Chapter Text
The first thing he felt was pain.
An agonising coiling feeling in his stomach, making him let out an involuntary groan. With arms sliding around his own torso, he couldn’t seem to.. understand.
Where is he? Why does it hurt so much? Why can’t he see?
Slowly opening his bleary eyes, he realised he had them closed. The pain and nausea overshadowed the embarrassment as he blinked repeatedly to clear his blurry vision. It didn’t do much, as all he could see was still darkness
He panted as he pushed himself up with one shaky hand (shaky?). He wasn’t completely sure if his ragged breathing was due to the awful exertion he felt while even thinking of lifting a hand, or perhaps the panic that started to fill his chest, all the way from the bottom of his stomach.
As his eyes cleared and adjusted better to the darkness, he realised he didn’t recognise this place. He didn’t recognise the furniture placement - he should be facing the wall when he woke up, not the door.
He had half-mind not to let the panic engulf him completely and yell out for help, maybe rightfully so as another wave of pain crashed through him. The nausea was overwhelming his senses at once, and he barely scrambled from the bed before he reached for anything that had a hole and a bottom.
Another thought went through him as he heaved violently into the trash can. He didn’t have a trash can in his room. Where the fuck was he? His brain immediately went to kidnapping.
He couldn’t think of it more, as another wave of throw up of food he couldn’t make out, but was pretty sure he didn’t consume came up. He let out a pathetic sob, the sound burning the back of his throat.
He didn’t remember being sick. Why did it hurt so bad? Should he go wake up his mom? He didn’t want to, she probably finally fell asleep after hours of insomnia. He couldn’t hear the soft murmurs of a true crime audiobook she always listened to to fall asleep.
Actually, he couldn’t hear anything over the buzz in his ears right now.
Just when he thought it was over, his stomach rolled furiously, and he clenched his teeth, his head falling forward to meet the cold and hard wood of a nightshelf.
(He ignored the voice telling him that he did not have a night shelf. He had more pressing things to process right now.)
It took him a while (or maybe it was seconds, he couldn’t tell) of deep breathing, shaky fists digging into the plastic of the trash can and the trash bag in it, before he felt the nausea lessen.
Unfortunately, it didn’t bring him much comfort.
He opened his eyes again, wincing at the slight throbbing behind his eyes, as his darkened sight tilted slightly. Light. He had to find a light.
He looked around for something. For what? What was he looking for again?
There.
His fingers curled around a small object, and he quickly realised with disappointment, that it’s not what he needs.
That thought changed abruptly, when the object turned on, illuminating the dark space.
“What the fuck?” His voice was scratchy from throwing up, but he couldn’t help but ask. Because, seriously, what the fuck?
This wasn’t his phone, but for the past few minutes he was here, that quickly became a thing he stopped being surprised about.
The thing he was surprised about, though, was the fact that this was a fucking brick. What was it? Nokia? What year is this, the 2000s?
He was also momentarily blinded by the blatant idiocy of his kidnappers. Who the fuck leaves a phone with a kidnapee? Well, unless they have it bugged, but even so.
It wasn’t a flip phone, he quickly realized, but rather a slider phone. Not that it makes a lot of difference. He decided to compartmentalize, and leave that shit for later. First, he needs to figure out where he is, why he is, and what is wrong with him.
He let out a frustrated noise when he realised the phone didn’t even have a flashlight. He had to make do with making a video with the flash turned on instead, wincing as the light burst in the room. The buzz of the bulb was annoying, but easy to tune out.
His breath hitched when his eyes laid upon the newly lit space. It looked creepy like this, with the phone light on, but it’s not the eeriness he focused on. It’s the confirmation that it was in fact not his room, which meant it was not his house.
Panic quickly came back, as did the cold dread washing over him. Was he really kidnapped? Did he go out anywhere yesterday? He doesn’t party or club. Was he somehow drugged at home? Mugged? Robbed? Shit, maybe aliens were actually real, and he got the luck of a cow?
He shook his head, taking a deep breath and exhaling shakily. “Get yourself together.” He murmured to himself, trying to gaslight himself into feeling more confident than he currently does.
