The Rhythm of Love
“I’m offering you more than wonder. I offer you experience.”
What would you sacrifice to truly understand the one you love? For Evan, a human guitarist in a world where Patapons have integrated into society, the answer might be his very form. When his Patapon boyfriend presents a magical drum on their anniversary, Evan faces a choice that will reshape not just his body, but his perception of reality itself.
Feel the pulse of transformation as Evan’s human features meld into the distinctive one-eyed, round body of a Patapon, and witness the world anew through a single eye that sees music as much as light. Experience the startling intimacy of a cultural immersion where food resonates with rhythm and family ceremonies reveal unexpected depths.
This transformative love story challenges what it means to truly know another being and asks: If you could experience the world exactly as your beloved does—their perceptions, their cultural rhythms, their very existence—would you ever want to return to your old self?
The Rhythm of Change. Because sometimes, to understand is to become.
The Rhythm of Change
The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting striped shadows across Evan’s apartment. He rolled over in bed, reaching for his phone to check the time. 7:30 AM—perfect. He had just enough time to get ready before Pata arrived.
Evan smiled thinking about his boyfriend. Dating a Patapon in today’s world was still somewhat unusual, even fifteen years after the interdimensional rift had brought their species to Earth. The integration had been rocky at first—the Patapons’ tribal society and their devotion to rhythm and music as a way of life had clashed with human customs. But over time, they had found their place, bringing their unique talents to everything from music production to construction work, where their coordinated drumming could raise buildings with surprising efficiency.
Pata was different from other Patapons Evan had met. While most were outgoing and boisterous, always ready to break into song, Pata was more introspective. He worked as a sound engineer at a local studio, blending traditional Patapon rhythms with modern music. It was there that Evan, a session guitarist, had first met him six months ago.
As Evan stepped out of the shower, he heard the familiar pattern of knocks on his door—PON-PON-PATA-PON—the traditional greeting of Pata’s tribe.
“Coming!” Evan called, quickly pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, his dark hair still damp.
When he opened the door, Pata bounced in excitedly. Like all Patapons, he stood about three feet tall, with a perfectly round black body that served as both head and torso. A single large eye dominated the center of his face, currently curved upward in what Evan had learned to recognize as a smile. His slender arms and legs seemed almost too thin to support him, but Patapons were surprisingly strong for their size.
“Evan! Happy six-month anniversary!” Pata’s voice had the characteristic melodic quality of all Patapons, each word slightly sung rather than spoken.
“Happy anniversary to you too,” Evan replied, bending down to hug his boyfriend. “What’s that you’re carrying?”
Pata was holding what looked like a small drum, intricately carved with symbols Evan didn’t recognize. “This is special. Very special. From my homeland. I want to show you something today.”
There was a nervous energy to Pata that Evan hadn’t seen before. His eye darted around, and he bounced slightly more than usual on his feet.
“Is everything okay?” Evan asked, concerned.
“Yes! More than okay. Evan, we have been together for six moons now. In my culture, this is when we share our deepest secrets with our chosen ones.”
Evan sat down on the couch, bringing himself closer to Pata’s eye level. “I’m listening.”
Pata placed the drum carefully on the coffee table. “When my people came to your world, we brought only some of our magic. The great rhythms—Fever, Miracle, and others—these we use sparingly here. But there are… personal rhythms we keep secret.”
“Personal rhythms?”
“Yes. Magic for those we love.” Pata’s eye focused intensely on Evan. “I have watched how you look at me sometimes. With curiosity. I know you wonder what it is like to be Patapon.”
Evan felt his cheeks flush. It was true. There had been nights when, watching Pata dance and move with such natural rhythm, he’d wondered what it would feel like to experience the world as a Patapon did, to feel music not just as sound but as a physical force that moved through you.
“I… yes, I’ve wondered,” Evan admitted.
“Today, I offer you more than wonder. I offer you experience.” Pata gestured to the drum. “This drum holds the Rhythm of Forms. With it, I can temporarily transform you. You can know what it is to be Patapon. To feel as I feel.”
Evan’s heart raced. “Temporarily? How temporarily?”
“As long as you wish. A day. A week. Forever, if that is your choice. The rhythm can be reversed.”
“And… is it safe?”
Pata’s eye curved in amusement. “Safer than your human cars! I have prepared for this moment for two moons. The magic is true.”
Evan stared at the drum, his mind racing with possibilities. To experience life as a completely different species? It was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Will it hurt?” he asked quietly.
“There is sensation, but not pain. It is like… like when your foot sleeps and then wakes up, but throughout your body.”
Evan took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Pata’s eye widened in excitement. “Truly? You wish this?”
“Yes. I trust you.”
