Chapter 5: The Shaving Ritual
The silence after their decision was the loudest thing Ethan had ever heard. It vibrated in the air between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying. The old book lay on the coffee table like an accusation.
“Okay,” Lily finally said, her voice clipped. “You first. Go. Shower.”
Ethan just nodded, a jerky, mechanical motion. He stood, his limbs feeling foreign and clumsy. He didn’t look at her as he gathered his duffel bag and padded down the short hallway to the bathroom. He closed the door, the click of the latch echoing like a gunshot in the tiny space.
The water was scalding, a needle-point barrage he hoped would scour the weird, sticky feeling from his skin. Steam billowed, fogging the mirror and clinging to the faded floral shower curtain. He pressed his forehead against the cool tiles, letting the heat pound on his neck and shoulders. His mind was a riot of contradictions. This was insane. It was necessary. It was wrong. It was, in some dark, shameful corner of his psyche he was just now discovering, thrilling.
It’s just a reversal, he told himself, squeezing his eyes shut. A technical correction. Like Control-Z for a cosmic typo.
But his body was telling a different story. A low, persistent hum of arousal had settled in his gut, a buzz that the hot water couldn’t wash away. He thought of Lily in the other room, probably pouring a very large glass of wine, her sarcastic smile absent, replaced by that focused, determined look she got when solving a problem. A problem that was currently him.
He looked down. The water sluiced over him. He was already half-hard.
“Jesus,” he muttered to the dripping showerhead.
The idea came to him then, fully formed and utterly ridiculous. He should be… presentable. It was a clinical thought, a bizarre attempt to inject some decorum into the undecorous. If this was a procedure, he should be prepared. He reached for his razor, the cheap disposable he used for his face. The can of shaving gel was almost empty; he had to smack the bottom to get a pathetic dollop into his palm.
The absurdity of it hit him as he applied the gel. He was in his cousin’s bathroom, about to shave his crotch so she could more easily perform a magical blowjob to undo a love spell they’d accidentally cast on themselves. A hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat and died. This was his life now. This was what the promised wonder of the esoteric had yielded: standing in a tub, terrified and aroused, with a razor in hand.
He worked carefully, the drag of the blade a strange, intimate punctuation in the steam-filled silence. The act was profoundly weird. It felt at once utilitarian and wildly erotic, a preparation for a act that was supposed to be a negation. With each stroke, a confusing sense of anticipation grew. He was making himself ready for her. The shame was immediate and hot, but it didn’t quell the excitement; it dueled with it.
He rinsed off, the water cooler now. He looked again.
He was fully hard now, and the sight gave him pause. He’d always been decently proportioned, he thought, in those private, comparative moments every young man has. But now, in the misty gloom of Lily’s bathroom, he seemed… more. Thicker. Heavier. A prominent vein traced a path he didn’t remember being so defined. Was it the spell? The other one, the vague enhancement charm he’d tried from the same grimoire a week ago, the one that had just made his hair seem shinier and his coffee taste better at the time? Had it been working in silence, compounding this mess?
He felt a surge of unwelcome pride. It was monstrous, given the context, but it was there. He felt powerful. Potent. Like a pornstar, a detached part of his mind supplied, and the shame returned, redoubled. He was comparing himself to a pornstar while his cousin waited to suck him so she could fix the spell cast on her.
He turned off the water. The sudden quiet was deafening. Dripping, he stepped out onto the worn bathmat, his reflection a blurred giant in the fogged mirror. He toweled off roughly, avoiding looking at himself directly. The arousal hadn’t faded. It throbbed, a relentless, physical truth.
He was ashamed. Deeply, gut-wrenchingly ashamed.
But beneath the shame, undeniable and terrifying, was the realization that he was almost looking forward to this.
He grabbed the faucet and twisted it hard to the left.
A shocking, brutal cascade of cold hammered down on him, stealing his breath. He gasped, his skin tightening into gooseflesh instantly. The shock was a pure, physical rebuke. It severed the connection between his thoughts and his body, the intense discomfort overwhelming everything else. He stood there, shuddering, until the insistent thrum of arousal had faded, replaced by a numb, all-over chill.
He was just a cold guy in a shower now. The relief was hollow, but it was something.
He turned the water off. The silence rang. He toweled himself with brisk, efficient strokes, avoiding any lingering inspection. He wrapped the towel securely around his waist, tucking the end in with a firm tug. The terrycloth was rough against his sensitive skin. He took a steadying breath, pushed his damp hair back, and opened the bathroom door.
A plume of steam escaped ahead of him into the cooler air of the hallway. The apartment was quiet, lit only by the soft lamp in the living room. Lily was standing by the bookshelf, her back to him, holding the grimoire. She turned at the sound.
Her eyes flicked down to the towel, then immediately back to his face. Her expression was unreadable, a careful mask of practicality. "Okay," she said, her voice a little too even. "Go wait on the sofa. I need to... get everything ready."
"Get everything ready?" he echoed, his own voice sounding raw.
"The book. The... components. Just go sit down, Ethan."
He nodded, padding barefoot into the living room. The worn velvet of the sofa was cool against the backs of his thighs as he sat. He heard her moving in the small kitchen, the clink of a glass, the running of tap water. He stared at the grimoire on the coffee table, its cracked leather binding looking sinister in the low light. He thought of the failed experiments from the previous week—the whispered phrases that did nothing, the dried herbs that just smoldered and stank. They’d laughed about it then.
This wasn’t funny.
Lily returned carrying two glasses of water and set them on the table. She placed the open grimoire beside them, the pages flat. "The reversal ritual is pretty specific," she said, not meeting his eyes. She sat on the far end of the sofa, leaving a full cushion between them. The distance felt like a canyon. "It says the, uh, act has to be... concluded. You know. For the metaphysical transfer."
"Yeah," he managed. "I read it."
"Right." She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She was looking at the book, but her gaze seemed distant. "So we just... do the thing. And then we say the Latin phrase after. Simultaneously."
"Simultaneously," he repeated, the word absurd.
A heavy silence settled. The city hummed outside. A car alarm whooped faintly in the distance. Ethan became hyper-aware of the damp spot his hair was leaving on the sofa cushion, of the way the towel’s edge dug into his hip. He watched Lily. Her jaw was tight, the muscle flexing. She was chewing on the inside of her cheek, a childhood habit she’d never broken.
"This is so messed up," she whispered, finally, the words escaping like a sigh.
"I know."
"Let's just do the ritual," he said, his voice barely audible.
Lily nodded once, a sharp, decisive motion. She uncurled herself and shifted toward him, the old sofa springs groaning. The space between them vanished. He could smell her shampoo, something like coconut, and beneath it, the faint, clean scent of her skin. It was familiar and utterly foreign at this proximity.
"Okay," she breathed, her eyes on the towel at his waist. Her hands, which were usually so sure, hovered uncertainly. "Okay, just... let's get this over with."
She reached for the tucked edge of the towel. Her fingers brushed his stomach, and they both flinched.