NARRATOR (V.O.) 2:47 PM. Four hours into the ceasefire. The universe, having watched this attempt at self-control with the kind of patient amusement usually reserved for toddlers promising they won't eat the cookie, decided it was time to send in a cat.
Without warning, something small and gray shot across the living room with the kind of speed that suggested it was either very excited or very scared, and knocked over a lamp in the process. The lamp-a harvest gold monstrosity with a fringed shade-broke in two, which everyone including the lamp had to admit was a significant aesthetic improvement.
Brad came out of his room at the sound of the crash. A cat-scraggly, gray, and possessed of the kind of feral confidence that only comes from having never once questioned your right to exist anywhere-was now sitting on their couch, grooming itself with the casual ownership of someone who had just purchased the property at auction and was already planning renovations.
"Where did you come from?"
The cat ignored him.
Before Brad could investigate further-before he could wonder how a cat had gotten into a house with all windows and doors closed, before he could question the timing, before he could recognize this for the sitcom setup it obviously was-someone knocked on the door.
Loud, enthusiastic knocking. The kind of knocking that suggested the person on the other side had never encountered a social situation they couldn't enthusiastically barrel into, consequences be damned.
Brad looked down at himself. The hoodie was doing its job, mostly, hiding his chest as long as he didn't move too much. He opened the door.
The twins were identical in an aggressively perfect way that suggested either genetics or the dedicated efforts of a sitcom wardrobe department, and Brad was beginning to suspect the latter. Same height, same blonde hair styled in the exact same way, same bright blue eyes, same white teeth in the same smile. They wore matching outfits in different colors-one in blue, one in red-because of course they did.
"Hej!" the one in blue said, her Swedish accent sing-song and bright. "We are looking for Mittens!"
"Our cat!" the one in red added, with the exact same inflection and enthusiasm.
"He escaped three days ago!" they said in perfect unison, which was either impressive coordination or evidence that they were, in fact, reading from some invisible script.
Brad pointed at the couch, where the cat was still grooming itself with complete indifference to the drama. "That cat?"
"MITTENS!" They rushed inside without invitation, both squealing at a frequency that probably bothered dogs, scooping up the cat who seemed wholly unimpressed by the reunion.
"I am Freja," Blue Twin said, beaming at Brad with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for lottery winners.
"I am Astrid," Red Twin added, also beaming.
"We moved in next door," they said together, in unison, because why break the pattern now?
Brad stared. The universe, he reflected, had a deeply unfair sense of comedic timing. Gorgeous Scandinavian blonde twins moving in next door was the kind of sitcom contrivance that would have made him roll his eyes a week ago. Now, standing there with breasts under his compression shirt and a voice that could sell wellness products, he was less concerned with narrative plausibility and more concerned with whether they'd noticed anything unusual about their new neighbors.
"Right. Glad you found him."
"Oh, but we must thank you!" Freja exclaimed, stepping closer. "You have rescued our darling Mittens!"
"He was just... in our living room," Brad said, still holding the door open.
Alex appeared in his doorway, drawn by the commotion. The twins' attention immediately shifted to him with the synchronized precision of a military drill team.
"Oh! You have a roommate!" Freja exclaimed.
"My brother," Brad said. "Alex."
The twins tilted their heads in perfect synchronization, like confused puppies in a shampoo commercial.
"Brothers?" Astrid said. "But you sound so... different?"
"Very different," Freja agreed. "Your voices are so strange!"
"We have colds," Alex said quickly, his tone flat and unwelcoming. "Both of us. Very contagious. You should probably go."
"Oh no!" The twins showed no sign of leaving. "You poor things!"
"Really, we're fine," Alex said. "You found your cat, so-"
"Wait!" Astrid was staring at Brad now, her eyes widening with recognition. "I know you! You run past our house every morning!"
"You're the runner!" Freja clapped her hands together. "With the blue shorts! We see you all the time!"
Brad felt heat rising to his face. "Oh. Yeah, I run in the mornings."
"You are so dedicated!" Astrid moved closer, examining him with open interest. "Every day, rain or shine! Very impressive!"
"It's just... you know, staying active," Brad said, acutely aware of how close she was standing.
"You must be very fit," Freja said, her eyes traveling over him in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable and oddly flattered at the same time. "Very athletic."
"I try to-"
"Look," Alex interrupted, his voice sharp. "This is great and all, but we really need to rest. So if you could-"
The twins laughed, identical tinkling sounds.
"You are so serious!" Freja said. "Your brother is much more friendly!"
"I'm not trying to be friendly," Alex said flatly. "I'm trying to get you to leave."
Brad felt a spike of frustration. Here were two attractive women actually paying attention to them-despite the voices, despite everything-and Alex was being actively rude. They were being nice, they were clearly interested, and Alex was going to chase them off with the kind of social incompetence that would get someone voted off a reality show.
"Just ignore him," Brad said to the twins, forcing a smile. "He doesn't care what people think. No social skills at all."
The change hit Alex all at once. Brad saw it in his eyes-a flash of panic, then realization, then something else. Something new settling into place like furniture that had been delivered to the wrong address and decided to stay anyway. Alex's posture shifted slightly, his expression changing, and Brad could see the horror in his face as the compulsion took root. The desperate need to make a good impression. To be liked. To please these strangers whose opinions should mean nothing but suddenly meant everything.