Very slowly, he stood up when his legs started to hurt from the awkward position on the floor, and the stench of his bile had him thinking of setting the place on fire. A hand propped against the nightshelf, he pulled himself up, sighing softly when he was sure he was stable enough to walk. He padded over to the light switch, flicking it on.
Struggling through the haze of nausea and confusion, he realised he might be a little scared. A little more than a little scared. Maybe very little bit much big scared. And when he was scared, he froze. But he couldn’t afford to, could he? What if his mom was in danger?
He shook his head again. He looked around, noting anything that seemed out of place, but.. The whole place seems empty. Sure, there's a high twin bed with no space on the bottom and two big drawers instead and checkered lime sheets tucked in a corner of the room with the foot of it facing the door, a dark wooden nightshelf with a drawer and a shelved space on the bottom of it next to it, a light brown desk on the very far right of it, right beneath a shuttered window with a closed, silver laptop on it (seriously, at this point he feels bad for the awful job the kidnappers did), and on the left of the desk was a big dark closet, that looked like it has seen better days.There were also two other doors facing the closet on the opposite wall. All in all, he had no fucking clue where this was. And how someone could have such bad taste with picking out furniture.
He reminded himself to stop going in circles in his mind and actually do something before whoever kidnapped him showed up.
He forgot about the object in his hand, still flashing that useless LED flash. He finally stopped recording and pocketed the phone into his sweats.
Wait.
He had a fucking phone!
“You fucking idiot,” He cursed himself desperately, fishing the phone out and stumbling slightly as it almost slipped through his grasp onto the floor. He turned it on, clicked contacts and.. Not a single person he knew. Actually, there wasn’t even a lot.
‘Abby’, ‘Betsy’, ‘Coach Wymack’, ‘Dan’, 'Kevin', ‘Mother’, ‘Father’.
And that’s all. Besides some pizza places, but he decided it’s too sad to even think about. Who saved pizza place names in their contacts?
He stopped briefly when his eyes slid on the ‘Father’ contact. He.. didn’t have a dad. Well, he did, but the bastard abandoned him ages ago. What is this? Seriously, was he having a psychotic break? Is this some kind of a lucid dream?
He’s not even opening the can of worms that are those names. They are familiar, enough that he was sure he'd heard them somewhere. He was pretty sure he didn’t know any Abbys or Wymacks (that name in particular made him frown).
“I’m going fucking crazy.” He decided, before typing in the number of his mom - his real mom that is.
…”The number you are trying to reach does not exist. Please-” He didn’t listen to the rest of the message.
..What?
He hung up and dialed the number again, slowly, carefully, number by number.
”The number you are trying to reach-”
And again.
”The number you ar-”
And again. And again. And again until he realised, that his mom’s number *does not exist*.
But why? He didn’t get it. He was sure it worked just fine when he texted her yesterday.
Or did he? He was starting to believe he was in the right place, and this was in fact a psychotic break of some sort. He swallowed hard, his throat a desert but that was the least of his concerns now. He really was going bonkers. Cray-cray. Absolutely gone, psychotic, insane, mad, mental, nuts, bonkers, loony, cuckoo, wacko, psych ward and Arkham crazy. He’d like to say he could go on, but he was out of synonyms for ‘crazy’.
In a sudden flare of anger and frustration, he threw the phone as hard as he could against the floor, hearing the satisfying crack of the screen and hopefully whatever was inside of it. His chest heaved, and eyes burned, and suddenly he was simply scared.
And now, he probably ruined his only means of communication, so good fucking job you absolute moron. He couldn’t call the cops. He didn’t even think of it, to be honest.
“Fuck!” He whisper-yelled, tugging at his hair. What was he meant to do? Was this some kind of sick game? Was he being observed, watched for some twisted entertainment?
He stumbled to one of the doors. Upon opening it, it was a slightly messy bathroom. It wasn’t spacious, but it wasn’t oppressing either. A toilet on the far left on a protruding part of the wall, a beat up bathtub with a showerhead in the depression of it, a washing machine and a hamper on the left of the entrance and a sink in the middle of the right wall. He walked in, wasting no time in gripping the sink tight, knuckles turning white.
He turned the sink on, trying to focus on the water and not on.. his.. face..?
This isn’t his face. This isn’t him.
