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Better Together, part 1

Chapter 1

The light from the phone screen was a cold, digital blue, the only illumination in the cramped living room of my apartment. It washed out the colors of the world around me, turning my piles of unread comics, PlayStation games, and half-empty mugs of tea into varying shades of gray. It was fitting, really. I lived my life in grayscale, in the background, while the people I watched lived in high-definition Technicolor.

My thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating slightly, before descending to double-tap the image. A heart appeared, white and fleeting, before vanishing.

It was a photo from last weekend. They were at the beach, the sun caught in that golden hour that photographers would kill for, but which seemed to follow Brody Callahan around like a paid employee. Brody was in the foreground, of course. He was laughing, his head thrown back, the cords of his neck distinct and sculptural. He was shirtless, his skin tanned to the color of expensive bourbon, water droplets clinging to the defined ridges of his pectorals and the six-pack abs that looked airbrushed even in reality. He was twenty-nine, three years younger than me, but he looked eternal.

And there, just behind him, looking at Brody with an expression that made my stomach twist into a cold, hard knot, was Tyler.

Tyler Marek. My best friend. The man who had been the center of my gravity since we were freshmen in college. Tyler, with his sandy blond hair windblown and messy, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners in a smile that was pure, unfiltered affection. He had that swimmer’s build — fit, lean, capable — but next to Brody, he looked almost soft. Human. Touchable.

I zoomed in on Tyler’s hand. It was resting on Brody’s shoulder, the fingers digging in slightly, possessive and anchored.

I hated that shoulder. I wanted to be that shoulder.

I set the phone down on the coffee table and rubbed my face. I could feel the grit of the day on my skin, the oil on my nose, the slight stubble I hadn’t bothered to shave because, frankly, who was looking? I caught my reflection in the darkened window across the room. I was a smudge against the city lights. Five-foot-six, slight build, dark curly hair that refused to behave, and brown eyes hidden behind glasses that slid down my nose every time I sweated. I was the friend. The guy you called when you needed help moving a couch or doing your taxes, not the guy you took to the beach to show off to the world.

The envy wasn't a sharp pain anymore; it was a chronic condition, a dull ache. It wasn't just that I wanted Tyler. I did, God knows I did. I wanted him with a ferocity that sometimes scared me. But it was more than that. I wanted to be the kind of man Tyler wanted. I wanted to be… well, I wanted to be Brody.

I closed my eyes and the memory from two weeks ago washed over me, unbidden and stinging. We were at that rooftop bar downtown, the one with the velvet ropes and the cocktails that cost my weekly grocery budget. I had been standing at the bar for ten minutes, waving a twenty-dollar bill, trying to get the bartender’s attention. I was invisible. The bartender, a guy with an overwrought handlebar mustache and an attitude, looked right through me, his eyes skating over my head as if I were made of glass.

Then Brody had walked up. He didn't wave money. He didn't shout. He just leaned his elbows on the counter, flashed that blinding, perfect smile — teeth white and straight, jawline sharp enough to cut paper — and the bartender was there instantly.

"What can I get you, boss?" the bartender had asked, grinning like an idiot.

"Just two beers for me and my buddy," Brody had said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "And maybe a water for him. He looks thirsty."

He hadn't meant it cruelly. That was the worst part. Brody wasn't mean. He was just… radiant. He was the sun, and the sun doesn't apologize for blinding you; it just shines. He treated the world like a buffet laid out specifically for him, and the world happily obliged. I had taken the beer, muttered a thank you, and spent the rest of the night watching Tyler watch Brody, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life.

I picked up the phone again, ready to doom-scroll until sleep took me, when the device buzzed unexpectedly in my hand.

The name on the screen made my heart stutter. Tyler.

He never called or texted this late. Tyler was a creature of healthy habits - early to bed early to rise, morning jogs, no potato chips, that kind of thing. Getting a text from him at this hour…

I unlocked the screen. The text was stark, devoid of his usual emojis or exclamation points.