Pata bounced happily and picked up the drum. “Then we begin. Remove your clothes—they will not fit your new form.”
Feeling slightly self-conscious but also caught up in the moment, Evan undressed and stood in the center of his living room. The morning sunlight warmed his skin as Pata began to tap a gentle rhythm on the drum.
“Close your eye—eyes,” Pata corrected himself. “Feel the rhythm. Let it enter you.”
The sound was unlike anything Evan had heard before. It wasn’t just audible—he could feel each beat resonating in different parts of his body. DON-DON-CHAKA-DON. The pattern repeated, growing slightly louder each time.
The first change Evan noticed was a tingling in his fingers and toes. When he looked down, he saw his fingers beginning to merge together, forming the three-digit hands characteristic of Patapons. The tingling spread up his arms and legs, and he watched in fascination as his skin darkened, turning the deep black of Patapon flesh.
“The rhythm is working,” Pata said, his voice thick with emotion. “Keep breathing steadily.”
The sensation intensified as it reached Evan’s torso. He felt his chest and abdomen beginning to compress and round out, his internal organs shifting in ways that should have been painful but somehow weren’t. His ribcage contracted, his spine shortened, and he felt himself losing height rapidly. His view of the apartment changed as he shrank down to approximately three feet tall.
The most dramatic change came as the transformation reached his head. His face felt as if it was being pulled forward, merging with his chest. His nose flattened and disappeared completely, while his mouth shrank to a small size. His ears seemed to melt into his head, though his hearing became, if anything, more acute.
Most strangely, he felt his eyes begin to move toward each other, merging into a single, much larger eye in the center of what was now his face-body. For a moment, his vision swam dizzyingly as his brain adjusted to processing information from this new visual configuration. Then, suddenly, everything snapped into focus with remarkable clarity.
“Keep feeling the rhythm,” Pata encouraged, still drumming. “Your mind is changing now too.”
Indeed, Evan could feel his thoughts shifting. Music that had always been in the background of his consciousness now moved to the foreground. He could somehow sense the rhythmic potential in everything around him—the dripping of the kitchen faucet, the hum of the refrigerator, even Pata’s breathing. All of it formed an interwoven tapestry of beats and counterbeats.
As the drumming finally slowed, Evan looked down at himself. His body was now perfectly round and black, supported by thin but sturdy limbs. He experimentally moved his arms and legs, surprised by how natural it felt.
“How do you feel?” Pata asked, setting down the drum.
Evan tried to speak, but what came out was musical: “I feel… pon-derful!” He laughed at his own unexpected wordplay, the sound emerging as a melodic chime.
Pata bounced over to him, his eye curved in delight. “You are beautiful as Patapon! Look!”
He guided Evan to the full-length mirror in the bedroom. Staring back at Evan was a Patapon with a slightly larger than average eye, its iris the same deep blue as his human eyes had been. Otherwise, he looked remarkably similar to Pata, though his limbs seemed a bit longer, perhaps reflecting his taller human height.
“This is… incredible,” Evan sang-spoke. He bounced experimentally and was surprised by how high he went, nearly touching the ceiling. “Whoa!”
“Your body is lighter now, but strong,” Pata explained. “You will learn to control your movements soon.”
Evan continued examining himself in the mirror, fascinated by his transformation. His single eye was expressive in ways he never imagined possible, conveying emotions with subtle changes in shape and dilation. When he smiled (or what felt like smiling), his eye curved upward just as Pata’s did.
“Can I try drumming?” Evan asked, the words coming out in a rhythmic pattern without conscious effort.
“Of course! That is the best part!” Pata retrieved a smaller drum from his backpack and handed it to Evan.
As soon as the drum was in his hands, Evan felt an instinctive understanding of how to play it. His new three-fingered hands moved across the surface with natural precision. Each beat he produced sent a small wave of pleasure through his body, as if he was physically connecting with the sound.
“This feels amazing,” Evan exclaimed. “It’s like the music is part of me!”
“For Patapons, it is,” Pata explained, joining in with his own drum. “Music is life energy. When we drum together, our spirits connect.”
They played together for what felt like hours, Evan instinctively learning the traditional patterns of Pata’s tribe. As they drummed, Evan felt a deeper connection forming between them—not just emotional but almost spiritual, their rhythms intertwining in perfect harmony.
When they finally stopped, Evan noticed something else: his perception of time had changed. What had felt like perhaps an hour had actually been just fifteen minutes according to the wall clock.
“Time feels different,” he observed.
“Yes,” Pata nodded, his eye crinkling with affection. “Patapons experience time through rhythms, not minutes and hours. A good rhythm can make moments feel eternal.”
