmet - before a strong grip popped it efficiently off the top of his head. “Congratulations, Artie!” Asher encouraged, grabbing the smaller boy around the waist and pulling him back to sit in pride of place on his right knee. Shit! How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard? “And congrats boys. That was a really strong inning!” He bounced Art gently up and down, keeping a hand placed firmly on his tummy to stop him from rising to his feet. “Let’s talk strategy for the bottom of the third…” 

“I wanna be pitcher!” Cayden interrupted, flinging his hand into the air like the needy kindergartener he was. 

Art couldn’t help but follow suit, already feeling his plan slipping through his fingertips. “I wanna be right field!” he mimicked in an identical tone. 

“Artie, it’s not nice to interrupt.” Asher scolded him at once, bouncing him just a little more firmly on his knee. “Go on, Cayden.” 

Art scrunched up his face, feeling a flash of indignation. “But Cayden said-” 

“Artie! What did I say?” Asher chided him much more firmly. He pulled him back so he was almost lying on Asher’s knee, looking him directly in the eye. “Big boys are talking now. So please hush up.” He instructed, leaving no more room for debate. 

Cayden gave a superior smirk at his ‘four-year-old’ rival, continuing to babble on about where exactly he thought each of his team mates should be placed - but Art wasn’t listening. Everything else fading into the background, he felt a horrible anxious nausea rising up from his tummy, up into his throat, and then seeming to infect his whole brain. He opened his mouth, and the next thing he knew Asher had taken his hand and plopped his thumb in there. He started to suck, and all at once the nausea dissipated - replaced with a lovely, soothing, satisfying tingling cold feeling running down his spine, across either arm to the tips of his fingers, and then onwards and onwards into every nerve in his body. It was just so lovely! 

“Artie can be out in the left field.” He heard Asher decree as the kids all started to wander out to their various places. Art was so distracted that Asher had to take the boy under the armpits and stand him up off his knee, flicking a finger around the back waistband of his undies to double check the pad in his briefs was still dry. After that, he wrestled a large leather baseball glove onto Art’s free hand as if dressing an uncooperative toddler, before he finally gave him an encouraging pat on the bum and sent him wandering out thoughtlessly to his position. 

As the game got going, Art felt a wave of shame and disappointment - looking over jealously at Hudson milling about picking at daffodils in the right field. Unlike the right, there was certainly no prospect of escape on the left - the fence on that side long since replaced with a tall sturdy brick wall. His plan had failed. Still, what did he expect? They were just a bunch of little kids, and he was no genius. Over the last few weeks, every vain plan he’d made to thwart Asher had crashed and burned before it had even got off the ground. He was hopeless. Maybe he deserved to be treated like a four year old? For all his harebrained schemes, he certainly seemed to think like one. 

The game seemed to progress at record speed in the background - as if Art were fast-forwarding through a recording. It would be over soon, and he’d have to go home to play with wooden trains, or watch Paw Patrol, or splash about ‘nakie’ in in the kiddie pool. Another nauseous round of bad feelings swelled up in his tummy, and he sucked more urgently on his thumb - managing to soothe himself back to a happy heady medium again. It was okay. He was going to be alright. There would be another opportunity. The Lion Cub kids seemed to love him after all - or at least most of them. They’d help him! He sat down cross-legged on the grass, staring up at the clouds as he kept on sucking without a care in the world. 

He heard a distant metallic ding somewhere far away, but he didn’t pay it any attention. It wasn’t his thumb, after all - and it couldn’t make the bad feelings go away. Nothing could do that but his thumb. Then, something round rolled into his lap - but he ignored that too. His other hand was stuck in the big unwieldy glove, and he certainly wasn’t going to take his thumb out of his mouth for something as silly as a ball. 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?” He heard Cayden’s voice screaming in outrage from the mound, finally pulling his gaze away from the clouds and towards the game - though his thumb stayed firmly in his mouth, of course. “THROW THE BALL YOU STUPID BABY!” 

