Chapter 3
On the other end of the line, Anton shuffles around.
After a moment, he says, "Right.
No, impossible.
But again, I am in your body.
Also impossible thing."
"Don't–" Blake closes his eyes.
"Don't think like that.
We're gonna fix this, you and me.
Okay?"
"Okay, Morrison."
Blake opens his eyes, realising that their pretending has to start now.
"You can't call me that."
Awkwardly, Anton says, "...Blake?"
Jesus, I'm Dragunov.
Okay?
This starts
now."
"Morrison, stop panicking."
"You have to call me
Dragunov,"
Blake hisses.
"Okay," Anton says.
Then, mysteriously, he adds, "Trent is going to breakfast, I will go with him.
Do not pick up phone.
Unless I am calling, then you pick up.
Capische?"
Blake tries not to think about Boris.
He'll need to figure out a way to send him fifteen thousand dollars without Anton's help, and without alerting Anton to the fact that he's doing so.
"Alright," he acquiesces.
"No bacon, by the way.
Or whole-fat milk.
Or bread.
Eggs are fine, and you can have black coffee.
See if they have smoothies, or–"
"Holy fuck," Anton interrupts.
"I am not eating like bird.
Your body is hungry, H– Dragunov.
I will feed it.
Now go be me."
Fine, whatever.
What's your itinerary for today?"
Anton blows a raspberry.
"Nothing.
Gym, maybe.
Long run.
Take a nap, Dragunov.
Goodbye."
"Uh." Blake blinks.
"Bye–"
The line goes dead.
Blake pulls up the camera app again and stares down at it, struck suddenly by what he thinks is a very appropriate amount of dread.
Anton Dragunov stares back at him, face contorted into horror.
fucked
This is
Everything's
," Blake says severely.
Anton's face does not disappear.
The situation does not resolve itself.
But he does feel a tiny, minuscule bit better.
Anton's entire world has been flipped upside down.
The realisation that he is not in some absurd nightmare hit him like a freight train.
There's so much of his life that he's purposely kept hidden from Morrison, so many things he keeps distant and private from anyone in Solvay.
These problems should be avoidable if Blake just does not answer the phone.
Or read his texts.
He can't think about that right now; if he lingers on this, he will panic and spiral, and only one of them can have a breakdown at a time.
He remembers, suddenly, that he's never told Blake so much about himself.
Including one deeply dangerous fact.
He quickly taps their text conversation and shoots him a quick text.
Avoid bees.
Another crisis averted.
Blake being aware of his deathly allergy is important if they're going to survive long enough to return back to their own bodies.
He is solving all the problems that are coming up, and eventually, four days from now, when they are in Waverly together, they will sort the whole body exchange problem altogether.
It is fine.
Anton will be normal and live Blake Morrison's weirdly normal, perfect life.
He opens the Calendar app, just like Blake advised, and almost every hour is blocked out: meetings, tasks, travel.
Anton stares at the screen, trying to absorb it, but the sheer number of colour-coded entries is ridiculous.
He swipes to tomorrow.
More of the same.
The next day.
Worse.
The next.
Worse still.
God, who on Earth has this many things to do?
He steps out of the bathroom, phone tucked back into his pocket, stressed fingers running through unfamiliar straight hair.
Trent is sitting at the edge of the bed, now wearing a shirt, tying his shoes.
He has to be Blake Morrison.
Blake Morrison, who is normal, and friendly, and awkward.
Anton can do this.
"Hendricks," Anton begins, forcing a casual smile.
"I will come with you to breakfast."
Surely he can gain further information about the events of the day and how to act normal if he converses with one of Blake's closest friends, even if it means having to spend time with boring, annoying Trent Hendricks.
"What did you just call me?" Trent says, pausing mid-tie, head lifting.
"Your name.
Come on.
We must eat," Anton says.
"Fuel is important for good meeting.
I will put on shoes, and we will go."
He grabs Blake's shoes, which are, as he expected, right by the door, and tugs them on and ties the laces quickly.
When he looks back at Trent, he's watching Anton with an unsure stare, brows furrowed like he's trying to piece together a puzzle.
Anton does not enjoy the fact that he is doubting Anton's perfectly decent performance.
"You are ready?"
Trent blinks at him.
Grabs his wallet and the room key card from the table.
"Sure, Blake.
Let's go."
On the elevator down, his phone dings, a single message:
What the fuck
He does not answer.
