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The sun shone through the window, light catching particles of dust and lingering cigarette smoke that hung in the air, stirring Andrey awake.
He stretched with a quiet sigh, blinking into the brightness. It wasn’t like him to sleep this heavily, especially not with the curtains open.
Hadn’t he closed the blackout curtains before bed?
Brushing his hair off his forehead, he tried to gather his thoughts. Which city was he in again? The clock read 8:00 a.m, plenty of time before he needed to be on-site, warming up for his next match. But that didn’t mean he should just lie in bed all morning.
Pushing himself up against the headboard, a little wobbly, he tried to shake off the heavy sleep that still weighed on his body. Everything felt stiff; hopefully, a good stretch would have him back in shape to play.
Not that it would matter much. He hadn’t exactly been winning lately. Another match, another early exit.
Reaching over, he grabbed his phone, looking for a message from his physio about the morning plans. Fernando was probably still asleep, so he wasn’t expecting anything from him yet.
The second the phone hit his hand, Andrey froze.
This was not his phone.
It was Marat’s.
He frowned, turning it over in his hand. How had he managed that? Had he grabbed it by accident at dinner last night? They’d been sitting next to each other; it wouldn’t be impossible.
He tried to think back, but everything before falling asleep felt hazy.
Then his forearm came into view. Andrey stilled.
Tattoos covered the skin where there had been none before. Molecule. Moon phases. A snake curling along his arm.
Marat’s tattoos.
Stumbling out of bed, Andrey nearly tripped on the way to the bathroom, coming face to face with the reflection in the mirror.
“What… why? How?” he muttered, hands rising to his face. Not his face. Marat stared back at him, eyes wide with shock.
He was shirtless, hair going in every direction. Andrey wasn’t a stranger to Marat; they’d traveled the globe together by now, but seeing his own expressions play out on Marat’s face was utterly surreal.
I have to be asleep still. He tried to rationalize it.
Andrey slapped his face in a panic. He had to wake up. But no matter how hard he hit, his cheek just turned pink and stung.
He was really inside Marat’s body. This was not a dream.
“No, no, no,” he whispered, backing out into the hotel room.
It was true, this wasn’t the hotel room he had gone to sleep in last night. The suitcase tucked in the corner was not his, full of not his clothing, and not his shoes. The phone discarded on the bed was not his, and the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand was also definitely not his.
Andrey stood there, frozen, his thoughts moving too fast to land on anything at all.
“Okay,” he finally said to the empty room.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He had to figure out how this happened. Standing here wasn’t going to solve anything.
If he was in Marat’s body, then the next logical step was to go find his own, which should hopefully still be tucked into the hotel bed where he had left it the night before.
Shuffling over to the suitcase, he unzipped it and started rummaging through. Copious amounts of graphic tees came into view, each one more questionable than the last.
Just pick something, he thought, holding up what might have been the ugliest shirt he had ever seen.
“…What is this?” he muttered, before pulling it on anyway.
Once dressed, he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to look at least somewhat put together in case he ran into someone in the hall. A pair of sunglasses sat on the edge of the bathroom counter.
He picked them up and slipped them on, glancing at his reflection.
Did wearing sunglasses inside make him look hungover? Yes.
But did it make the reflection look more like Marat? Also yes.
That would have to do.
He paused at the door, hand hovering over the handle.
Act like Marat, he told himself. Don’t do anything stupid.
Peeking his head out into the hall, Andrey glanced both ways to make sure it was empty. At the far end, a cleaning cart stood abandoned, the low hum of a vacuum drifting through the corridor, but no person in sight.
His own room was just four doors down. Lucky. Sometimes his whole team was spread across multiple floors.
He slipped out into the hallway, key card in hand, moving quickly. Knocking on his door, he bounced in place, glancing back down the hall.
Knocking again, a little louder this time, he silently prayed whoever was inside would answer faster.
On the third knock, just as his hand was about to hit the door, it flew open. Andrey jumped, taking in the sight of himself standing there in an oversized t-shirt and messy curls.
“Ah… and here I am,” he heard himself, or rather, his body, say.
Without thinking, Andrey shoved his original body backward and stepped inside. Only once the door clicked shut behind him did he take a proper look.
“Marat?” he whispered.
“Yes. It is me,” the older man replied. From this angle, Andrey realized just how much shorter he was than Marat.
