Flash opened his eyes slowly, letting consciousness fade in. Everything was bright. He squeezed his eyes shut, pulling the thin blankets over his head. Everything was loud too. The cars roaring past outside, the popping of toast outside his room, people walking above him, someone listening to music below him. It was all amplified; he could here what felt like every tiny little thing that moved or rustled. Flash pulled the pillow around his head, and that's when it hit him. This wasn't his bed. His bed was a large, queen-sized one with silk sheets in the middle of a large room that was definitely not near a busy street. This bed was hardly a single, with fading blue cotton sheets pushed up into the corner of the small room. This wasn't his house. 

He bolted upright, pulling the blankets off his legs and froze. His skin was normally a rich olive colour, thanks to his Guatemalan and Italian heritage, but these legs were pale. Like, west European, lives off the coast of Ireland pale.

This wasn't his body. He ran to the mirror and gasped. A pair of wide, hazel eyes stared back, half covered by a mop of hazelnut curls. A white scar mingled with the light freckling on his nose and he was shorter than usual, with long, gangly limbs hanging from an oversized t-shirt and boxers.

"Peter! Breakfast's ready!"

Flash was no longer Flash Thompson.

He was Peter Parker.

Flash whirled around and pulled on a pair of bright pink Hello Kitty pyjama pants (why the heck Parker owned these he would never know,) and walked out into the rest of the cramped apartment. A Italian woman in navy scrubs was running around with hair pins in her mouth and she pulled her long, dark hair into a neat bun. "Toast's on the counter" she said hurriedly, rushing to fill up a drink bottle. "I'm going to be late! Where are my keys?"

Flash held up the the keys next to his stack of toast. 

"Oh thank you." May took them, ruffling his curls. "Stay safe, don't die, call Tony or MJ if you get hurt, I've got a double shift so I won't be back until tomorrow morning." She stopped, studying his face. "You okay? You look a bit dazed. Are you sick?"

"Oh, no, just still waking up." Flash gave her a small laugh and she smiled, kissing him on his forehead.

"Okay. Now I've really gotta go. There's still leftover pizza in the fridge!"

"Got it!"

"I larb you!" And with that she was out the door, leaving Flash alone in his nemesis' apartment. He took the time to look around, observing the small home. The apartment was old, definitely, and was filled with odd bits of furniture they'd had for years. Any cabinet or shelving unit had some form of picture on it, ranging from May's wedding to pictures of her and Peter. There was one of Peter as a small boy, sitting on another man's shoulders. That must be Ben. 

Flash glanced at the clock and panicked. He was going to be late for school. He tore into Peter's room, running back out to grab a piece of toast (gosh he was starving-) and went hunting through the drawers to find something suitable for school. How did Peter even get to school? Train? He thought so, but what time? And from what station? And why were his thoughts so fast and loud and what classes would Peter have and would he be there? Was he in Flash's body? And would he have any tests or anything and was there homework due and he really should ask someone like Ned and MJ but would they think something was off or was Peter always this forgetful-

"OH MY GOSH PARKER! HOW DO YOU TURN YOUR BRAIN OFF!?" It didn't help that he had a song playing on loop at the back of his mind while another part was planning out the day. It was honestly tiring. He yanked a drawer open and the handles came flying off with ease. Flash stared at the knobs in his hands, then back at the now broken drawer. Whoops...

Flash hurried to the bathroom, ripping off the "I survived my trip to NYC" shirt and turned around. His eyes widened. First of all, Parker wasn't a complete stick. Yes, he was skinny, but he had abs and he had biceps and why was he actually so toned, he could hardly lift his bag- That train of thought was soon dispelled as he continued to watch himself in the mirror. White, pink and dark maroon slashed across his torso, all in various lengths and widths. Some scars were definitely gunshot wounds, some looked like someone had stabbed him, others were just small cuts or the leathery scars from burns, but the ones that concerned the most were the ones on his chest. They were like talons had gripped him harshly and dragged him around. And his back was just littered with random lines. What the heck has he gone through?