Help. Emergency. Come to the gym now. Don't call 911.

The blood drained from my face. My analytical mind, usually so reliable, spun its wheels. Don't call 911. That meant it wasn't a fire. It wasn't a break-in. It was something worse. Or something illegal.

I didn't hesitate; I was the person who solved Tyler's problems. It was the one role they allowed me to play, and I played it well. I grabbed my keys and my jacket, shoving my feet into my sneakers without untying the laces.

The drive to the private training studio Brody owned was a blur of red taillights and wet asphalt. The city was wearing a light, miserable rain, slicking the streets. My mind raced through scenarios. Had Brody hurt him? No, Brody was a golden retriever in human form; he might be shallow, but he wasn't violent. Drugs? They were health nuts, but maybe a party favor gone wrong?

The studio was located in a converted warehouse in the trendy district, a space of exposed brick and polished concrete that smelled of rubber, sanitizer, and the expensive sweat of high-end clientele. I parked in the alley, near the discreet rear entrance Tyler had given me the code for years ago, back when he first started dating Brody and I was helping them set up the Wi-Fi.

I punched in the code. The lock clicked with a heavy, mechanical thud. I pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness.

"Ty?" I called out, my voice echoing in the cavernous space.

The main gym floor was shadowed, the streetlights outside casting long, prison-bar shadows through the high windows. The rowing machines and squat racks looked like torture devices in the gloom.

"Back here," a voice croaked. It sounded wet and thin.

I rushed toward the office at the back, past the dumbbell racks and the yoga mats. The door to the private training room — the VIP suite where Brody trained his celebrity clients — was ajar. Light spilled out, harsh and fluorescent.

I pushed the door open and froze.

The room was pristine, usually. Mirrors on all walls, a plush massage table in the corner, state-of-the-art equipment. Now, it felt like a crime scene.

Tyler was sitting on the floor in the far corner, his knees pulled up to his chest, rocking slightly. He looked pale, his skin clammy and gray under the unforgiving lights. His eyes were wide, blown pupils swallowing the hazel, fixed on something in the center of the room.

"Ty, are you okay?" I asked, stepping in carefully, my eyes scanning for threats. "Where's Brody?"

Tyler didn't look at me. He just pointed a trembling finger at the floor.

I followed his gaze.

In the center of the rubberized workout mat, there was a pile of… something. It was a heap of flesh-colored material, crumpled and folded over itself. At first glance, it looked like a wetsuit, discarded in a hurry. Or perhaps one of those hyper-realistic sex dolls, deflated and abandoned.

But the color was wrong for silicone… it was too uneven; tans and pinks, the darker pigment of a mole, the lighter shade of a tan line.

I walked closer, my breath hitching in my throat. The smell hit me then — not the copper tang of blood, nor the rot of death - it smelled chemical, like a lab more than anything else.

"What is that?" I whispered, though I think deep down, in the lizard part of my brain I already knew.

"It's him," Tyler whispered. The sound was broken, like glass grinding in a disposal. "It's Brody."

I stopped three feet from the pile. My brain refused to process the visual data. "What do you mean, it's Brody? Did he… did he melt?"

"He took something," Tyler stammered, his voice gaining a frantic, jagged rhythm. "A new supplement. Some experimental stuff he got I think as a promo. 'X-Morph-5' it said on the label - it was supposed to… I don't know, optimize something? Make his skin tougher, his muscles denser." Tyler let out a high, hysterical laugh that turned into a sob. "He wanted to be perfect, Devon. He just wanted to be perfect."

I looked at the pile again. "And?"

"He took it an hour ago. We were working out. He said he felt weird. Said he felt… hollow. He kept rubbing his stomach." Tyler buried his face in his hands. "Then he just… collapsed. But not like fainting. He collapsed inward."