Art blinked. Was he talking to him? He narrowed his eyes, watching as a little kid in  a burgundy jersey sprinted past the home plate, then another, then another, and then another! 

“And that’s a grand slam!” The annoying voice of the old man on the megaphone breathlessly announced - a high-pitched cacophony of raucous little-kid cheering going up from the Raptors bench as they all started to jump up and down in victory. 

Oh. Art thought, finally finding the will to pop his thumb out of his mouth. He got unsteadily to his feet, knocking the ball with the side of his velcro sneakers as he did so. He guessed he should have been paying attention. 

---

“Does Baby Artie want some nuggies?” Cayden teased, grinning from ear to ear. If the seven-year-old had been at all upset by their loss to the Raptors, Art’s subsequent cratering in the social estimations of the other Cubs had thoroughly restored his morale. The boy’s latest humiliation at the hands of Asher was the cherry on top. 

Perched at the end of a big long table in McDonalds, Cayden to his right and Hudson to his left, Art was currently squeezed into a red moulded plastic booster seat - the added height making his flushed face tower conspicuously above his fellow tee-ball players like a blushing blond and red signal tower. Attempting to disguise the tight plastic straps keeping his butt attached to the uncomfortable plastic like a baby in a bouncer, he was keeping Rory the Lion clutched to his lap - though he guessed carrying around a stuffed toy was hardly very mature, either. The only consolation was that the plastic back was high enough to cover his underwear.

Rory was the supposed ‘reward’ for being named ‘Man of the Match’ (or ‘Little Boy of the Match’, as Asher had described it on this occasion). The award had nevertheless rubbed Cayden the wrong way, making him rant and rave about how many runs the ‘baby’ had cost them for the whole bus ride over. If he was being generous, Art might have thought Asher was trying to make him feel better - or at least get the team to lay off him for his mistake. 

It wasn’t like Asher was always horrible to him, after all. Sometimes, he was almost nice. Protective, even. But if Asher was being nice, he probably wouldn’t have put him in a toddler’s booster seat. He cautiously eyed Poppy, Cayden’s two-year-old baby sister, who was in the process of mashing her french fries into the plastic tray of her highchair while her Mom wiped away ketchup that had somehow ended up on her forehead. He supposed he was lucky Asher hadn’t insisted on treating him the same. 

“Hellooooo!? Baby Artie!” Hudson joined in, getting right in his face and yelling at the top of his lungs. Until then, Art had been doing his best to ignore Cayden’s antics, hoping that the kid would eventually get bored or wander off to play in the play place. But Hudson was only five! Who did he think he was? 

“Shut. Up!” He whined, trying his best to sound intimidating - but stuck in a booster seat, even a kid as big as Art wasn’t capable of being very frightening. 

Hudson just giggled. 

“So he can talk.” Cayden pounced, talking with his mouth full. Art grimaced at the disgusting sight. 

“I’m not a baby. You’re a baby.” 

“Nuh-uh.” Cayden insisted. “You’re sooooooo a baby. ‘Cause you look like a baby, and you talk like a baby, and you suck your thumb like a baby…” Art interrupted by grabbing one of his leftover nuggets from inside his happy meal box, flinging it full force at Cayden’s head. Despite his erstwhile pitching skills however, he was way off.  The seven-year-old howled in amusement. “Naughty baby!” He scolded, grabbing another nugget and dunking it in ketchup. “These go in your mouth, not the on the floor.” He proceeded to smear the ketchup all over Art’s mouth as the older boy wiggled and squirmed, refusing to allow himself to be force-fed like a fussy toddler. 

“Artie, what have I told you about playing with your food?” Asher intervened. Straightaway, Cayden dropped the nugget he’d been holding, allowing it to plop down into the folds of Art’s shirt. 

“He’s being super naughty.” Cayden reported to his coach. “He even threw one at me! Hudson saw!” 

“It’s not nice to tattle.” Asher said vaguely, kneeling down so he was at Art’s level. “But you’ve certainly made a mess!” He produced a wad of baby wipes, running them across every sensitive part of Art’s skin he could find - from his neck, to his nose, to behind his ears - making him snort and squiggle and squirm in his seat like a tickled baby piglet. “Who’s a mucky puppy? You are! You are!” 