“How…?”
Marat shrugged, eyes scanning Andrey. He nodded, taking in his own form detached from himself.
“What do we do?” Andrey asked.
“No clue.” Marat offered unhelpfully. “Cool, no? Seeing yourself outside yourself,” Marat said, a grin tugging at his lips.
Andrey dragged a hand across his face, lingering on the longer hairs now on his chin. “And… you’re not even freaked out?”
Marat chuckled, red hair swaying. “A little, maybe. But mostly intrigued. I go to sleep normally… and here we are.”
Andrey shook his head, laughing nervously. “Here we are? I guess… but I mean…” Words faltered. “We need to fix this.”
“Of course.” Marat agreed. “But no clue how, so we might as well slow down.” He reasoned.
“…I have a match today.”
Marat’s smile fell a little, a sliver of seriousness creeping in. “Yes, I am aware.”
“I can’t play like this.” Andrey beelined towards where he left his phone charging the night before, shoving it towards Marat.
“Call Fernando,” Andrey said. “Call Fernando and say you can’t play today because you are sick. I don't know, make it believable.”
Marat raised an eyebrow. They both knew Andrey had played before, while practically on his deathbed. Faking sick wouldn’t work. Great.
Andrey’s eyebrows knitted. “Okay, never mind. What if I say… my sister is in the hospital, and I need to go back to Russia? That could work.” Not perfect, but maybe Fernando will buy it.
“Wait. Slow down.” Marat took the phone from Andrey.
Andrey hesitated, watching as the phone slipped from his hands, mind racing. “So… what are we going to do then?”
“Simple.” Marat slipped the phone into his shorts pocket and crossed his arms. “I play.”
“No. I can’t ask you to do that,” Andrey said quickly. “This is my match. My problem.”
“Why not?” Marat shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Andrey had about a million things that could answer that question, trying his best to stop Marat from going through with this. Unfortunately, whatever he said was easily countered by the man.
It really did seem like the only option, but that didn’t make it easier to hand it over. If anything, it made it worse.
At least Marat wouldn’t hesitate on the big points. His brain supplied unhelpfully.
“Fine, but we tell Fernando,” Andrey succeeded.
“Tell him what?” Marat asked, eyebrows raised, clearly amused.“That I woke up inside you?”
Andrey spluttered at the wording “Well, maybe not like that.”
“You think he will believe that?”
“I do not know,” Andrey admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But he will notice something is off.”
“Fine.” Marat pulled the phone back out, using the facial recognition to hack his way in. He pressed call.
—
Fernando stood in the hotel room, processing everything that had been told to him over the course of the past five minutes. He rubbed his chin, lips pursed in thought.
“I guess he will have to play then.” He concludes.
“What?” Andrey had been hoping Fernando would be the voice of reason, convincing Marat that finding a solution was more pressing than the match, but at last, he was surrounded by fools.
“Match first, fix later,” Fernando said, clapping his hands. “And we better get moving, warm-ups aren’t going to run themselves.”
Andrey watched as Fernando rifled through the suitcases, pulling out a clean kit and stuffing it into the tennis bag, efficiently packing everything they would need for the day.
“Don’t just stand there.” He chastises Andrey, “Go finish getting ready. You’ll need a coach’s badge and, I assume, Marat’s wallet with ID.”
Andrey moved on autopilot, doing what he was told. His stomach was in knots thinking about how this was going to play out.
The trio soon found themselves on the hotel curb waiting for the tournament car. A few other players passed by, giving nods or waves, but luckily, no one stopped for conversation.
“I’m going to need a smoke real fast,” Fernando muttered, watching Andrey pace.
“Me too,” Marat said, reaching into his hoodie pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
“No!” Andrey and Fernando both panicked. Fernando snatched the box away from Marat. “Not in Andrey’s body,” he scolded. Andrey looked around, making sure no one saw.
Marat shrugged, giving them a comical why not? look, clearly amused by the chaos he was adding to the situation.
“This is a bad idea,” Andrey muttered, pushing his hair out of his face and fidgeting in Marat’s taller frame.
“Seriously, where did the tournament car go? They should have been here by now,” Fernando mused, pocketing the cigarettes and ignoring the absurdity unfolding around him.
—
By the time they reached the grounds, the plan was past the point of no return.