I took a step closer, kneeling beside the pile. Up close, the reality of it was undeniable. The texture of the material was skin - human skin. I could see the fine, golden hairs on what used to be a forearm, now flattened like a deflated balloon. I could see the tattoo on the shoulder blade — a tribal design he’d gotten on a dare in Ibiza — warped and folded.

It was Brody Callahan. Or rather, it was the surface of him.

"Is he… is he dead?" I asked, the question sounding absurd even to my own ears.

"I don't know!" Tyler cried. "I couldn't call an ambulance. Look at him, Devon! If I call 911, they'll take him away. They'll cut him up. They'll put him in a jar. You have to help me. You have to fix this."

Fix this. The words were a trigger. I knew how to fix things. I reached out to the heap of flesh, my hand shaking. I expected it to be cold. Dead flesh is cold; it’s the first law of mortality.

My fingers brushed against the material. I recoiled, a shock going through me. It was warm.

It wasn't the fever-heat of infection, but the steady, simmering warmth of a living organism. It felt satiny and smooth, incredibly soft, yet resilient. It pulsed, very faintly, against my fingertips.

"He's warm," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"I know," Tyler wept. "I tried to pick him up. I tried to shake him awake. But there's nothing to shake."

I reached out again, bolder this time. I grabbed what I recognized as the left arm. It was limp, heavy, and slippery. I lifted it.

The skin stretched. It didn't just lift; it elongated. The forearm stretched out, the skin elastic and pliable, defying anatomy. It hung from my hand, a long, fleshy ribbon that terminated in a hand that was perfectly preserved, the fingernails manicured. I followed the arm up to the shoulder, and then to the head.

The head was the most disturbing part. It was a mask, collapsed in on itself. The beautiful, chiseled jawline was soft and fluid now. The blond hair was still perfect, attached to the scalp, but the skull that should have given it shape was gone.

I turned the face over. The eyes were closed, the lashes long and golden against the cheek. But the mouth…

The mouth was open. Slack.

With a morbid curiosity that overrode my terror, I reached down and pulled gently on the lower jaw. The lips parted easily, unnaturally wide.

I peered inside.

There was no tongue. No teeth. No throat. No darkness of the esophagus leading to a stomach.

There was just a smooth, warm, pearlescent interior. It looked like the inside of a cheek, but it went on and on. It was a cavity - a void.

Brody Callahan had been hollowed out. Everything that made him a biological machine — the bones, the muscles, the organs, the brain — had liquefied or vanished, leaving only this perfect exterior.

I looked at the empty, gaping mouth of the man I had envied for years. I looked at the beautiful, vacant shell that Tyler loved so desperately.

A thought, dark and intrusive, slithered into my mind. It was a thought I should have pushed away, a thought that belonged to a monster, not a best friend. But staring at that empty vessel, feeling the supernatural warmth of it against my hand, I couldn't suppress it. It’s my turn.

"Devon?" Tyler’s voice broke through my trance. "What do we do? What the hell is that?"

I looked back at Tyler. He was looking at me with total dependence. He needed me to tell him it was going to be okay. He needed me to take control.

I looked back at the skin. I ran my thumb over the texture of Brody’s bicep, feeling the phantom memory of the muscle that used to be there. It was heavy, much heavier than a pile of skin should be. It held potential. It held space.

"We can't call the police," I said, my voice steady, surprising even me. The plan was forming, not in words, but in images. "You're right. They'll treat him like a specimen."

"So what do we do?" Tyler asked, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"We have to move him," I said. "We have to take him home. Figure out if… if he can come back. If this is reversible."

"How do we move him?" Tyler gestured to the puddle of flesh. "He's… he's everywhere."

I gripped the skin of the arm tighter. It felt good. It felt right.

"I'll handle it," I said.

I looked into the gaping mouth of the skin again. It seemed to beckon, a dark, warm tunnel leading to a life I had only ever watched from the sidelines. The envy that had been a dull ache was now a sharp, vibrating hunger.