Cayden and Hudson exchanged delighted glances at the infantile sight. “He’s so ticklish!” Hudson remarked, sounding almost affectionate. 

“Do you wipe his butt with those too?” Cayden added much more callously, making the two of them break down into hysterical scoffing laughter. 

Asher just chuckled. “I think all of you boys need to let off some steam.” He decided, reaching down and unbuckling Art’s booster seat before grabbing him under the armpits - setting him down on the floor. He made sure to adjust the back of the kid’s pants, making sure his undies were showing, as always. “Why don’t you go and show Artie the slide?” 

“Okay!” Cayden enthused, possessively snatching Art’s right arm - the same one he’d broken. He tugged it hard, yanking the other kid towards him.

“Ow! You’re hurting me!” Art complained, looking up at Asher for assistance. 

“Play gentle, boys.” Asher tutted, retrieving Rory the Lion from where the toy had dropped on the sticky ground - but Cayden had already dragged Art a good ten yards away towards the play place. 

“Race you to the top of the big slide!” He challenged, finally letting go. “If I get their first, you have to admit you’re a stupid, stinky, diaper-wearing baby!” 

“What if I get their first?” Art disputed, but Cayden had already zoomed off - making a bee line for a ramp on the left of the big play structure. 

Art knew the contest didn’t mean anything - he hadn’t even agreed to it - but something about the way the arrogant, bossy little kid stuck out his tongue at him as he clambered up the ramp rubbed him the wrong way. He could totally beat him to the top! He was only seven afterall, and Art was fourteen. 

He ran over towards a climbing wall that seemed to lead directly to the top of the slide. He started to heave himself up, figuring he would get to the top before Cayden was even halfway. But as he climbed, he found legs didn’t stretch quite long enough to reach the grips he tried to reach - and his arms weren’t quite strong enough to hold him up in the places he’d planned to hold. He got to the top eventually, panting and red-faced, but Cayden was already there. Worse, even Hudson had arrived - the two of them watching over the top of the wall wearing two matching smirks. 

“Almost there, Baby Artie!” Cayden encouraged as he heaved himself over the top, flopping down on the soft padded floor. 

“You did it!” Hudson praised. 

“Wow, I bet it sure is hard climbing with that big stinky diaper on.” Cayden tittered.

After a climb like that, Art had all but run out of patience. “I don’t wear diapers!” he bellowed, scrambling to his knees. He didn’t know how he could get so incensed about it. It was a ridiculous lie. Everyone could see his Thomas the Tank Engine briefs, after all. But it was just so stupid, and he was just so tired, that he couldn’t help but be furious. 

“Yuh-huh you do.” Cayden insisted, nodding knowingly to himself. “I got here first, which means that you yourself actually admitted that you’re a baby and you wear diapers. Hudson heard you say it!” 

“I did not!” 

“You did! I heard!” Hudson lied, looking up at the older boy for approval. 

Something snapped. Art gritted his teeth, deciding once and for all that he had put up with quite enough shit from Cayden. If he wanted to act like a tough guy, he’d treat him like a tough guy. He got to his feet, balling up his fists. 

“See? Hudson heard you say it. Which means you’re totally a baby now, and everyone’s gonna think so.” 

“Shut your stupid face.” Art threatened.

“Or what?” 

“Or I’ll make you.” 

It seemed to take a moment for the seven-year-old to process exactly what was happening. Art supposed a little kid like that had probably never been in a real fight - though he wouldn’t allow himself to feel bad. Eventually, the sight of Art’s balled up fists and grim determined eyes seemed to make something click -  and he put two and two together. 

“You’re just a baby.” Cayden dismissed with a laugh - the kid taking a step back and adopting what looked like a stereotypical martial arts stance. “I go to karate.”

“Sure you do.” Art shrugged, carefully examining the kid’s pose. Was it just his imagination, or did he look somehow taller than before? Still, it was obvious he was all talk - more cartoon network than karate. Art decided he could rely on his usual technique. 

