Chapter 2
When Anton wakes up, he expects to roll over and slap his hand down onto his alarm, hitting the snooze button with a practiced motion—but instead, beside his bed, as he opens his eyes, he blearily sees a phone that isn't his, but above that, across the room, Trent Hendricks is asleep in the bed across from him.
He freezes.
No. Absolutely not.
Suddenly sure this is some sort of nightmare, he closes his eyes again.
The alarm continues blaring a grating harp tune.
Anton believes if he keeps his eyes closed for long enough, he will open them again, and he'll be safely back in his bedroom in Clifton, not in this weird nightmare realm where he is sharing a room with Hendricks.
Surely, reality will correct itself before Anton has to reopen his eyes.
Instead, barely a moment later, something smacks him in the head.
Hard.
"Blake," Trent groans, voice thick and gravelly from disuse.
"If you're gonna set your alarm an hour before we need to be awake, you gotta turn the damn thing off when it goes off.
Jesus Christ, dude."
Anton's eyes fly open.
"What did you say to me?"
Another pillow flies across the room, colliding with his torso this time.
"I got three kids, Morrison.
I can sleep through a lot, but I can't handle your damn harps."
Anton stares at the back of Hendricks's head—then at the phone that is still screaming at him.
He lifts a hand, grabs the unfamiliar device, and hits the mute button.
The screen goes black, and in the reflection, Blake Morrison's face stares back at him.
This is not good.
This is not good at all.
Anton taps the screen on, and staring back at him is a photo of Blake at maybe ten years old, smiling wide with his front left tooth missing, Elena and Logan Morrison on either side of him with wide, proud grins on their faces as Blake grips both hands onto a trophy.
Blake looks so young, and his parents look so excited to be there.
Anton closes the phone so that he doesn't have to keep looking at it.
He slides out of bed, dazed, and makes his way down the hallway to the bathroom.
In there, he presses both hands to the sink, eyes closed, inhaling and exhaling, before dragging his lids open and lifting his head to witness what he kind of already expects will be there.
Blake Morrison's wide, deer-like brown eyes stare back at him, right beneath them, the freckles Anton adored from the first moment he saw them.
They dance along his cheekbones, dense and perfect.
So, this is a weird nightmare.
He's had many nightmares before, but none of them have been like this.
Surely, somehow, he will wake up.
Anton stands there staring at himself—well, at Blake in the mirror, waiting for the universe to crack open and correct itself.
Eventually, though, he realises how badly he needs to pee.
He sighs, placing the phone down on the counter, face down and pulls his shorts down.
The soft dick before him is cut, which is a weird difference to adjust to, but Anton has seen this dick many times before, tasted it, and touched it.
They are well acquainted.
Once he finishes using the bathroom, he flushes, washes his hands, and picks up the phone again.
He types in a code that he only somehow knows from muscle memory.
It's fine.
It makes sense.
Dream logic is stupid.
But he does think that if Dream Anton is in Blake's body—Dream Blake surely is in his.
He calls Wren.
The line rings, and rings, and rings.
Then—his own voice comes through:
"This is Anton Dragunov.
I cannot answer phone.
Leave name and number." and then a long beep.
Anton lets out a long, drawn-out, dramatic groan.
He does not say anything else in the message.
He hits the hang-up button and pockets the device.
It seems he is alone in this nightmare world with Trent Hendricks.
He steps out of the bathroom, and Trent is shirtless and sitting at the end of his bed, texting.
He looks up, smiling warmly like they're old friends.
"Hey, man.
The team meeting isn't for another hour or so.
I'm gonna grab breakfast at the restaurant downstairs."
"So, we are playing today," he says out loud.
Trent blinks.
"Uh—yeah, buddy.
We sure are.
You feeling alright?"
I am fine.
We are playing ... which team?
I have forgotten."
Trent immediately stands.
He crosses the room, pressing the back of his hand to Anton's forehead and searching his face.
"You feeling okay?"
Anton fights the urge to slap his hand away.
Good.
It was a simple question."
"We spent like twenty-five minutes talking about the Flames last night, Blake.
Did you hit your head in your sleep?"
Maybe Anton is concussed.
He has had weird, delirious hallucinations while being concussed before, though none were this vivid.
I know this.
We are in ..." A pause, head nodding slow.
"Lakewood."
God, who the hell wants to wake up in Lakewood?
He wants to go home.
He wants to wake up.
His phone begins buzzing in his pocket, then chimes sound from it.
He grabs the phone and sees
across the screen.
He turns the screen so it's not visible to Trent, who is still looking at him with a scrutinising intensity that makes Anton's stomach feel twisted.
"I must take this."
"Right," Trent says, squinting at him.
Anton speed walks toward the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.
He drops himself onto the closed toilet seat and answers the call.
The phone rings four times before Anton picks up.
Neither of them says a word for a long second, and then Anton, in Blake's voice, says, "Morrison?"
Blake inhales so sharply it stings.
"Dragunov?
Is– fuck, is that you?"
On the other line, Anton laughs once, sharply.
"Blake Morrison, are you in Clifton?"
Blake can't even spare a minute to acknowledge the terrible Merovan accent Anton's put on, because he's too focused on the fact that Anton is apparently not panicking
whatsoever,
which is
insane.
"What the fuck," Blake says.
"What the fucking– fuck.
Fuck, Dragunov, are you fucking kidding me?"
Because he's the worst, Anton laughs.
Again.
"I have never heard you swear so much when you are not getting fucked.
You swear like pirate.
Arr
"Shut the fuck up, this is fucking serious," Blake tells him frantically.
"You're– I'm–"
"In wrong body, yes?"
"Yes!" Blake exclaims, throwing his hand up into the air.
Then, "Hm."
"Hm?
What does
hm
mean?"
"This is weird dream."
Blake groans, foot tapping a furious rhythm into the floor.
Lowering his voice, he says, "It's not a dream, asshole.
I woke up in your bed with your feet, and I had to pee, but I can't pee with your dick, and now I'm literally talking directly to you, and you think you're dreaming, which means you're not taking this seriously when our careers are on the fucking line!"
This time, when Anton speaks, he sounds brittle.
"This is real?"
"For fuck's sake, Dragunov–
yes."
Blake's head keeps spinning.
There's so much to do.
So much that could go wrong that they need to plan for.
"Listen," he starts.
"I have my whole itinerary for the month logged on my Calendar app, okay?
Just do whatever's on there, and if you have any questions, call me.
I'll look at your itinerary and do the same thing."
"You are planning?" Anton asks, voice incredulous.
"I am in your body, and you are
planning?"
"Our careers are on the line," Blake grits out.
"We have to pretend, right?
Like everything's normal.
And then...
Waverly.
We're both playing in Waverly in four days."
Anton makes a small noise.
"You think we can fix problem together?"
Blake barks a panicked laugh.
"I mean, fuck, man.
We better.
We can't be stuck like this forever.
Right?"