A/N: This is an experiment in not overthinking before posting. That, and making a concerted effort to start clearing out my drafts and prompt list. Small miracle: not only is the title not La Dispute, but it is Dance Gavin Dance (Cream of the Crop).

Embry knows about Switch Days.

Everybody does.

He tries not to think about them too much, though, because the very real eventuality of waking up in another person's body - his soulmate's body - makes his brain feel like it's been pureed in a blender. Not that there is anything wrong with the whole mechanism; hijacking someone else's life for twenty-four hours is definitely preferable to funky birthmarks and tattooed first words, ideas lifted from the dollar ninety-nine fantasy paperbacks he sees in the drugstore.

He totally doesn't read them. That would be weird.

Still, he's heard enough horror stories passed along from a friend's cousin's brother's college roommate to have a vague sense of dread. Aside from the commonly accepted knowledge that you will only ever swap with your soulmate once you have crossed paths with them, the rest is largely unknown: the when, the how, the where.

Paul woke up after a late night to find himself part-way through a Stats exam in Pullman; after Jacob had finished tearing him a new one (read: giving him a lashing with the only weapon he had on hand, a set of well-used jumper cables) for being soulmates with his sister, Rachel had thoroughly cursed him out for tarnishing her impressive GPA.

Leah went full scorched-earth after finding out her boyfriend had switched with her cousin only a week after they had met; things did work out in the end, if you counted three slashed tires and a shattered side mirror as a positive outcome. At the very least, the mechanic had a hell of a day.

It's not that he doesn't want his fairytale ending.

He just doesn't want it like this.

Embry likes many things.

Night shifts. Family dinners. Pancakes.

Early alarms, though? They definitely don't qualify for the list. He's gotten better, sure, even making it to school on time most days - granted, that's only achievable after about half a gallon of cold brew - but today isn't going to be one of those days. His back aches like he's slept in a heap on the ground (been there, done that) and the shrillness of the alarm only adds to the pounding in his head. He groggily stretches out a hand to smack the alarm resting on his side table into submission, but his hand sails through empty air, thumping against the side of the mattress.

Huh?

He opens his eyes, blearily taking in his surroundings. Crisp, cream walls. A blue bedsheet pinned over the window. Bleach-stained sheets. With his heart in his throat, he looks down, almost dreading what he'll see.

The sight is almost too horrific to bear: an entirely bare chest, save for the shaky stick and poke tattoo inked on his pec, the handiwork of an impressively drunk Jared Cameron.

The haziness of sleep is slowly evaporating from his brain, leaving only a sick sense of realisation.

Shit.

"Don't panic," he hears through the phone speaker, as inappropriately casual as ever. "It could be worse. You could be bonded to, like, our chem teacher. Imagine having to look him in the eyes and admit you don't understand how to balance equations."

"But . . . you're in my body," Embry says, feeling a little lightheaded. "That means . . ."

There's a little huff on the other end of the line, and then:

"I'll make you breakfast. Just, I don't know, come over so we can talk about this. Also, I'm going to need you to show me how to work the coffee maker."

"Don't talk to anyone, okay," he pleads. "I'll be there soon."

"Does that mean I should cancel our soulmate celebration party? Call off the parade?"

"Just . . . let me figure out how I feel about this first. This is kind of insane."

A hum. "Yeah. For what it's worth, you're my best case scenario."

Then:

A dial tone. And a headache.

Embry doesn't say anything.

He's not ready.

If there is anything stranger than trying to have a conversation with yourself (or, at least, someone in your body), it is having said conversation knowing that Big Topics are unavoidable.

"More pancakes?"

"Are you trying to kill me?" Embry says, but it comes out sounding flat, less of a joke and more of a consideration. "I don't know. I guess we can't eat breakfast forever."

"Hey, you're doing pretty well. Granted, it's your fridge, not mine, so eat away."

Embry snorts. "That's fine. I've got your wallet."

They both laugh but, at least on Embry's part, it is fake. He knows he has to suck it up, address the elephant in the room, confront whatever this headache-inducing Switch Day says about him, but he just -

Well, the thought of what comes next makes him feel like throwing up half a box of pancake mix.

"Look, I'm just going to say it, and then you can get back to moping."

"I am not moping!" Embry says defensively, jabbing his fork into a clump of rubbery eggs to make his point.

"Yeah, you're so moping. Anyway, d'you remember how Jacob's dog got sent to a farm upstate in third grade except he didn't really go to a farm and Jacob never figured it out?"

"Uh, vaguely."

"Well, you're getting sent to the soulmate farm. Glue factory, if you will."

"I don't even know what that means," Embry says, swiping the half-full coffee mug from across the table. "Are you fattening me up before you kill me?"

"Nah. I'm just taking the long way to tell you that you're getting friend-zoned."

"First off, the friend zone is a myth, and even if it was real, I wouldn't be there. I am very dateable," Embry points out. "I'd be a great soulmate."

"I know. That's why you're my best friend," he says, chewing on what must be a very cold pancake. "But I don't do dudes, so you're going to have to settle for the world's best wingman."

Embry blinks, trying to make sense of the largely unpredictable words coming out of his mouth.

"So the universe isn't . . . trying to make me have a revelation," he says slowly, letting the words sink in.

"You're no more gay than you were yesterday," Quil comments helpfully. "Hey, let's get tattoos. I'll call Jared."

At the end of the day, he has a fresh outline of a star on his left ankle, a gross bloated feeling from taking Quil to the all-you-can-eat place the next town over, and a tiny flash of relief whenever he looks at his best friend.

He had his Switch Day, and it wasn't a disaster; he gets the surety of a soulmate without the spiritual equivalent of a ball and chain, so really, it's best case scenario.

Even if Quil refuses to stop calling him wifey in public.

Life can't be too perfect.