He was about to charge forward and take Cayden by surprise, when he felt a sharp tingling cold sensation at the back of his neck. No! Not now! He felt his lips part and his stanced legs start to tremble in anticipation, fists longing to unclench and instead grab for his crotch. He was seconds from giving in, from jumping up and down and begging Cayden to take him potty while the brain fog rolled in like an all-enveloping storm - but he just barely managed to cling on from sheer furious determination. A big spurt of hot wet pee escaped into his underpants, quickly drenching the toilet-paper pad. 

And then, all of a sudden, the urge was gone. 

“ARGHHHHH!” he screamed, charging forward at full-pelt. He cringed, actually closing his eyes from embarrassment as he felt the soaked pad in his underpants squelch against his skin as he ran, but he didn’t let that stop him - delivering a brutal kick directly into Cayden’s nuts. 

Despite his alleged karate skills, the seven-year-old bully seemed completely unprepared. He yowled in pain and collapsed like a house of cards, bawling like a baby and rolling around on the cushioned floor. Art saw his opportunity, pouncing on him like a lion mauling its prey. 

“Who’s the baby now!?” He screamed into Cayden’s ear, pounding him in the stomach - but the little kid just cried. “Huh?” he insisted, hitting him again. “HUH!?” 

“ARTHUR O’RYAN!” Asher’s booming voice demanded from below. Art paused, giving Cayden one last thump in his side for good measure before he rolled away - peaking out over the top of the play structure. 

“I can see you!” Asher continued, standing at the bottom of the play place with his hands on his hips. “Stand up!” 

Art cautiously did as he was told, innocently holding up his hands. “I didn’t even do anything!” he insisted. 

Cayden let out a series of hiccuping helpless moans, clutching his tummy as he managed to sit up and cling to the netting - red-faced and wailing. “He h-h-hit me!” He accused. 

The fourteen-year-old felt a pang of guilt in his own tummy, cringing at the sight of the blubbering little kid. Then, he felt a frigid damp feeling from his crotch. Looking down, he realised the flimsy toilet-paper pad had inevitably leaked, cold pee soaking out onto the front of his uniform pants and starting to drip onto the padded floor. 

Asher shook his head in disappointment “Get down here, Artie.” He commanded. 

“But-” 

“Now!” 

Realising he was busted, Art had no choice but to comply. Cringing at the feeling of the now icy-cold slimy mush in his briefs, he went to turn around - planning to walk back down the same way Cayden and Hudson had come up. Just as he took his first step however, his foot slipped on the plasticky padding of the floor - now sleek with a puddle of his own pee. He fell back towards the slide, just barely managing to grab onto the flimsy netting on each side with a single finger. He was about to yank himself back up, but then he saw Cayden’s green eyes peering hatefully through the other side of the netting. The boy’s teary face contorted in fury, yanking the netting towards him - and cutting Art loose. 

Art let out a blood-curdling scream as he fell backwards down the slide. At first, he was still upright, slick wet shoes slipping on the shiny surface as he helplessly tried to find a purchase again. It was no use, however. The next thing he knew, his butt banged down heavily on the hard plastic of the slide with an acoustic boom, his legs tucked underneath in an unnatural backwards ‘Z’ shape. There was a sickening crunch. 

The pain was overwhelming. Of course, his bladder finally fully released - completely soaking his already damp baseball pants in a fresh deluge of hot shameful pee-pee. And of course, he immediately burst into big bawling tears. 

“YOOWWWWWWW!”

---

Even in the privacy of the Mcdonalds bathroom, Art couldn’t stop crying. 

“Ow, ow, ow, owwwww….!” He continued to whine as Asher carried him - soaked and sobbing - through the door, locking it behind them. His leg felt like it had been sat on by an elephant, but the way the other Cubs had looked at him when Asher scooped him up had been so much worse. They’d all been staring with scandalised wide eyes and disgusted wrinkled noses, fascinated and horrified by the site of their teammate reduced to a snivelling wailing cry-baby with pee-pee in his pants. 

