Chapter 1
Blake wakes up to an alarm that is not his own.
He knows it's not his own because he painstakingly searched for and changed it to Silk six months ago, and now Radar is blaring in his right ear.
With his eyes still half-shut, Blake scrambles for the phone and taps at the screen until the alarm shuts off.
And then he realises he's not in the bed he fell asleep in.
The sheets he's wrapped up in are navy
blue,
for one.
The hotel bedsheets in Lakewood were white.
And he was definitely in a hotel bed in Lakewood last night.
Now, though...
Blake's head swivels as he looks around, stomach plummeting when it hits him that this... this is
Anton's
bedroom.
In Clifton.
Anton's paintings on the wall, Anton's dresser, Anton's blue bedsheets, and Anton's phone, still in Blake's slack hands.
Holy shit.
Okay, so Blake either teleported to Anton's house sometime during the night, or he's dreaming.
Or maybe he sustained some sort of head injury?
Maybe he has amnesia, or– or he's in a coma.
Something.
Skin erupting in goosebumps, Blake slides out of bed on shaky legs.
As soon as his feet touch the ground, though, he freezes.
Because those are
his feet.
He has touched these feet, has pressed a kiss to the right one's ankle.
He has massaged these feet and watched them slip into and out of socks, and he has, on two separate occasions, accidentally stepped on these feet.
Because they are
feet.
Breathing coming quicker, Blake's head snaps back up, fumbling for the phone beside him.
He taps the screen frantically, refusing to acknowledge what it means that he suddenly knows Anton's phone's passcode, maneuvering quickly to the camera app, only to freeze a second later.
It just– it can't be.
Anton Dragunov cannot be staring back up at him with his big blue eyes, because that would be insane and impossible.
A second ticks by.
Two.
His pulse skyrockets.
Swallowing, Blake drops the phone back down on the bed and gets up.
He feels– taller.
Heavier, somehow, like the room's gravity has shifted.
He is also, he's realising, panicking.
Palms clammy, he makes his way down the hall and into Anton's bathroom, gaze on the floor as he parks himself in front of the mirror.
This is the definitive test, he thinks.
Once he looks up, he'll know for sure.
He looks up.
Anton's face –
face, now – stares back at him.
Fuck,
okay, Blake is somehow in Anton Dragunov's body.
"What the hell," Blake says, voice jarringly loud.
It reverberates through him, his voice lower like this, coming out of his own mouth.
Hands trembling, he slaps gently at his own cheeks, unwilling to hit himself any harder in Anton's body.
He feels the sting of it, anyhow, and feels it again when he tugs at his – now curly and blond – hair.
This is really happening, he realises.
It's like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, but Blake is somehow, literally, in Anton's body.
His consciousness has somehow been– transported, or something, into the body of his rival, and,
shit,
what the fuck happens now?
Oh, God.
Oh, shit.
Is he going to have to pretend to have a Kestrian accent?
Is he going to have to pretend he can
speak
Kestrian?
Head spinning, Blake tries to think logistics.
Anton's in Clifton because he has a game here tomorrow night.
Blake was last in Lakewood, because he had a game there.
Which– is Blake's body in Lakewood?
Is Anton in Blake's body?
Blake's ass promptly hits the edge of the bathtub.
This is fine,
he tells himself.
This is so, totally fine, and I have everything under control.
Distantly, he registers his phone ringing.
He stares really hard at the tile grout and does not move.
It hits him then that he needs to pee.
Which– no. Peeing for Anton is just– it's too much.
A step too far.
If he's in a coma, he might piss himself.
Or, he supposes he would be wearing a catheter, but– still.
And if this is real, he would be touching Anton's dick in a non-sexual context.
He would have to look at it and aim the head of it at the toilet bowl and relax enough to actually pee.
Fuck his entire life.
In the bedroom, the phone rings again.
This time, Blake vaults himself to his feet and jogs back to the bedroom, clipping his shoulder on the wall.
The pain barely registers.
He doesn't even glance at the Caller ID because it
has
to be Anton, but then–
"Anton, where the fuck is my money?"
Pulls the phone back to find that it's Boris, Anton's brother, who has called.
He should hang up, but he's too stunned to move, because Boris definitely just spoke Kestrian, and Blake definitely just understood it.
"Boris?" he says tentatively.
"Yes?
Hello?
Are you deaf?
Where's the money, dipshit?" Boris says, and Blake holds his breath.
"W-what, uh, what money?" Blake asks, in
perfect fucking Kestrian,
holy
shit.
"What money?" Boris asks, growing louder.
"I asked you last night, Anton.
You're in fucking Solvay, and I'm here with Dad.
You expect me to take care of him without any money?"
"Boris–"
"You sent me fifteen thousand last month like I'm some washed-up college kid.
Like you're not rich.
What happened to thirty thousand a month,
minimum,
huh?
Dad is fucking useless, Anton."
Reeling, Blake stumbles backwards until he knocks against the bed.
He sits down heavily, unable to parse through the whirlstorm of emotions suddenly wreaking havoc in his chest.
"I pay you that much?" he blurts, dumb and confused.
"Are you fucking stupid?" Boris asks, voice taut with anger.
"Fifteen thousand to take care of an old man who doesn't even remember his firstborn son.
It's a joke." A pause.
Then, "Can you send the money this afternoon?"
Doesn't reply.
"You want me to tell Dad you're a faggot, huh?"
Blake's blood runs cold.
He forgets, momentarily, that Boris is talking to Anton.
Clenching his fists, Blake says, "How– what do you mean?"
Boris scoffs, voice taking on a meaner, sharper quality this time.
"Yasha is back in town.
I guess I could have a
with him.
I don't think his father would forgive and forget as quickly as ours."
"No," Blake says, quick and desperate.
He has no idea who Yasha is, but he knows, instinctively, that Anton cares for him.
"I'll– I'll send the money.
Just– this afternoon.
I'll send it this afternoon."
"Good man," Boris says.
"Don't fuck up the game tomorrow, dipshit."
With that, the line goes dead.
Blake takes a deep breath, lowering the phone to stare at the screen.
And then he finds Fern's number, clicking on it without letting himself think.