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He doesn't know how to describe it.
The first thing that greets him is pain, a searing electrical current running through his brain like wildfire. Each spark branches off into a new flame, bring light into an impossible infinite void. Everything's moving too fast to get a proper look at what's illuminated, but somehow he already knows what's there before the light reaches it. There are history books, nay, historical scenes exploding from the pages in vivid array, the splatter of blood on a battlefield from centuries past with an acrid tang of iron that lingers in the back of his throat. Each swing of a sword is followed with diagrams of momentum, calculations of physics, and a deafening muddled lecture on psychology. As soon as he's seen it, it's like he's been whisked away again by the sound of a familiar voice, and he's jolted back into his body with a visceral whiplash.
Except, it's not his body. It's Kuusuke's, and Makoto is left peering up at the concerned features of his own handsome face. He recognizes that expression: the minute tightening of the jaw, the furrow of the brows, the twitch of the eye... Information keeps flooding in, analyzing each and every detail and making conclusions. It makes him dizzy, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“It's alright my love, we'll get this fixed. I'll walk you through it...” The voice of the actor with an ever so slight British accent-- Ha! So he was faking it, inner-Makoto muses, taking glee from his apparent correct guess, that rung in his mind like a win-- trails off in uncertainty. Trapped in Makoto's body, Kuusuke's lost access to his genius mind, and he's not so sure he knows how to fix it. He feels disgustingly helpless. Is this what his beloved often felt like? Confused, lost, yet driven by an unshakable desire to help?
Both young men are frozen in their own unique misery and revelation, the world passing them by indifferently. By the time they've both gathered themselves up enough to reconcile the changes and come to the conclusion that maybe they should check on Kusuo, followed by a brief argument about the pink haired psychic in question, said teenager has already appeared, albeit looking panicked and disheveled, with a calm, almost bored looking Kokomi by his side. Makoto-in-Kuusuke quickly deduces that they were not the only ones swapped, while Kuusuke-in-Makoto takes a moment longer to connect the dots after shooing away the intrusive thoughts of the script of Freaky Friday.
Another second passes, and when Makoto opens his mouth to speak, it's his own voice again. Whatever had happened, Kusuo must've fixed it, and his attention snaps to check on his sister, fussing over her to make sure she's okay. Kuusuke lets out a tired exhale, his mind spinning with thoughts about how he never had a chance, how far above them all Kusuo truly was, berating himself for once again failing. It's shameful, he can feel it burning within him, amplified by the fact that he'd been caught off guard and his telepathy canceller wasn't perched upon his head as it should have been, all because he'd given in to Makoto's ridiculous request to “take that damn tiara off for once”. Jealousy curls in his gut as he looks over to his oblivious boyfriend fussing over his brat of a sister, until Makoto turns to look at him, tears in his cobalt eyes, and releases his hold on Kokomi to embrace him. His genius mind stutters to a halt, trying to piece together this whole event, to understand the enigma that Makoto unintentionally made himself to be--
“I'm sorry.”
The voice doesn't come from Makoto. It comes from Kusuo, the psychic refusing eye contact and staring at the floor with a nigh-unreadable expression. Just as soon as he's said it, he's gone, leaving the two Teruhashis with the elder Saiki.
Just yet another disastrous day.