Brody wasn't gone. He was just… waiting. For the first time in my life, I knew exactly how to fix the problem. I just didn't tell Tyler that the problem I was fixing wasn't his. It was mine.

Chapter 2

"Tyler," I said. My voice sounded distant, as if someone else were speaking through me. "I can't carry him."

Tyler looked at me, eyes red-rimmed and hollow. "Then what?"

I took a breath. The air in the gym felt suddenly thin. "I can't carry him… unless I wear him."

The silence that followed was absolute. The hum of the lights seemed to cut out, leaving us in a vacuum. Tyler stared at me, his brow furrowing as he tried to process the sentence.

"Wear him?" he whispered. "Like… like a suit?"

"It's the only way," I said, the logic cementing itself in my brain, building a fortress around the perversity of the desire. "He has no bones, Ty. No muscles. If I get inside… I can become the skeleton. I can walk him out of here. We can put a hoodie on him, keep his head down. People will just think he’s… quiet."

Tyler looked at the skin, then back at me. I could see the revulsion warring with the desperation in his eyes. He looked at the deflated face of the man he loved, then at me — the small, insignificant friend.

"Can you… will you fit?" he asked weakly.

The question stung. Will you fit? Of course I would fit. I was smaller than Brody in every dimension that mattered. "I'll fit," I said.

I didn't wait for him to change his mind. I turned away, my hands going to the hem of my t-shirt. I pulled it over my head, tossing it onto the bench press. The cool air of the gym hit my bare chest, making my nipples harden. I felt absurdly exposed. My body was pale, untoned; I had the softness of a man who lived in his head. A thin layer of hair trailed down my stomach, not the sculpted golden trail Brody had, but a dark, messy line.

I unbuckled my belt, kicked off my sneakers, and pushed down my jeans and boxer briefs in one motion, stepping out of them. Standing naked in the middle of the gym, I felt pathetic. I was five-foot-six of insecurity and bone. I crossed my arms over my chest, hunching my shoulders, trying to make myself smaller, trying to hide from Tyler’s gaze. But Tyler wasn't looking at my body, he was looking at the heap of Brody on the floor.

I approached the skin. Up close, the heat radiating from it was palpable. "Open the mouth," I told Tyler. My voice was shaky.

Tyler knelt by the head. He placed his fingers on Brody's lips — lips he had kissed a thousand times — and pulled. The skin was incredibly elastic, the opening stretching wider than any human mouth should, forming a circle larger than a dinner plate.

I looked into the gullet. It was a wet, glistening pink tunnel. I sat down on the floor at the foot of the skin. I positioned my feet at the opening. "Okay," I whispered.

I slid my feet in. The sensation was instantaneous and overwhelming. It was wet. It was a heavy, mucus-slicked embrace. It was warm, startlingly so — living tissue wrapping around my cold toes, my ankles, my calves.

I shuddered. "It's… wet."

"Keep going," Tyler whispered, looking away, unable to watch the violation.

I pushed deeper. I had to wiggle my hips to feed my legs into the legs of the skin. It was a claustrophobic nightmare, a reverse birth. The interior lining of the skin gripped me, suctioning against my flesh. I felt the phantom space where Brody's Brody-ness used to be, the void waiting to be filled. My feet found the ends of the legs. I pushed my toes into the feet. I felt the squish of the internals as my smaller feet settled into the larger, empty molds of Brody’s feet.

I pulled the rest of the skin up. It was heavy, a curtain of flesh rising over my thighs, my groin, my waist. The smell was overpowering now — the scent of Brody, amplified a thousand times. It was the smell of his sweat, his cologne, his pheromones, concentrated in this internal cavity. It was intoxicating.

I stood up, the upper part of the skin pooling around my waist. I looked like a monster from a Cronenberg film, half-man, half-flayed-god.

"Help me with the arms," I grunted.