He didn’t have green eyes. He wasn’t this tall. He couldn’t remember having a nose like this, or those cheekbones, or that jaw.
And suddenly, it all came rushing back, as he gazed deep into the wide, terrified green eyes in the mirror.
He remembered a fight.
You just don’t understand!” He had raised his voice.
“You don’t have to do anything, ‘------’! All you have to do is clean your room, do your homework and go to the fucking school!” His mom had yelled back, making him reel even more, making him feel even worse. “You have it so easy, so no. I don’t understand.”
The words stuck in his throat. He had so much to say, so many equally hurtful words to utter. But his throat wouldn’t work, and his eyes were burning. Why couldn’t he just say what he thought? Tell her how hard it was. How he was disintegrating every day a little more. How he didn’t feel like himself anymore, that he couldn’t fight off his demons alone anymore?
“What? You can’t do a simple thing I ask of you, ‘------’. It’s not fucking funny anymore, nor is it cute. One day, I won’t be here to do your laundry, or to cook you a meal, or to make an appointment for you. You’re a fucking adult, ‘------’, for fuck’s sake! It’s time to grow up.” And with that, his mom stormed off, leaving the image of her widely thrashing with the rag she had in her hand burning in his mind.
She might’ve just punched him at that point. He’d take that better. It’d hurt less. He didn’t need to be reminded what a fucking failure he was. He didn’t need to be reminded that even after high school ended, he still lived with his mom, that he was a shell of a human being, that he had nothing to live for.
An idea struck at that thought. Bitterly and in a haze of desperate deflection and need of comfort, he thought about a cartoonish light bulb lighting up.
There it was. She was right. Everyone was right. He was incompetent. It would be better.. if he had just disappeared, right? I mean, he isn’t special. He had no hobbies, he had no interests, and he for sure had no fucking future. Why should he sit there and ruin his mother’s life? Take her things, use them, when they could be used for someone far better, someone who would be grateful?
It wasn’t the first time he had thought about killing himself. But this time it felt final. He wrote short goodbye’s to the people that cared enough to care about this. He didn’t have time to go big, lest he changed his mind. He didn’t leave anything for his mom.
He didn’t realise he was on the floor until he came back with a loud, ragged gasp which was halfway aborted by a whimper. Hands trembling on his thighs as he recalled the amount of pills he had taken, the antidepressants he stashed once he stopped taking them.
“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.” He repeated shakily, not being able to believe this.
He didn’t understand. He should be dead, right? He should be in his body, and he should be dead.
He thought a few while back when he puked his guts out. Was that because of his overdose? But he wasn’t in his body, the one that overdosed. And he feels fine now, beside the obvious panic. How was that possible? How, how, how?
Actually, abort that statement. He did not feel fine. His stomach cramped with the need to vomit again, but he had nothing to throw up anymore.
He choked a sob, overwhelmed with whatever the fuck was going on, his mind going a thousand miles a second. How was he alive? Why was he alive? What happened?
It took him a good, long few minutes to calm his breathing and settle the violent tremble in his hands. He realised, in the haze of his tired mind, that it was the first time he’d ever had a panic attack, probably. A strike off his bucket list, he supposed. Along with ‘survive an attempt and get isekai’d into a random body’, he supposed.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there. He also didn’t particularly care. He killed himself, and what, got reincarnated into a body that existed? And even if, what about the real owner of the body? He didn’t know what to call this. He didn’t know if he should call this anything, because it makes it more real then. Naming things properly means making peace in his mind with it. And he didn’t want to make peace with this. He didn’t want to live, and especially not in a stranger's body.
That’s when he realised he didn’t even know his name. Or remember his name at all. He had no energy left to ponder that.
After what felt like hours or maybe days, he pulled himself up, hands grasping the sink. With heavy limbs, heart and mind, he dragged himself back to the bed, not even bothering to turn the lights off.
He was just so tired.
🌳🌳🌳
When he woke up the next day (or maybe it was still the same day, who knew) he was pleasantly surprised with how light he felt. Sure, he was still terrified of what was happening, but it was easier to think clearly now that he wasn’t panicking.
He found himself wanting to investigate. At first, he instinctively reached for his phone, before realising that 1) he didn’t have his phone, 2) ‘his’ phone was probably that 2000s bullshit he smashed so, that’s peachy.