Andrey walked a step behind, badge hanging against his chest, watching his own body move through the familiar prematch routine as if nothing were wrong.
Everything was wrong.
Fernando slowed to walk beside him, nudging his arm. “It’s going to be alright,” he said quietly. “This is a strange situation, but we’ll fix it.”
Andrey wanted to believe him. He really did. But guilt clung to him.
Marat was already preparing for the match, moving with his usual calm precision. Not a flicker of panic, not a second wasted on the impossible reality they were trapped in.
Andrey’s chest tightened. He should be the one preparing for battle. Instead, he had dumped this responsibility onto Marat.
“Hey, Andrey!”
Andrey snapped toward the voice. Felix was walking over, smiling, heading straight for Marat, who was sitting on an exercise bench, completely absorbed in retying his shoe.
“Who are you playing today?” Felix asked casually.
Marat didn’t respond. He kept fiddling with the laces, entirely ignoring the fact that someone was speaking to him.
“Andrey,” Andrey hissed under his breath.
Marat’s head lifted. “Huh?” His eyes flicked to Andrey first, then over to Felix. “Ah. Right. Yes. That’s me.”
Felix hesitated. Just for a second.
“What was the question?” Marat asked.
Andrey looked down at the ground, already bracing.
“Who are you playing today,” Felix repeated.
There was a pause.
Andrey could see it coming before Marat even opened his mouth. He had no clue who the match was against today. It was that same careless shrug and that same complete lack of urgency.
“I don’t know.”
Andrey shut his eyes.
Felix let out a short laugh, like he was waiting for it to turn into a joke. “What?”
“I’ll find out when I walk out there,” Marat said, leaning back like this was nothing. “Keeps it interesting.”
Felix’s smile didn’t quite recover. “Your match is today, right?”
“Yeah.” Marat nodded easily. “But it doesn’t really matter who’s on the other side.”
Andrey dragged a hand down his face, wishing, desperately, that he could disappear.
“Ball comes, I hit it, I win.” Marat added. “Simple.”
Simple.
Felix was staring now. Not laughing. Just… staring. Like he was trying to piece together a version of Andrey that made sense with what he was hearing.
“Right,” Felix said slowly. “Okay…”
Marat just smiled at him. “You should try it. Less thinking.”
“Yeah,” Felix chuckled, clearly not convinced. “Ok Andrey.”
He lingered for half a second longer, then gave a small, uncertain wave. “Good luck.”
Andrey watched him go, heat creeping up his neck.
He wanted to call him back. Fix it. Explain something. Anything.
Instead, he just stood there, stuck in someone else’s body, while his own was about to walk onto court without a sliver of a plan.
“Alright. It’s time,” Fernando said, coming across the gym and clapping Marat on the back before stepping away, clearly reminding himself this wasn’t Andrey he was sending off.
Andrey pulled out his headband and held it out. “Here.” Trying to be useful, somehow.
“Nah, just hand me a hair tie,” Marat said. He rummaged in the racket bag and quickly found one.
“Thanks.” Marat nodded, sweeping his red locks into a messy ponytail. “See? Much better.”
Andrey didn’t really care what his body ended up looking like out on the court; he was more concerned that it was going to be out there without him controlling it.
“Good luck out there,” he said, offering a weak smile.
“Thanks. I feel great.” Marat beamed.
And he probably did. He’d shaved years off his body in a single night. Thousands of cigarettes, gone like they’d never happened.
“Ok, yeah. You got this.” Andrey nodded before leaving Marat behind in order to get to the players' box on time to watch.
Andrey rarely watched matches, so being courtside made him itch to play. Fans called out Marat’s name as he found his seat. A group of women near the player’s box waved and giggled.
He slipped on his trusty sunglasses, nodding in acknowledgment. Trying to look casual. Cool. Totally nonchalant.
Fernando looked at him, amused. Andrey was used to attention, but the way the women were looking at him felt much more forward than he was used to. It checked out, though: Marat did have a reputation.
Finally, the announcer spoke over the mics, announcing the start of the match.
Andrey’s name boomed over the loudspeakers, causing him to jump.
Out walked his body. Marat looked calm. Relaxed. Like this was just a normal day of tennis.
Andrey didn’t remember the last time he had felt like that walking onto court.
The lack of preparation was starting to get to him. Marat hadn’t even touched a racket yet, opting for a normal gym routine instead.