Tyler, pale as a sheet, pulled the opening wider as I hitched it up my torso and tried to pull my arms inside. I thrust my left arm into the wet sleeve. It slid in easily, my hand seeking the hand at the end of the tunnel. When my fingers slid into Brody’s fingers, I felt a strange snap, a tactile click as if the biology wanted me there. My fingers didn't fill his completely; there was a millimeter of space at the tips, a reminder that I was smaller, but the suit seemed to contract slightly, gripping my digits. I did the other arm. Now I was wearing him up to the neck. The torso of the suit gripped me, unforgivingly tight.

"The head," I said. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. This was the point of no return.

Tyler grabbed the hair — Brody’s soft, expensive-shampoo-scented hair — and pulled the face portion up and back, like a hood. The mouth opening was poised above my head.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cold gym air for the last time.

"Do it," I said.

Tyler pulled down.

Darkness.

The world vanished. I was enveloped in hot, wet, suffocating darkness. The skin slid down over my scalp, my forehead, my eyes. For a moment, blind panic seized me. I was drowning in flesh. I surrendered, going limp, but the skin was already contracting.

I felt the opening — the mouth of the suit — pull tight down over my lips, surrounding them in the puffy clouds of Brody's. And then, the seal. It was a physical sensation, a zipper closing at the molecular level. I gasped, and my breath didn't hit the outside air; it traveled through the suit's airway.

Then, the eyes. My vision was a blur of pink and gray, and then, suddenly, a sharp, electric sting. It felt like putting in contact lenses that had been soaking in adrenaline. I blinked. The world snapped into focus. But it was… different. The colors were sharper. The contrast was higher. The light didn't hurt; it fed me.

I stood there, swaying. A rush hit me — a physical wave of chemicals flooding my system. It started in the skin and leached into my bloodstream. Testosterone. Dopamine. Residual traces of the pre-workout Brody had drunk. And something else — a cellular memory of confidence.

The chest and stomach began to tighten. I looked down. The skin was shrinking. Any loose folds tightened against my ribs, but they didn't just conform to my scrawny frame. They held their own shape. The suit had a memory of its former glory. It compressed me, pulling me straighter, forcing my shoulders back. I felt taller.

I was taller. The thick pads of the heels, the elongation of the spine — I was looking at the room from a vantage point I had never experienced. The place where the bar sat on the squat rack, which usually loomed above me, was now eye-level.

I lifted my hands. They weren't my hands. They were large, tan, square. The knuckles were dusted with golden hair. I flexed them. The movement was smooth, hydraulic. I felt strong. Not the wiry, nervous strength of Devon, but the heavy, grounded power of a tank.

I walked to the mirror.

The gait was awkward at first - my center of gravity had shifted. I felt top-heavy, my limbs too long. I stumbled, catching myself on the dumbbell rack. The metal felt cool against my new palms. I looked into the glass and stopped breathing.

Brody Callahan stared back at me.

He was nude, magnificent, and terrified. His eyes — Brody’s crystal blue eyes — were wide with shock, but his face… it was perfect. His jawline was sharp, his lips full. His body was a masterpiece of biological engineering, the muscles defined and taut under the skin, even though I was the only muscle underneath. The suit provided the contour; I provided the motion.

I reached up and touched my face. In the mirror, Brody touched his face. I felt the warm, smooth skin under my fingertips, but I also felt the touch on the face. The sensory input was layered — I felt it as the toucher and the touched.

"Devon?"

The voice came from below me. I turned. Tyler was still on the floor, looking up. He looked so incredibly small. For years, I had looked up at Tyler. I had craned my neck to talk to him. I had walked in his shadow. Now, he was a child looking up at a giant.

The fear in his eyes was heartbreaking. He was looking at a ghost. He was looking at a reanimated corpse. "It's me, Ty," I said.

My hands flew to my throat. The voice.

It wasn't my nasal, slightly high-pitched tenor. It was a baritone rumble. It was warm, raspy, and effortless. It vibrated in the chest I was wearing, resonating through the sternum. It was Brody’s voice. The vocal cords of the suit were overlaying mine, acting as a biological modulator. I sounded like him. I sounded like the man Tyler loved.