Frustrated with himself, he was determined to actually find out what the hell is up with everything. And who did he land into.
It wasn’t new, the mood swings especially after a night’s sleep, but it still startled him somewhat. Especially after remembering the fact that he in fact tried to take the easy way out, but the universe apparently loves the butt stuff and decided to fuck him over and stuff him into a random stranger. Briefly, he entertained the amusing thought that hypothetically, he was in a guy right now.
His first move was to open the shutters halfway up to let light in and then go back to the crime scene, aka the bathroom. A slight unease scratched at his throat when yesterday's feelings came up with it. He quickly swallowed twice to get rid of it.
He sighed, putting his hands on his hips. He was already so over it. Even as a traitorous excitement went through him at the thought of going through things of a random guy he randomly became. Like a detective, he had a mystery to solve now. Shame he did not have his very own Watson, but he had to make do with himself and his trusty voice in his head.
At first glance nothing was out of the ordinary. He glanced at the mirror before walking up. He startled when he looked into it, and then sighing deeply as his eyes narrowed at himself. This is going to take a lot of time getting used to. A new face and body was unfortunately not on his bingo list, despite insecure thoughts.
He opened the mirror after realising it was a cabinet. His eyelids fluttered at the sight of what was obviously a medicine cabinet. Even the sight of the pill bottles was nausea inducing. He swallowed through it and ignored the feeling of small bumps sliding down his throat.
He noticed that one of the bottles was empty. He took it into his hand, turning it around to see the label.
“Rizatriptan..?” He read out loud, tilting his head in thought. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He closed his eyes and put a finger to his chin, as if that would help him remember.
“Oh, shit. Isn’t that migraine medicine?” He perked up, giving himself a pat on the shoulder for figuring it out. He’ll google it properly later.
Now it begs the question; what was an empty migraine medicine bottle doing in the cabinet? Was it so the guy could remember filling it up later? Unless..
He might be pulling a leg here, but he always had a creative imagination, which helped him to think outside of the box, as well as create crazy scenarios. So it wasn’t a weird thought, knowing all the ‘isekai’ and 'transmigration' media he consumed (which wasn’t much at all), that maybe the owner of the body also died - specifically, in the same way he did. Overdose.
He wasn’t sure if you could die from migraine meds overdose, but it would make sense. He puked his guts out yesterday, and it would be really fucking stupid if somehow his overdose came along onto this body, no? Although it did disappear quite quickly. Inhumanely and impossibly so.
That reminded him - he did throw up in the trash. He had to clean that up, eventually. His nose wrinkled, a shiver going up his spine just from thinking of it. He put the bottle down and shook his hands to shake out the sudden awful feeling of throw up on his hands.
He decided his job here was done. Absent-mindedly, his mind tricked back to his earlier joke about the bathroom being a crime scene wasn’t really a joke anymore.
When he came back to the room, he looked over it. What’s his next step? His eyes zeroed on the laptop. He grinned, perfect. He found it charged after walking up and opening it, thank god, but his happiness didn’t last long.
He groaned as he saw the lock screen. “Oh, fuck me. How am I supposed to know that?” He sighed audibly, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes.
Well, technically, he’s supposed to be the guy and know it. The thing is, he was NOT THE GUY and did NOT know it.
So he searched the drawers, trying to find literally anything to help. He looked through every notebook, tried every combination that looked slightly suspicious, before he chucked the notebook into a wall and slumped in the chair, arms crossed. After his nth try, he was slightly amazed that the laptop hadn’t locked him from trying more.
He wanted to trash the room. And preferably yell, or blast emo music. He got forcefully stuck in a stranger after killing himself, who apparently also killed himself and now he can’t find the password to the stupid laptop. He thinks he deserved to throw a little tantrum.
A thought struck him. If he was in this body.. Did that mean the other guy was in his body? Oh fuck. That’s a thought he didn’t want to entertain, not today, not ever. He was having enough of an existential crisis.
He decided to try some of the dumb passwords instead. Maybe the tall guy he was in was actually a fucking idiot and-
Yup. 1234 worked.
He wanted to crash his head into the wall, repeatedly.
