Now, Jon, being a child of too much fantasy, had some slight genre-savvy as to what was to be expected in these sorts of situations. He assumed by now there was probably some great magical force steadily growing in power behind the scenes, or perhaps some mystery a-brewing just on the edges of the Reader's PoV. Either way whatever the "interesting" thing there was that was supposed to happen, would happen gradually, perhaps keeping his changes on the slow burn and steadily accumulating changes over the course of the narrative. Such trickle-in transformations were practically genre-standard, after all. Assuming the author has the patience for that sort of thing, Jon mused, blissfully unaware that he would be transformed completely and thoroughly within the next 15 minutes.
Jon's coincidentally-prescient internal monologue was then interrupted by the usual designated interrupters of internal monologues, those being one's younger siblings.
Pound, Pound, Pound. "How are you still in there right now!?" Zoe called out from the other side of the bathroom door. "You're an icky boy! Gross icky boys don't need to shower nearly as long as you do!"
"Would you prefer me smelling like crap?" Jon fired back, turning off the shower water and stepping out of his internal monologue's presentation room for now. Admittedly, he'd been in the shower for much longer than usual this morning, but in his defense, his internal monologue had a lot to say this morning.
"You smell like crap anyway, shithead!" happened to be the insult fulfilling the brother-sister-bickering mandate for now. "C'mon, you're taking ages! Do I need to get Mom?"
"You're not gonna get Mom," Jon fired back, toweling off.
"She's gonna be soooo fucking pissed off if she catches you undermining her like that, smartass!"
"You never get Mom," Jon parried casually while throwing on some undies, then riposted with "and even if you did she'd be, ahem, 'soooo fucking pissed' to catch you using language like that again, 'smartass'." Zoe was, to put it bluntly, going through a rebellious goth phase just then.
"Where do you think we are, Sesame Street? This is me asking to use MY bathroom in MY own home, dickbreath, and I'll do it the way I damn well please!"
"OUR bathroom, in OUR own home," Jon corrected. "And if a certain maternal figure DID have to intervene, I'm certain she'd condone sharing, and taking turns using the shower, isn't that right?"
(Their mom, elsewhere, was just rubbing her temples in despair.)
"I fuckin' WISH we didn't have to take turns in the stupid shower every stupid morning," Zoe muttered, even as Jon was opening the door now that he had an undershirt and some pants on. "This is intolerable."
"Me too, sis. Me too." Jon stepped aside to usher her in, so of course she made a point of shoving him aside anyway.
Then, the arm went numb where she shoved it.
