I'm baaaack!

So yes, another RS story. New plot and new format

And it's a BodySwap Au. Got inspired by the film 'Your Name' this time. Check it out if you haven't lol; it's super beautiful and has a gorgeous plot c:

Anyway, onto the fic-!

(Also, lemme know if the format is a little /: for you guys. I'm just trying it out for now, but if it's not your thing, then hmu in my inbox.)

If it hadn't been for the bathroom mirror that morning, Mordecai would have had no idea he was in the wrong body.

/

He wakes to an alarm.

While that should be red flag number 1, the jay's too busy blinking against the harsh morning light to wonder on that for even a second. So, as if on instinct, like he hits the snooze button every morning, his fingers outstretch and find it with ease, and he slowly sits up as he brushes the sleep from his eyes.

Cover's pulled back and two long, silver legs snake their way down to the (white) carpet, where small feet pad to the kitchen. He's still rubbing his eyes. Why does he feel so exhausted? Like he ran a damn marathon in the middle of his sleep?

And Christ, why are his joints so sore?

He goes to the cupboards, hand instinctively reaching up for a box of cereal that…isn't there…? Wait, did he walk down some stairs a few moments ago…?

He honestly doesn't remember.

A heavy sigh, one he strangely enough feels accustomed to, comes up from somewhere buried inside him and he turns to blink wearily at a coffee maker sat in the corner of the bench. Just the sight of it sparks some sort of 'right-ness' in him and he frowns when he feels his feet cross over to it.

One hand grabs the empty pot, the other goes for the instant coffee packet kept beside the jug, which he also takes and puts under the tap. The whole coffee making routine is like clockwork. It comes so naturally to him; run the water for this long, put these many teaspoons of granules in - oh apparently I don't like sugar - wait, I do: one.

He usually likes two.

But when would he ever have his coffee that sweet?

Mordecai stops.

The mere thought of that disgusts him.

….Why?

His brain doesn't let him linger on it for even a moment longer, and in minutes, he's found himself finishing a hot cup of coffee as he puts a slice of bread into the toaster.

A thick spread of peanut butter later and he's heading back into his bedroom. It's so familiar; the bed, the closet, the damn cat fur on his pillow - wait.

When did he get a cat…? And….why would he get a cat?

For a second time, he shrugs the questions away and finishes off his breakfast before leaning over to make an attempt at fixing his covers. Emphasis put on attempt.

His cat keeps winding around his arms.

She's a tuxedo cat with a pink nose, and her purring makes him feel all gooey inside. Fingers abandon the blanket to run through her soft fur, and she tilts her head up into his palm; the simple gesture causes an instant calm to wash over him, and without meaning to, his body…relaxes.

When had he been tense? He'd just been making himself some food….?!

He needs to get ready.

A sympathetic smile and a quiet 'sorry Star' falls from his lips. But unlike every other motion, this one doesn't come with a dashed thought; instead an unsettled feeling creeps up his spine.

Like he's just been thrown in an ice bath.

No. No something is definitely wrong.

It's harder to ignore this inkling, but he still regardless makes his way down the hall to the bathroom.

He's beginning to notice things the more he walks; his walls are white, there's carpet beneath his feet…he has a black and white feline in his bedroom….?!

Picture frames catch his eye. He stops just next to the bathroom door and plucks one down that captures two old people, one male, one female, who bear a striking resemblance to someone he knows very well, but his mind chooses this exact moment to kick into panic mode.

Who are these people…? And…where am I - Who's place is this…?!

He carefully hangs it back up then steps on the tiled floor of the bathroom. The mirror is a welcome comfort and he almost throws himself at the sink. Two hands grip each edge of the porcelain and he has to take a few deep breaths before facing his reflection; his heart is racing.

He's suddenly terrified.

His eyes are screwed shut as he raises his head up to the glass. He doesn't want to know just yet.

Another breath in. He wants to wait - he needs to wait - for his fear to subside. But something inside him says it won't, and besides.

Isn't he going to be late for work?

His eyes fly open.

And his knees give out beneath him.

Had he not had a white knuckled hold on the sink, he'd have fallen to the floor, but it's just that that's holding him up right. He tries for another breath, a larger one this time. It doesn't come. The wind's been knocked out of him, he realises.

He no longer worries being late for work.

The person staring back at him would probably scold him for that.

With the fingers of his left hand still wrapped around the sink, he chances the ones on his right to slowly - slowly - run down his head. It feels real.

He blinks at his reflection. It blinks back.

The panic is beginning to let up and he takes this opportunity to lean forward, fingers tugging at each area of his face. He feels slightly braver, and so releases the sink to take a step back and check out his body. A pull there, a pinch here, and another run over of his chest with his….small, grey hands, and he's finally settled in a curious wonder.

If this isn't a dream, then…

What is it?

And why, out of everyone, did he wake as his boss?