Pushing his annoyance away, he focused on the unlocked goods. He hoped this would get him anywhere.
He checked the email first. He quickly regretted it after seeing just how many spam emails this guy has. Holy shit. But then he thought of his own email, and realised he couldn’t complain. His own wasn’t better.
Nothing of importance caught his eye, which was frankly, weird as fuck. With a frown, he realised that without passwords to other things like his bank account or any social media, he might as well pack a bag and run away to another country with a new identity.
He pushed himself back from the desk with his legs, knees straightening and head tipping back.
What now?
He wheeled back to the laptop, glaring at it. He clicked the option to send a message to someone, and typed his own email into the bracket. To his surprise, nothing came up. Cancelling it out, he clicked the profile picture, a motivational quote on it which he wanted to forget immediately. Who was this guy? A 40 year old mom with a depressed teenager?
Ignoring the need to change it into any of his favourite characters, he clicked the option to add a new account and tried to log into his email. Once again, it showed it didn’t exist. He leaned back in the chair, hands falling onto his lap.
Okay. Great. That wasn’t weird at all.
His mind went back to yesterday, remembering his attempts at contacting his mom. Well, shit. The implications of his and his own mom’s existences being wiped off wasn’t unsettling at all.
Somehow instinctively he pushed the mouse down and clicked on the digital clock in the right corner, and his eyes widened.
12:03:25. Friday, May 12, 2006.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
His breath hitched with the weight of the information. He had been joking about the phone being some kind of Nokia brick from the 2000s, not even knowing how right he was.
He had somehow fucking travelled 20 years into the past.
And now, what the fuck was he meant to do with that information? Holy fucking shit, he couldn’t believe this. He was on some Flash shit, getting lost in timelines and universes. Except he didn’t have nor need super speed, just a pill bottle.
The thought startled a laugh out of him, but it was devoid of amusement. His brain couldn’t wrap around that, and he didn’t have time for another existential crisis induced panic attack.
He closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing in deeply for a few seconds. After coming back to himself, he shut the laptop’s lid.
He redirected his research, focusing on the drawers. Minus the obvious biology, various languages and geography notebooks, there wasn’t anything of interest. The top of the desk wasn’t any better, though there was one photo.
He reached out for it, examining the contents. It was undeniably him, smiling widely and posing with a peace sign over a man’s head and an arm around one woman. There was also another woman, who was probably standing on her tippy toes and reaching to grin at the camera from behind the first woman. Said man was slightly taller than him but definitely larger. Broader shoulders, a short black beard, an amused glint in his eyes despite a neutral face with only a ghost of a smirk on his lips and finally eye-catching flame tattoos on both arms. They seemed.. very familiar. Unnervingly so. He shook his head and let his eyes flick to the third person, the woman on his guy’s left. She was shorter, a head under him as his elbow touched the tip of her dark brown hair. Behind her was a black woman, smiling happily as she reached above the first woman’s head, her hair widely blurred at edges suggesting she was moving when the photo was taken. She was slightly chubby when you looked closer, and her red glasses framed her brown skin perfectly.
It also looked like they were standing somewhere outside, but he didn’t even try to deduce what or where. He had no idea where he was anyway. Putting the photo away, something in his heart tugging at the obvious sentimental value the photo has, he turned in the chair to look around the room.
Geez, this guy has nothing in his own room. No personal touches, no posters, just that one photo.
Unless, of course, this wasn’t his permanent room. That would make sense. And it would also complicate his life. So he decided that this was in fact his permanent room, for the sake of his already fragile psyche.
He stood up and moved to the last attraction, the closet. It was old, made out of a dark brown polished wood. It was pretty and mysterious, in an antique way. He took his gaze off the wood to stare inside.
He skimmed through the various shirts and pants and T-shirts and whatnots. Nothing too out of the ordinary. He snorted at some of the clothes this guy wore. They were giving ‘preppy academia boy’ vibes. Not what he usually wore, but he didn’t have much choice. He decided it might look nice on his new body though.
He moved to the coat and a leather jacket. The coat was made out of a soft brown material. He found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in one pocket, and two rings of keys in the other.
He tilted his head looking at the keys - 5 of them. He wondered what secrets they opened.