“I’ve got this. No need to find a court last minute,” he had said.
They probably should have pushed back. Made him hit a few balls. Something.
Andrey watched as Marat finally pulled a racket from the bag, turning it in his hands, hitting his palm lightly against the strings before giving a small, satisfied nod.
Then he walked out onto court.
Andrey held his breath as he watched, waiting for the first hit.
At the baseline, Marat bounced on his toes, adjusting his stance. He hiked up his shorts, stepped back, and swung.
The ball sailed straight past him.
No contact. Not even close.
Andrey felt his stomach drop.
He had never seen someone fully miss a ball during a match warm-up. Not like that. The secondhand embarrassment was too much, Andrey wanted to curl up and hide.
Of course there would be issues. Different reach. Different timing. His body wasn’t built the same way.
Fernando chuckled quietly beside him, trying to look composed.
The next few balls weren’t much better.
By the time the match started, things still didn’t look better. Marat’s timing was off; a backhand clipped the net, a forehand sailed long.
Andrey’s heart raced as he sank further into his seat, fingers curling against his arms, wishing he could pull him off the court before it got worse.
But Marat adjusted almost imperceptibly after the first game, moving in a way that felt familiar. All those hours of watching Andrey practice must have helped, because somehow, he didn’t look far off from Andrey’s usual form.
Andrey felt a flicker of relief. The rhythm was forming.
He stayed silent, letting Marat find the flow. Only after a long rally, when Marat angled a shot perfectly down the line, did Andrey mutter under his breath, “Step forward… now…”
Marat moved forward, returning the shot cleanly. That tiny success shifted something. Andrey’s commentary grew slightly louder, more confident. He named what he saw, anticipating and calling out the next move, mentally stepping into the game alongside Marat, taking over.
A hard ball zipped toward Marat’s open forehand. Hit it hard down the line, Andrey thought.
Marat shifted, planted his feet, and swung – bweh! The grunt slipped out perfectly, sharp and unmistakably Andrey’s.
Andrey’s ears burned. Marat just did his stupid little bweh. His face went red, but a small chuckle escaped despite himself.
Marat glanced up toward the stands, a smirk tugging at his lips, proud at how naturally he had fallen into Andrey’s style. Every swing, every step, every shot looked like Andrey, only freer.
Andrey leaned back in his seat, still flushed, still laughing quietly. Beneath the embarrassment, a surprising calm spread through him as he continued to watch. He knew exactly what hits were coming next. He just needed to trust that it would work.
By the time they reached the final game, Andrey didn’t notice the crowd anymore, the noise fading into a background hum, inconsequential, while his mind tracked every bounce.
Marat got pulled off the court, managing to reach a particularly wide swing before hitting it back right on the baseline. Andrey cheered, standing up to clap.
Match point.
The world suddenly tipped.
Sound stretched thin. Light flashed white. His stomach lurched. Andrey was falling.
When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the court beneath his own shoes. He blinked, chest tight, heart pounding. Wait… he wasn’t in the stands anymore.
The crowd rushed in around him, blurry and loud. He stumbled slightly, gripping his racket, letting the reality settle in. He glanced toward the stands—Marat was there, watching, nodding, thumbs up.
Andrey exhaled, hand tightening around the racket. He bounced the ball a few times, steadying himself. Right. Okay. He was back. He could do this.
He stepped up to the baseline and, trusting himself, he tossed the ball up.
Swinging hard, the ball cut across the court, fast and low. His opponent lunged and missed. The ball hit the back wall with a satisfying thud.
Point. Set. Match.
Andrey roared. The crowd erupted. He sank to one knee, feeling the exhaustion that Marat had left behind, chest heaving, and looked up at the stands.
Marat was there, grinning and clapping, proud.
—
Running down the hall post-match, Andrey lunged for Fernando, wrapping his arms around the man.
“Welcome back.” Fernando laughed.
“What is this?” Marat spoke up beside them. “I win the match for you, and instead of thanking me, you go and hug him?”
“Technically, I won the match,” Andrey shot back, still clinging to Fernando. “I played the last point.” He stuck his tongue out.
Marat scoffed and kicked out at him. Andrey yelped, darting out of the way and ducking behind Fernando.
Fernando looked between them, unimpressed. “You two are the same level of childish. This is probably why you swapped. The universe got confused.”
Marat laughed. “Perhaps.”