The sun was dipping below the horizon, splashing the sky with colors so dramatic you’d think the heavens themselves were showing off. The boys tumbled out of their beat-up SUV, tossing baseball gear back and forth like it was some kind of warm-up for their endless chirping. Among them was Jason, the unofficial pack leader, rolling his arm in a way that screamed “I’m fine” despite three hours of practice saying otherwise. His duffle bag—an oversized, navy monstrosity that sagged suspiciously with mystery—hung off one shoulder.
“Yo, Jason, what’s in the bag?” Aaron grinned, jabbing an elbow into his side. “Your mojo? ‘Cause your fastball’s looked like a warm hug all week.”
Jason snorted but didn’t bite. Instead, he tightened his grip on the bag and played it cool. No way he was explaining its contents out in the open—not until they were safely behind four walls and within striking distance of Mitchell’s domain. Just the thought of it tugged his lips into a smirk. Oh, Mitchell would make this worth it.
Inside the apartment, chaos ruled, as usual. It smelled like a mix of sweat, Gatorade, and the latest failed culinary experiment from Caleb, the resident Gordon Ramsay wannabe. Soda cans were stacked on the coffee table like a monument to procrastination, and a baseball glove dangled from the light fixture as though it had ascended to some athlete’s Valhalla. Jason kicked off his cleats by the door—because even in this lawless circus there were still rules (thanks, dad).
The crew crashed into their usual routine of yelling about snacks and elbowing each other for the best spot in front of the TV, but Jason broke off, duffle in hand. He headed to his room—scratch that, Mitchell’s room. Pushing open the door was like stepping from Bedlam into a kingdom, albeit one ruled by a dictator with tiny fists and questionable taste in rocket-print onesies.
There he was. Mitchell. The playpen king himself. Sitting smack in the middle of his fortress, completely unbothered by Jason’s arrival. His enormous, all-knowing eyes locked onto Jason, radiating the quiet confidence of someone who wouldn’t even deign to acknowledge the peasants until they proved themselves worthy. Jason couldn’t help but respect it.
“Sup, Mitch?” Jason asked, pulling off his cap and scratching his head. No response. Of course not. Mitchell wasn’t the kind of ruler who offered pleasantries. Jason shrugged and walked over to the baby gate—a flimsy barrier that only functioned because Mitchell allowed it. Give the kid an actual reason to escape, and the thing would turn to dust under his iron will.
Jason unlocked the gate, stepped into Mitchell’s realm, and unzipped the duffle bag. Slowly, ceremoniously, because this moment demanded gravitas. He began pulling out cans of mushed peas, jars of applesauce, and formula tubs roughly the size of Jason’s head. This wasn’t a grocery haul; it was a tribute. But just as the closet was being restocked with Mitchell’s royal provisions, it happened.
The fart.
Loud. Proud. Unapologetic. The kind of sound that echoed off walls and ripped through the fabric of reality. Jason froze mid-motion, one hand still on a can of carrots, as if staying still might somehow erase the past three seconds. He risked a look at Mitchell, who stared back with a face that could only be described as… amused? Judgmental? Some combo of the two. Either way, Mitchell didn’t cry, which meant Jason wasn’t doomed. Yet.
Desperate for normalcy, Jason slammed the closet door shut, the bang a little too loud in the now-tainted air. He turned to Mitchell, avoiding eye contact for reasons that felt both superstitious and necessary. “Alright, Mitch, enjoy the peas. Or don’t. Whatever makes you happy.”
Mitchell said nothing, naturally. Kings don’t sully themselves with responses about farts. Jason secured the baby gate, retreating from the nursery-turned-courtroom with as much dignity as a man could muster after committing such treason.
By the time Jason reentered the living room, his face was neutral, his secrets secure. Aaron glanced up, Dorito crumbs speckled across his shirt. “What took you so long?”
“Had business to handle,” Jason replied with a shrug, stealing a chip because alpha-prerogative was still a thing.
Back in Mitchell’s room, peace prevailed. For now. But Jason knew better than to get too comfortable. Kings are merciful but not forgetful, and Mitchell’s reign promised plenty more drama with a teething ring twist.
Good luck, Jason. You're gonna need it.
Epilogue: The sun had long set, leaving the room bathed in the soporific glow of a nightlight shaped like a spaceship—because apparently, even toddlers demand ambiance. Mitchell, nestled in his crib like a prince in his royal bedchamber, was sound asleep, the faint rise and fall of his chest the only evidence he wasn't secretly plotting world domination in his dreams. Jason stood quietly at the doorway, arms folded, surveying the kingdom he had just restocked and, in some strange way, fortified.
What happened earlier—the chaos, the fart heard 'round the world, the Tribute of Applesauce—was more than just another chapter in The Chronicles of Mitchell's Reign. It was a quiet act of reinforcement, proof that even the tiniest tyrants thrive on the stability of care. With every jar lined neatly in the cupboard and every ounce of formula prepared to meet the unpredictable whims of a pint-sized ruler, Jason had shown Mitchell that his world, however small and rocket-printed, was a safe and supportive place. For all his demanding glares and royal naps, Mitchell’s growing brain was silently taking note. Here, his needs weren’t just met—they were prioritized, normalized, made part of a ritual as consistent as the moonrise.
Jason smirked to himself, stepping back into the hallway. Sure, there’d be battles to fight—over broccoli, baths, and bedtime stories that inexplicably required 300 more readings of that one book about ducks. But for tonight, the kingdom was at peace, Mitchell’s trust in the world deepened in a way he’d never put into words but would carry in his tiny, sticky soul forever. Jason turned off the light, one last thought striking him before he shuffled off to his own realm of Dorito-laden chaos.
Kings rise, reign, and retire. But tonight, Mitchell? Tonight, you grew like a champion. Sleep tight, little ruler. You've earned it.