“Shhhh, it's alright baby boy.” Asher cooed, gently bouncing him up and down. He was holding the kid horizontally in both arms to keep from getting pee on himself, one nestled gently behind his back and the other under the crook of his knees while Art clung needily his shoulders. Asher’s strong grip was strangely comforting - the bigger boy carrying him as easily as if were a mewling kitten or a fussy baby - but the manoeuvre hadn’t hidden his ruined pee-soaked pants at all, giving all the other kids a good look before he was whisked away. “You just need to be a brave little boy, okay?” 

Asher folded down a large changing table, exhaling in relief as he deposited Art on the hard grey plastic. The hinges on the mechanism creaked slightly from the big kid’s weight, but it just about held. Asher started to undo Art's belt.  

“It huuuuurts….” Art complained, barely even registering that he now lay on a baby’s changing table. A sudden rush of shooting pain stabbed up Art’s leg as Asher tried to manipulate it up so he could start to shimmy off the soaked pants. “It hu-hu-huuuuurts!”

Asher stopped what he was doing, gently cantilevering his legs down again. “Alright, bud. I’m sorry.” He apologised, starting again much more slowly. “Is this okay…?” 

“OWWWWWWW!’ Art interrupted. 

“Awww, buddy.” Asher sympathised, trying to sound calm, cool, and comforting even as his black eyebrows narrowed in concern. “I think I know something that will make you feel better…” he offered. 

Art let out a little sob, deliberately twisting his head around to stare down at the grimy tile floor. He couldn’t think straight, his mind a mix of blistering pain, self-loathing disgust, but most of all hot-red humiliation. He could tell from the tone of Asher’s voice that he was up to something - something involving his ‘power of suggestion’. Art felt a rush of shame. How had he ever let things get this far? How had lying back on a baby’s changing table in a public bathroom while Asher cooed at him ever become even close to normal? Worst of all, how was it actually helping? 

He swallowed, feeling the need to say something - anything - to convince the bigger kid to leave him alone, but all he could manage was a tiny hoarse whisper. He gave into the pain. “It hurts…” 

“I know, baby boy, but I can make you feel better.” Asher comforted, putting a gentle finger under the smaller boy’s chin to direct the boy’s watery blue eyes to meet his own. “Look who’s here!” He was holding up Rory the Lion, clutching the stuffed animal in front of his mouth and manipulating it by the scruff of its neck to make it wiggle its head from side to side as if it were talking  “I wuv you Artie!” the toy enthused. 

Art grunted and shook his head, trying to make himself frown even as he felt the corners of his lips tugging up involuntarily. “That’s silly…” he protested. 

“Maybe a little.” Asher allowed, gently placing down the soft-toy on Art’s tummy. “But Rory always makes you feel better, doesn’t he?” Asher reminded him. Art felt a cold satisfying tingle go down the back of his neck, staring deep into Asher’s eyes as the bigger boy kept on talking - his words reverberating around in his mind as if they originated from the bottom of a deep, dank, echoey well. “Rory makes your boo-boos all better when you’re hurt, and gives you kisses when you’re sick…” Asher instructed him. “And he even gives you cuddles when you’re feeling a little down, or grumpy, or you just need a bit of help calming down before nap time.” 

Art knew on the surface level that none of it was true - at least not yet - but still he couldn't resist the urge to grab the stuffie as if he'd been obsessed with it all his life, squeezing his fingers through the toy’s soft felt fur. The satisfying cold tingle seemed to spread up afresh from his finger-tips, making all the pain go away in an instant like a magical healing elixir. “Rory…” he repeated mindlessly, lifting up the toy into the crook of his arm and rubbing the fur against his neck. 

“Good boy.” Asher praised, managing to get Artie's soaked pants and undies off. There was a slight feeling of discomfort from his hurt leg, and a sudden rush of cold air tickling against his bare skin, but Artie couldn’t resist the urge to keep cuddling Rory - squeezing the toy tight against his face and letting it soak up all of his tears even as Asher started to wipe him down with a fresh wad of baby wipes. 