Tyler scrambled to his feet. He approached me slowly, like one approaches a wild animal. He reached out a hand, hovering inches from my chest. "Brody?" he whispered, a reflex, a habit he couldn't break.

"No," I said, the deep voice making the denial sound gentle, authoritative. "It's Devon. I'm inside."

Tyler squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out. He looked like he was about to shatter. "I can't… I can't look at you and know it's not him. It hurts, Devon. It hurts so much."

"I know," I said. And I did. I felt a phantom ache in my chest, an emotional echo that didn't belong to me. It was a shadow of Brody’s feelings for Tyler — simple, uncomplicated affection — mixing with my own agonizing, complex love.

Tyler lunged. He didn't think; he just needed to hold on to something. He collided with me, wrapping his arms around my waist, burying his face in my neck. I froze.

I had hugged Tyler before. Brief, manly pats on the back. Drunken, leaning embraces. But never this. He was clinging to me. He was pressing his entire body against mine. And I felt… everything. I felt the heat of his face against my pectorals. I felt the desperate grip of his hands on the muscles of my back. I felt the frantic beat of his heart against my stomach.

But more than that, I felt his reaction to me.

When I hugged Tyler as Devon, he was stiff, careful. He held me like I was fragile. Now? He melted. He surrendered into the bulk of the body I was wearing. He felt safe. I could feel his tension draining away, absorbed by the size and solidity of the form I occupied. My arms — Brody's arms — came up instinctively. I wrapped them around him. They were long enough to overlap across his back, enveloping him completely. I pulled him closer, lifting him slightly off his toes. I was strong enough to do it without effort.

I buried my face in his hair. I smelled the shampoo, the sweat, the Tyler-ness of him. An electric jolt of arousal shot through me, so intense my knees almost buckled. It was followed instantly by a wave of shame, but the shame was drowned out by the sheer, unadulterated euphoria of the moment.

I was holding him. And he was holding me back. He wasn't pulling away. He was burrowing deeper.

"He's warm," Tyler sobbed into my chest. "You're so warm."

"I've got you," I said, the voice rumbling through us both. "I've got you, Ty."

I held him there for a long time, staring at our reflection in the mirror. I saw a beautiful, golden god holding a broken man. I saw the picture I had stared at on my phone only an hour ago, but corrected. Improved.

Because Brody never held him like this. Brody held him casually, arrogantly. I was holding him with the desperation of a starving man finally given a feast, of all the long years I'd wanted him from afar. Tyler pulled back slightly, looking up at me. His eyes searched the blue eyes of the mask I wore. He reached up and touched my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of the jaw.

"We have to go," he whispered, his voice trembling. "We have to get you out of here."

"Yeah," I said.

I should take it off. That was the plan. Walk him to the car, drive to the apartment, and take it off. Peel myself out of this miracle and go back to being Devon. Go back to the cold, the smallness, the invisibility.

I looked at my hand resting on Tyler’s shoulder. It looked right there. It belonged there. A terrifying realization settled over me, colder and heavier than the skin I wore. I liked this. I liked the height. I liked the power coiling in the muscles. I liked the way the air tasted. I liked the way Tyler looked at me — even in his grief, there was a reverence in his gaze that he had never, ever given to Devon Hale.

"Let's go home," I said, using the collective 'home' that implied a shared life I had no right to claimed.

I released him, but as I turned to find Brody's gym bag, I knew. I wasn't going to take it off. Not tonight. I told myself it was for safety. I told myself I didn't know if removing the suit would damage the delicate, liquefying tissues. I told myself I needed to research the compound first.

But as I picked up the heavy gym bag as if it were filled with feathers, feeling the bicep swell against the skin, I knew the truth. I had stepped into the sun, and I would burn before I went back to the shadows.

#ai assisted #male bodysuit #better together