If there's one thing Vandal knows about John, is that he doesn't drop a bit until it either becomes stale, or if Vandal plays along and one up's him.
"*sigh*... Ok, I'll wear it." Vandal mumbled, through defeated sighs "But only so you can see it, ok?! Then it's back to the shelf, and we can look for something more serious."
John's laughter only grew louder, but he held out the shirt, too busy laughing to get a word in.
Vandal just snatched the shirt out of John's hand in exasperated annoyance, before trudging off to the nearest changing room.
Luckily, there was one not too far from the aisle, with the guy carefully slipping in, making sure that no one could see what he was about to put on…
Click!
With the door locked and secured, his nerves were still high. He just held the offending garment in front of him.
Despite John's earlier egging, Vandal couldn't escape the pit in his stomach. He couldn't find out why, but something deep in his gut was telling him to absolutely NOT to wear this thing…
It's probably just his nerves…
Without a second thought or conclusion, Vandal took off his hoodie and undershirt, before slowly sliding the blue shirt on. The fabric was soft and cotton like, but it felt like it was tingling his skin as he slid it on. Whether that was again his nerves, or something more concerning was unclear.
Finally the shirt was on, and it was clear with one look in the mirror that he looked ridiculous. The shirt obviously had huge wrinkles around the belly and chest, clearly not meant to be worn by a cis, relatively thin man. The shirt also didn't fit him in many smaller, subtle ways, like on his hips and back.
… Well, until it didn't.
Vandal’s skin tingled slightly, making him look away from the mirror for only a split second. When he looked back, he swore that the shirt rested… differently on his body now. It could just be his mind playing tricks on him, but he swore that the shirt altered itself slightly to make those smaller fits actually fit… or impossibly, vice versa.
What started as uncomfortable tingling gradually turned into a hot, almost scratchy feeling, like all the skin under the maternity shirt was rubbed raw.
“I need this thing off, now!” Vandal mentally shouted, panic quickly stepping in. This has to be his paranoia flaring up, right? Or an allergy to the fabric… either way, the shirt is getting removed, and never worn again.
He tried to pull at the shirts hem, but in a way that defies any of Vandal's understanding of physics, the shirt's hem would not move from his skin. He could stretch the shirt by pulling it, but it would snap back afterwards, the hem stagnant on his skin.
The raw feeling intensified, leading Vandal to stumble onto the changing bench, collapsing in a panicked heap. The pit in his stomach gaining more and more substance.
Something he was unaware was about to be in more ways than one.
Then…