"This! This is what I was talking about!" Jon shrieked, his voice a full-on, feminine wail of despair. He spun around, yanking the cream-colored shirt down as far as it would go, his face a mask of horror that his features immediately translated into a pout of sexy frustration.
Zoë just sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Yeah. This party is going to be a goddamn nightmare." She glanced at her phone. "Shit. Look, Athena's almost here. I gotta go."
"What? You're leaving me?" Jon's voice cracked, full of panic. He looked up at her—up, he was still getting used to that—and he felt like a terrified kid.
"I'm just going to my room to get ready," Zoë said, looking down at him and already backing out of the perfumed bedroom. "We're hanging out. I'll probably be gone for a few hours, but I'll be back before... you know." She gestured vaguely, implying the party's end. She didn't mention that 'hanging out' was code for an emergency magic briefing. "Just... try to survive. Remember the plan. Be 'cool'."
"But..."
"Good luck," Zoë said, and then she was gone, her heavy black boots clomping down the hall. A moment later, Jon heard the doorbell ring, followed by his mom's voice and then a second, unfamiliar girl's voice. Athena. He was alone.
Jon stood in the middle of the room, his heart hammering. He was dressed, at least. He was wearing the jeans and the long-sleeved shirt. He'd decided against the hoodie; it felt too much. And he was definitely, definitely not putting on a bra. The thought of fishing one of those flimsy lace triangles or, the black lacey push-up bra or worse, the cleavage-enhancing sports bra from that drawer and strapping it to his chest... No. He'd rather suffer. No bra. No panties. Just him and the mercifully normal jeans and shirt.
He took a shaky breath, trying to calm down. He just had to wait.
But the silence of the room was pressing in on him. And with it, an... itch. A compulsion. His eyes were drawn to the vanity. To the bottles and powders. Before he could question it, he found himself walking over, his hips swaying almost imperceptibly, and sitting in the plush white chair.
...a cool and 'different' older sister...
His hands, which he'd always thought of as clumsy, moved with an artist's grace. He found himself grabbing brushes, uncapping tubes, and dabbing at his face. It was like the abstract painting. He wasn't deciding to do anything; his hands just knew.
A little concealer here. A brush of bronzer there to highlight his cheekbones. His hand paused, and he watched, horrified, as his other hand's delicate fingers fanned out by his temple, pulling his eye taut in a "foxy" pose. He tried to pull his hand away, but it wouldn't obey.
...always be so sexy and flirty...
The whisper in his head was almost a purr of approval. His fingers only relaxed once the bronzer was perfectly blended. He reached for the mascara, and his hand knew to apply a perfect, single swipe to lengthen his already-long lashes. He grabbed a tinted balm, and as he applied it, his full lips automatically parted and puckered, as if practicing for a kiss. The dab of color made them look even softer and more inviting.
He worked in a daze, a strange, pleasant calm settling over him. It was only when the distant doorbell rang again, followed by a chorus of young, cracking male voices, that he snapped out of it.
"Mikey! Your friends are here!" his mom yelled from downstairs.
Jon blinked. He looked in the mirror. An hour had passed. He stared, horrified and... weirdly impressed. The makeup was flawless. It was so light it was almost invisible, but the combined effect was devastating. He looked... beautiful. Naturally, effortlessly beautiful. His skin glowed, his eyes looked huge and bright, and his lips looked permanently, poutily kissable. His curly hair, which he'd barely touched, now seemed to frame his face in a perfect, artfully messy cascade.
"Oh god," he whispered.
"Esme!" Mikey's voice, high and excited. "Get down here! You gotta drive us to laser tag!"
Right. The party. Jon's stomach churned. He stood up, his legs feeling like jelly. He could do this. He was dressed. The makeup was... weird, but. He just had to be "cool" and "different." He could handle it.
He took a deep breath, walked out of his room, and headed for the stairs.
He put his foot on the top step....she would always be so sexy and flirty and a bit of tease, sometimes accidentally...
He took another shaky step. Something wasn’t right.
...and would often walk around the house naked...
...always do something cool or sexy or something they'd never want to leave...
It wasn't a flash this time. It was a pull. A sickening, powerful lurch, as if two invisible forces were tearing at him. He gasped, grabbing the banister as a wave of dizziness hit him. He looked down at himself.
He heard Zoe’s voice now:
...outfits that are modest, completely non-sexy, and appropriate for her to wear in public to a 13-year-old's birthday party...
The clothes. Zoë's "safe" clothes. They were changing. He could feel the magic warring. This couldn't end well.