Before he could even begin to think of searching the leather jacket beside the coat, he was startled with a very impatient knocking.
He flinched at the sudden noise - he got used to the quiet and his own remarks. He swallowed, stomach sinking. Who the hell was that? Oh God, was this the part where he got to meet the people in his life he knew nothing about? Oh God.
“Forrest, I know you’re in there. Open the fuck up, would you?” A gruff voice sounded, annoyed, tired but not unkind.
Forrest?, he found himself asking in his head.
Oh shit. Was that his name? A pang of relief shot through him at the acquired information.
A heavy sigh erupted from behind the door. “Can you at least show a sign that you haven’t slit your wrists in there? You haven’t been responding to my, Abby’s or Betsy’s texts. You should be grateful I’m not kicking this door down and dragging you down the hall to mine.” The man sounded tired, but also concerned. Like an exhausted father, or a teacher that had enough of dealing with brats.
It made him remember that he smashed his phone in a moment of rage yesterday. Oh well.
He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. “Y-yeah, I’m alive?” He said, but it came out like a question.
The silence that filled the space was deafening. He came up to the door and hesitated before opening the lock. He hoped to God this wasn’t a trap, and it really was some guy who knew him. (Why would it be a trap? He didn’t know, but the paranoia still pushed at his neck)
He opened the door, sheepishly looking up at the man behind it. Just like he sounded, he looked tired. And a little angry it seemed. He didn’t like angry older man, so he hoped they had a good relationship.
He raised a brow expectantly, and Forrest (that was his name now, right?) realised he wanted an answer regarding the lack of answers. He raised his eyebrows. And then chuckled.
“You see, funny thing. I kind of, perhaps, maybe, broke my phone yesterday.” He smiled innocently, as the older man gaped.
In the slight pause, Forrest let his gaze up and down the man as discreetly as he could. He realised he knew this man. Wasn’t it the same guy in the photo? The one with the tattoos?
“You.. What.” He didn’t seem surprised really, more.. Disappointed but in a ‘here we fucking go again’ type. “Why?” He asked before pinching his bridge and letting out an exasperated sigh. “No, wait- don’t tell me. I do not want to know, you can take that up with Betsy. Just next time, come out of your fucking cave and walk the five steps next door to inform me?”
Oh. So he and the man lived next to each other? So this was an apartment complex. Hey, he’s learning already!
“Uh-huh, yep, will do!” He agreed, knowing damn well he’ll forget even if he wanted to remember. He just doesn’t know the guy. Also, who was this Abby and Betsy? He vaguely remembered having an ‘Abby’ and a ‘Betsy’ in his contact list on the phone. Were those the women in the photo too? He wondered about the other two names.
Just then, his eyes caught on the tattoos on the man’s arms again. He glared at the wave of familiarity. Meeting the man from the photo only heightened the feeling and he hated it. It was on the tip of his tongue, seriously!
The man just exhaled and shook his head at the response. “This is above my pay grade. Take a shower, will you? Neil will be here soon.”
Forrest’s ears perked up in even more familiarity. Neil. Flame tattoos. *Tribal* flame tattoos. An apartment complex. “Neil?” He asked numbly, because no. fucking way.
The man narrowed his eyes at him, as if trying to see something that wasn’t there. “..Neil Josten? Have you forgotten already?” He sighed. “Forrest, if you’re high again, I swear to God-”
“I- I’m not high!” He cut the man off, waving his hands. “I remember, I was just messing with you.” He chuckled nervously, awkwardly bumping a fist on the man’s shoulder. He hoped to every God out there that the two had enough of a relationship to do it without it being weird. The man was visibly older than Forrest after all.
Neil Josten. Neil fucking Josten, who was a fictional character, from a fictional world, made by an author who wrote a fictional book. Which only meant, this man in front of him was actually David Wymack. Fictional character, a coach for the Palmetto State Foxes, and he could go on and on, but..
“Just be there before 4.” Wymack muttered, looking at Forrest with a frown before turning on his heel and leaving for his apartment next door.
He stayed in one position for a few more seconds, before closing the door and letting a laugh bubble out of his throat.
“What the actual FUCK.” He called out into the empty apartment, fingers tugging at the strands of his hair on the sides.