These thoughts spiralled with Flash as he finished getting ready, running out the door and slipping down the stairs (having shorter legs was something that took a lot of getting used to,) and onto the train just before the doors shut. Now he just had to survive the day at school. An unfamiliar sense of dread creeped up on him, along with the pounding of his heart and his hands growing clammy.

Great.

* * * * *

The first thing Peter noticed as he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling was the lack of black spots that usually speckled the white due to a leaky pipe. The second thing was the soft music from the alarm clock. He reached over and his hand met more bed, so he crawled over and pressed the button. That was the third. Then he realised that he wasn't in his room. This was not his bed. It was far too big and spacious and fluffy to be his bed. He rubbed his eyes, trying to rub the sleepiness out of his eyes. Something was off, apart from being in someone else's room and he couldn't for the life of him figure it out.

Then it struck him.

Everything was quiet. There was no roaring city streets, no pumping heartbeat, no footsteps above him, no toast popping below him. It was quiet. And it wasn't just the lack of noise. Peter realised that even though there was some light creeping through the blinds, he could hardly see the wall opposite him. He couldn't task yesterday's breakfast and the air smelt reasonably clean. His hair wasn't itchy and neither were the sheets, though they were silk. 

Everything was... normal.

That was scary. Peter jumped out of bed, tripping over his own feet as he pulled the curtains back and looked at himself in the mirror. "Oh, great. This is exactly what I need. Curse you, Parker Luck," he muttered, thinking back to patrol the last night. He had been fighting Mesmero, who must've switched his body with... Peter ran a hand through the sleek dark hair. Flash Thompson. His arch nemesis and resident bully. Peter groaned and flopped backwards onto the bed. This was not how he wanted to wake up this morning.

He trudged downstairs, trying to get used to the new body. His mind still felt slow, but he slowly deducted that maybe his brain was just stupid and worked at a ridiculous pace. Flash also had a really nice house. It was huge and Peter vaguely wondered if he had any siblings, but he dispelled that thought quickly when he spotted the plate of breakfast for him on the benchtop. He sat himself down, not sure if this was for him or not, but an olive-skinned woman with rich, shiny curls walked in. She gave him a look, her eyebrows raising slightly. "Are you going to eat that? Or are you too busy watching me?"

"Sorry," Peter mumbled, taking a bite out of the bacon, lettuce and aioli sandwich. Flash's mother turned away, pulling a drink bottle out of the refrigerator.

"Your father is arriving home this afternoon. Don't be late." She left and Peter heard the front door open and close. Not even a goodbye or a good morning. He sat back, poking at the apple slices also on the plate. It was barely 7 am and he already missed May's chaotic nature, even when she somehow managed to nearly set the apartment on fire when she tried to boil water. He hoped she was having a good day.

The watch around Peter's watch buzzed and he looked down, scrolling through the messages. Dang, Flash was popular. The most Peter got was Ned and MJ spamming him to remember his Spanish homework and Happy reminding him that he had his internship. The internship. Peter slammed his hands down on the marble counter. He- well, now it was Flash- had the actual Stark internship. Shoot. They were going to give away everything, if Flash hadn't figured out already. But judging by the pace of his thoughts, he probably wouldn't.

Peter sluggishly got ready, changing into Flash's pre-ironed clothes. Peter usually forgot to iron his or he ran out of time. Hey, one got easily side-tracked when you have a brain that refuses to stop running at the speed of light. Wait... How did Flash get to school? He drove, didn't he? Peter groaned, then cut himself off. Okay, so maybe the last time he drove he ended up totalling Flash's car, but he had part of Flash's mind, right? And Flash could drive... And Peter wasn't one to turn down driving the incredibly expensive car in the garage. He got in, dumping is bag in the passenger seat and took off, grinning as the wind ripped through his hair.

Life wasn't too bad.

So far.