At the age of 48, Barry had long given up on having a soulmate. It was a rare phenomenon, to reach his age and not wake up in the body of another person in the world; it was the subject of stammered apologies in conversations and pitiful looks at weddings and other ceremonies. Most people had their "out of body" experiences by the time they were 25, if not younger. His mother grew increasingly disheartened every birthday he experienced as himself, but tried not to let her disappointment show when she greeted him in the morning.

He hated his birthday. Every single year he woke up in his own body meant another year alone, another year closer to his 50th, the last chance he had to find his soulmate before the universe cut him off completely. Not to mention the fact his mother constantly hounded him to at least put himself out into the world; he wasn't the only one without a soulmate, but that didn't mean he couldn't find someone who made him happy!

But Barry burrowed further into his work, shutting out the rest of the world. His work was the only thing that made him happy, the only thing that kept him from thinking about how the world had screwed him over completely. He'd often fall asleep at his desk, back sore and neck stiff, only to dive straight back into work.

He was happy.

He liked this.

He didn't mind that he was alone.

He could lie to himself for one more year.

On the eve of his 49th birthday, Barry fell asleep in his bed.

And woke up in someone else's.

His head was pounding; a hangover, perhaps? But he didn't drink— his mother came from a line of alcoholics, and had made him swear off drinking when he was 10 or so. He'd tried it freshman year of college, of course, and just that one time had turned him off it for the rest of his life.

Oh god, he had to puke.

Without thinking, Barry leaned over the side of the bed and grabbed a trash can that had, thankfully, been left nearby and hurled his guts up, groaning in pain. Fuuuuck.

"You doin' okay, Lulu?" came a strange, accented voice from the doorway. "I told you not to challenge Maggie to a drinking contest. Man's got the liver of a dwarf."

Barry groaned, not quite registering the oddness of the situation. His head was swimming; what happened to him?

There were footsteps that made his brain throb, then a gentle hand on the small of his back, rubbing in small circles. "Attagirl, get it all out. I made toast for when you're done."

"Not… girl…" he grumbled before launching into another round of puking.

He could practically hear the frown in the other's voice. "Yes you are, darling, and I have a magic missile for anyone who says otherwise."

Forcing his eyes open, Barry took in his surroundings. The room was an absolute disaster; it was as though a wind elemental had swept through, taking extra care to make sure the clothes were covering every single surface. The walls were covered in posters of attractive models and famous figures of every race, gender, and size, cooking recipes, and photographs he couldn't quite make out. There were scorch marks along the ceiling, where a half burnt fan lazily turned.

This was not his room.

Turning to look at the owner of the other voice, Barry was momentarily stunned by their beauty. They were a masculine androgynous elf with flowing blonde hair that clashed with dark skin marked by star-like freckles and piercing brown eyes lined with sparkling gold eyeshadow and smudged eyeliner. Their outfit was a rumpled black crop top and pajama pants, like they hadn't bothered to do anything else but change their pants and fall into bed.

This was not his mother.

"Who… are you?"

The elf rolled their eyes, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "I'm your brother, dingus. How hard did you hit your head?"

"Uh, yeah… right…" This was all just a weird dream, he was sure of it. He licked his lips, coming back with an odd taste— lipstick maybe? He wasn't sure; he hadn't worn his mother's lipstick since he was a kid. "Could I get some water?"

"One glass of water, coming right up." The elf stood up and made their way out of the room with heavy footsteps.

Halfway down the hall, the footsteps stopped for a minute, then turned around in a sprint. The door flew open and slammed against the wall, causing Barry to yell in pain and clutch his head.

"YOU AREN'T MY SISTER!"