He does not have time.
After the call ends, Blake stands for an embarrassingly long time in front of the toilet with his hand halfway in his sweatpants.
He really needs to pee.
But that requires handling Anton's dick.
It just feels... too intimate.
He would never sidle up behind Anton to rest his chin on his shoulder and bat his hands away so that he could aim his stream for him, you know?
And this is essentially that.
This is Anton's body, Blake's soul has just... intruded.
Sighing heavily, Blake pulls his – Anton's – dick out.
He wills himself to pee.
Nothing happens.
Blake's never been pee-shy before.
But right now, he is finding it exceptionally hard to pee.
"Okay, come on," he mutters under his breath.
"Just let it out.
Pee.
Pee, pee, pee."
Finally, a pathetic little dribble spurts from his dick.
Unfortunately, he gets so excited that it stops again immediately.
He focuses again, and an imaginary Anton in the back of his head begins teasing him.
You've held my dick a million times,
imaginary Anton says.
Don't be prude, Morrison.
Pee for me.
"I don't want to pee for you," Blake says into the empty bathroom.
He stands very still with his dick in his hands for a long minute.
Stares at the freckle on the side of Anton's dick, the one he's kissed at least a dozen times.
Oh, God, he cannot get a semi right now.
Then he'll never pee again.
Panicked, he starts humming
Purple Balloon
under his breath, and then
thankfully,
he starts to pee.
Finally, bladder empty, Blake's shoulders slump.
Next, Blake heads to Anton's gym.
He takes a moment to look around, finding the usual equipment.
But the yoga mats and yoga ball catch his eye.
He knows Anton doesn't use them; they talked about it once, actually–
"Why would I do yoga?
I am bendy already, Morrison.
You know this."
So why does Anton own a yoga mat?
Why is there a yoga ball tucked into the corner of the room?
He decides to simply not think about it, hopping onto the treadmill to run.
Five minutes in, he realises he didn't put on any music, but he doesn't want to fetch Anton's phone.
Isn't sure he'd like any music he has saved on there anyway.
Blake runs fast and hard for an hour and a half in complete silence.
His stomach growls when he steps off the treadmill, muscles satisfyingly tired.
He's not sure what Anton usually has for breakfast, but Blake decides he should probably try to stick to Anton's usual diet.
Which means he'll be eating foods he hasn't let himself so much as think about in years.
Trepidation setting his shoulders straight, Blake ambles into the kitchen.
He opens the fridge and stares at its contents: cottage cheese, breakfast sausages, eggs, and protein shakes.
Alright,
he thinks.
It's just breakfast.
For once, you're allowed to indulge.
Blake makes an omelette and pours vanilla creamer into his coffee.
It tastes incredible, and he finishes everything in under five minutes.
Biting his lip, he decides to grab himself a blueberry muffin as well, one Anton had left in a little bag in the fridge.
He doesn't think Anton would mind.
When he's done, he brushes his teeth and finds himself with nothing to do.
He doesn't know if Anton has any friends in the area, and even if he did, it would be a bad idea to see them.
And it's not like Blake can call Claire, or Trent– they wouldn't understand why Anton Dragunov is calling them.
So, for a while, Blake simply... walks around.
He studies the art on the walls, opens drawers that contain either nothing or miscellaneous items that don't seem to mean anything: receipts and gifted books, pens and half-smoked cigarette packets.
Blake gathers every cigarette packet he can find and throws them all in the garbage.
He nods, satisfied, when he's done.
The house's interior design really is impressive.
He's always been a sucker for high-rise ceilings, and Anton's ceilings definitely qualify.
He wonders what it would be like to live here full-time.
Or– well.
Almost
full-time.
God knows Anton travels as much as Blake for work, but he gets to return between away games.
What the hell does Blake do on his days off?
He can't for the life of him remember.
Wandering back into the kitchen for a fourth time, his eyes land on the freezer.
He drums his fingers against his thigh and then, frowning at himself, he opens it and pulls out a bottle of Vodka.
Anton's playing Blake's game tonight, after all.
And it seems nobody ever calls or texts Anton– nobody Blake's going to respond to again, anyhow.
One drink won't hurt.
Several drinks and hours later, Blake's watching his own body throw a punch at the Lakewood Flames' centre.
Blake slumps back into the couch.
Once more, with feeling, he says, "You're fucked."