"I didn't mean-" Alex started, his voice different now, apologetic. "I'm sorry, I'm just not feeling well, I-"
"It's okay!" the twins said in unison.
But Brad saw Alex's hands trembling. Saw the panic in his eyes as he felt thoughts that weren't quite his own. He turned to Brad, and when he spoke, there was venom in his tone-fury at what Brad had just done to him. "Well, at least I don't hide under baggy clothes."
Brad felt it happen. Not a physical sensation exactly, but a wrongness, like reality hiccupping.
He looked down.
His hoodie had changed. What had been oversized and gray was now fitted and an undeniably feminine mint green, cropped at the waist, the zipper somehow undone and hanging open. His black sweatpants had transformed into high-waisted black leggings that clung to every curve of his legs and hips. The compression shirt underneath was suddenly visible, tight black fabric clinging to every curve, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Brad's hands flew to the hoodie, yanking it closed, holding it together in front of him before the twins could see his-well, his twins.
"Are you...?" Freja started, tilting her head.
"I'm fine!" Brad said quickly, clutching the hoodie closed. "Just cold! These colds, you know, they give you chills!"
Astrid's eyes narrowed slightly, like she was trying to figure out what she'd just seen, but then she smiled again. "You poor thing! You should definitely rest!"
"We will let you recover," Freja said. "But when you are feeling better, we must take you to dinner!"
"To thank you for rescuing Mittens!" Astrid added.
"That's really not necessary-" Brad started, his arms still clutching the hoodie closed.
"We insist! When you are better, we will call you, yes?"
They swept toward the door in perfect synchronization, Mittens in tow, leaving behind a cloud of perfume and certainty.
"Feel better!" they called out as they left.
The door closed behind them.
Brad and Alex stood in the living room, not looking at each other.
"You complained about me," Brad said finally.
"You complained first."
"They were being nice! You were being rude and I was just-"
"Just what? Just ruining any chance we had of avoiding more changes?"
They stopped. Stared at each other.
Brad looked down at himself. He pulled his hoodie open to demonstrate what had happened to him, showing Alex the tight compression shirt underneath that clung to every curve.
"Look at this! My clothes just changed while they were standing right there! They almost saw-" He gestured at his chest, at the unmistakable shape of breasts beneath the tight fabric.
Alex's eyes traveled down. "It's not your breasts you should be worried about. Your nipples are poking right through that shirt. It's obscene."
The change was immediate. Brad felt the fabric shift against his skin, felt the compression shirt tighten and reshape, felt straps form over his shoulders. He looked down to see a padded black sports bra where his shirt had been, the elastic band snug around his ribs, his new breasts cradled for the world to see.
"You-" Brad started, fury rising in his chest. "You absolute-"
Before he could form the retaliatory words, the phone rang.
They both froze. The sound was coming from the kitchen, from a pale yellow rotary phone mounted on the wall next to wallpaper featuring a pattern of interlocking hexagons in shades of brown and orange. Their parents had insisted on keeping the phone in the house, probably because they'd paid for it in 1973 and by god they were going to get their money's worth. It probably hadn't received a call in a decade.
It rang again. Loud, insistent, impossible to ignore.
"Don't answer it," Brad said.
But Alex was already moving toward it, drawn by something he couldn't name. His hand reached for the receiver.
"Hello?"
Brad watched his brother's face change. Watched him stand up straighter, watched a smile form that looked wrong on his features.
"Oh! Richard! Hi! No, no, not at all, I was just-yes, I got your email about the Mitchelson account. I'm actually finishing those reports right now."
Brad's stomach sank.
"Tomorrow night?" Alex's voice went higher, more eager. "For dinner? That would be wonderful! Yes, of course! I'd love to discuss the project in person!"
"No," Brad whispered. "No, Alex, don't-"
"Seven o'clock works perfectly! I'll make sure everything is-yes, absolutely! I'm looking forward to it!" Alex was practically glowing with enthusiasm. "See you then!"
He hung up. The smile disappeared immediately, replaced by dawning horror.
"What did you just do?" Brad asked.
"I don't know." Alex's hand was still on the receiver. "He called to check in about work and I just-I couldn't stop myself. He asked if we could meet and I wanted to say no, I was going to say no, but instead I-"
"You invited your boss to dinner."
"I invited my boss to dinner."
"Tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow night." Alex's voice was shaking. "Brad, I couldn't control it. The words just came out. I wanted to impress him, I needed him to think I was doing well, I-"
They stared at each other across the kitchen with its Formica table and the general atmosphere of a decade that had given up trying. Brad in his sports bra and fitted hoodie. Alex with his new compulsion to please people, to make good impressions, to care desperately what others thought of him.
"We're so fucked," Brad said.
"So fucked," Alex agreed.
Tomorrow night was going to be a disaster.
NARRATOR (V.O.) Next time on Tits for Tates: Alex meets his boss for dinner. Brad tries to help. Neither of them is prepared for what happens when you mix workplace politics with magical contracts. Don't miss "Corporate Casualties"-same Tate time, same Tate channel!
END EPISODE 4