“That tickles!” He heard a childish voice squeak, muffled from behind Rory’s thick fur, but he didn’t wiggle or fuss. His leg still hurt a little, but he didn’t fidget or cry. Rory helped him behave. He was a good boy, and Asher was only helping him get nice and clean again. 

“There we are.” Asher narrated with satisfaction, sliding something soft and padded and papery-feeling under Artie’s bare bum-bum. He gently pulled Artie’s leg back down so that it was lying down flat on the changing table again, alleviating the pain. “Nice and clean and dry again.” 

It was only when Art sat up, moving Rory away from his face and cuddling him against his chest instead, that he saw what had happened. Asher brushed aside the hem of his Lion Cubs jersey, securing the adhesive refastenable sides against his hips. Fastened snug and thick and bulging between his legs was a Pull-Up. A pink Minnie Mouse themed Pull-Up! 

Art’s lips fell loose into a shocked pouty ‘O’ shape. He knew he should have been raising hell - he was fourteen for god’s sake! He didn’t belong in a diaper! But no. Something nagging at the back of his mind insisted that it just wasn’t worth it. He was in too much pain. He was much too sleepy. He shook his head in vague disapproval. “No…” 

“Poppy and Cayden’s Mommy had one spare.” Asher explained, tugging the training pants up at the sides to make sure they were on properly. Then, he pulled Art up into his arms again - this time securing him with both hands under his puffy bottom and legs snuggled around either side of his torso like he was carrying a sleepy baby monkey. Rory was squeezed in between their two bodies, nuzzled comfortingly against Art’s skin “Isn’t that nice?” 

“No…” Art repeated, even as he felt an irrepressible yawn rising in his chest and his eyelids start to droop from exhaustion. “It’s for girls…it’s for babies…” 

“Shhhhh….” Asher comforted, gently rocking him. He squeezed the boy closer, stroking the back of his long flowing golden hair. “Just try and relax, baby boy. Rory always helps you go beddy-byes, doesn’t he?” 

Art gave a few heavy blinks of his eyelids as Asher carried him out of the bathroom. “Yuh-huh…” he heard himself agree, finally allowing them to flutter shut. 

For a long time, Art focussed only on the warm lovely feeling of Rory’s fur against his cheeks and the steady comforting beat of Asher’s heartbeats - floating dreamily in the hazy space between waking and unconsciousness. 

“Is he okay?” a distant middle-aged woman’s voice echoed from above, voice tinged with concern. 

“I’m not really sure.” Asher replied. “I gave him a little medicine, but I think he really hurt his leg.” 

“Does Artie always wear a diaper when he’s sleeping?” An impish voice needled, making Art’s eyebrows twinge down in indignation even as his eyes remained shut and his mouth hung half-open -  letting out drowsy, kitten-like little snores. “I guess he is a baby…”

“That’s not nice, Cayden.” the woman’s voice warned. 

“I don’t care. He’s naughty. He hit me!” 

“Well he might be really hurt, thanks to your antics.” The woman chided with finality. “Want me to drive you to the hospital?” 

“Thanks - that’s probably a good idea.” Asher agreed. “I’ll call his Mom.” 

“I think he’ll fit in Poppy’s car seat. Hopefully the drive won’t wake him…” 

“He should be okay.” Asher explained. The feeling of cold wind lapping against Art’s bare skin let him know they’d gone out into the parking lot. “As long as he’s cuddling Rory, he’ll be as quiet as a mouse…” 

“I’m notta mouse…” Art mumbled in protest, only vaguely understanding - but Asher just shushed him, stroking his hair and encouraging him to cuddle up closer into the toy pressed against his bare neck. “We’re going to the hospital…?”

“Yes, but don’t worry, Artie.” Asher instructed. “Just go back to sleep.” 

“Kay…” Art replied, figuring it was no big deal. Afterall, if there was something really wrong, he’d be in a lot more pain, wouldn't he?

And with that thought, he was out.