Frank wakes up with a mouthful of dirty hoodie. The fabric is sour, rank from sweat and god knows what else, but it tastes better than the inside of his mouth right now. He makes a face, sticking his tongue out like moving it might shake free whatever died in his mouth during the night. His shoulders are sore from sleeping half-upright, thigh half-numb underneath him.
"Jesus," he grumbles. His voice is fucking shot, rough and kind of phlegmy, and it takes him a second to realize that it isn't his voice.
Frank opens his eyes and stares down at his own sleeping face. For a second he's horrified, then he realizes that he totally does look like some kind of angelic baby when he's asleep, fucking Ray was right, and then he's mostly back to horrified.
"Jesus fuck," he says and slaps his hands against his face-not his face, the face that he can feel moving with every thought-which doesn't help as much to figure out what's going on as it looks like it would in movies. They always seem able to slide their fingers over unfamiliar cheekbones and eyebrows and fucking ears and know whose face they're wearing. It isn't until Frank hits a disgusting skuzzy grease coast of a hairline that he figures it out.
"Gerard." He punches his rightful body's shoulder, and tries not to think about how weird it is to hear Gerard's voice squawking out his own name. "Motherfucker, wake up."
Gerard-in-Frank's-body wrinkles his nose, and it is kind of like a sleepy kitten, Frank retroactively takes back all the times he pulled Toro's hair for talking shit about his sleeping habits. "Mmm?"
Frank punches Gerard again and gets distracted staring at the pale, blank hand that he controls now. He shoves the sleeve of the hoodie up to his elbow, and even though he already knew what he would find, it's a fucking trip to see nothing but pasty empty skin. Frank looks back down at Gerard and watches his own eyes flutter open.
"Oh my god." Gerard reaches up towards him, with an expression of pure wonderment that Frank is pretty sure has never been on his face before. "You're inside of me."
Frank wrinkles his nose. "I guess I am." As weird as it is to hear Gerard's voice delivering his words, it's even worse the other way around. "What happened?"
"Don't know." Gerard cups his hand around Frank's cheek, still gazing at him. "Does it matter?"
"Are you serious?" Frank stares at him. "We switched bodies, of course it fucking matters. How are we supposed to switch back?"
"You're beautiful," Gerard tells him seriously, stroking Frank's cheek, which is actually Gerard's cheek, and Frank actually recognizes the face Gerard is making now. He's only ever felt it from the inside, but now that he can see the bitten lip, the flush at the apples of his cheeks, his eyes slightly widened, he has no idea how he ever thought he was subtle. "Can I fuck you?"
"What the fuck, Gee?" Frank doesn't pull away, just tips his face into Gerard's touch. "You are such a fucking narcissist."
"Mmm," Gerard says, tracing his fingers over the shape of his lips. Frank darts his tongue out, flicking against Gerard's fingertips, and Gerard gasps. Frank tastes his own skin, salty and sour from old sweat and faintly metallic from the strings of his guitar and cans of beer last night. Gerard is looking at him like he's the most beautiful thing in the world, except, of course, Gerard is looking at himself.
"Freak," Frank mumbles, but he pushes forward, pinning Gerard on his back. It's so strange to watch himself go like that; he never goes down without a fight, but he's not him, he's Gerard, and Gerard just moans and sprawls on the bench seat under Frank. Frank is staring down at his own wanton, desperate face, and it creeps him out way too much. He has to close his eyes before he dives in for a kiss, so he misses, mashing their noses and clacking their teeth together. Gerard cups either side of his face and guides him carefully, and Frank finds out what his own lips feel like (thin and kind of chapped). They both have shitty morning breath, but Gerard isn't shying away so neither does Frank.