Evan bounced around the apartment, getting used to his new form. Everything looked different from this height, and his single eye provided a surprisingly wide field of vision. Colors seemed more vibrant, sounds more textured. He could even sense vibrations through the floor that he’d never noticed as a human.
“I understand you better now,” Evan said softly to Pata. “I feel how you experience the world.”
Pata’s eye moistened slightly—the Patapon equivalent of tears. “That is why I wanted to share this with you. So you could truly know me.”
Evan bounced over to him and took his hands. It felt so natural now, their identical forms fitting perfectly together.
“Thank you for this gift,” he said. “How long before I need to decide if I want to stay this way or change back?”
“The magic will hold as long as I maintain the connection,” Pata explained. “If you wish to return to human form, I must play the reverse rhythm. But there is no rush. You can experience life as Patapon for as long as you desire.”
Evan considered this. The sensation of being in this new body was extraordinary—the heightened connection to music and rhythm, the bouncing movement that felt so joyous and free, the simple yet profound way Patapons experienced emotions.
“Let me try this for a while,” he decided. “Perhaps a few days? Then I’ll know better what I want.”
“A wise choice,” Pata agreed, his eye curving happily. “And now, we should celebrate! I have prepared a traditional Patapon feast at my home. Many foods will taste different to you now—better!”
As they prepared to leave the apartment, Evan paused at the door, looking back at his human clothes scattered on the floor—remnants of a form he might or might not return to. A sudden wave of self-consciousness washed over him.
“Wait,” he said, his melodic voice tinged with anxiety. “I’m… not wearing anything.”
Pata tilted his body slightly, his eye showing confusion. “But you are Patapon now. Your body is complete as it is.”
“I know, but…” Evan glanced down at his round black form. As a human, he’d never have dreamed of going outside naked. The very thought would have mortified him. “Humans always wear clothes. It feels strange to just… go out like this.”
“Ah,” Pata nodded with understanding. “Human customs. I forget sometimes.” He bounced over and gently took Evan’s hand. “Look at me, Evan. Patapons do not need coverings. Our bodies are perfect as they are. No human will see you as naked—they will see you as Patapon.”
Evan’s eye darted between the door and his discarded clothes. He knew Pata was right—Patapons never wore clothing beyond occasional ceremonial decorations or functional gear. Their smooth, round bodies didn’t have the anatomical features humans typically covered. Still, twenty-eight years of human social conditioning wasn’t easy to shed.
“What if someone recognizes me?” he asked softly.
Pata’s eye curved with gentle amusement. “Evan, you are three feet tall with one eye and no nose. Your own mother would not recognize you.”
Despite his nervousness, Evan couldn’t help but laugh, the sound emerging as a series of musical notes. “When you put it that way…”
“If it helps,” Pata added, “we can take the back stairs. Fewer humans.”
Evan took what would have been a deep breath in his human form—though the sensation was different now, more like a full-body expansion. “No. If I’m going to experience being a Patapon, I should do it properly.” He bounced experimentally, feeling the strange freedom of his new form. “Besides, I’ve seen how humans look at Patapons—with curiosity, but also respect.”
“Don’t worry,” Pata said gently, reading the remaining hesitation in Evan’s expressive eye. “Whatever you choose, you will still be Evan. The rhythm changes the form, not the soul.”
Evan’s eye curved in a smile. “I know. And right now, my soul wants to dance—even if it feels a little weird to do it without pants.”
With a final glance at his former clothing, Evan stepped through the doorway. The air on his Patapon skin felt different—more alive somehow, each breeze registering as subtle patterns of pressure that almost had their own rhythm.
They stepped outside into the sunlight, two Patapons in a human world. Evan initially found himself trying to shrink away from the first pedestrians they encountered, but after receiving only a few curious glances and friendly smiles, his confidence grew. He gradually matched Pata’s bouncing gait, the two of them moving rhythmically down the street together.
By the time they’d gone a block, Evan had almost forgotten his earlier self-consciousness. The freedom of movement, the enhanced sensations, the natural rhythm of their steps—it all felt increasingly natural. He felt the occasional curious stares of passersby, but they didn’t bother him. He was experiencing something few humans ever would—life through the eye of a Patapon.
And as they moved in perfect synchrony, their steps creating an unconscious rhythm on the pavement, Evan realized that whether he chose to remain in this form or not, he had gained something precious: a deeper understanding of his lover’s world and a new appreciation for the rhythm that connected them.
PON-PON-PATA-PON. The beat of transformation. The rhythm of change.
The Rhythm of Feasting
The walk to Pata’s home took longer than usual. Partly because Evan was still mastering the bouncing gait natural to his new Patapon form, but mostly because he kept stopping to experience the world through his transformed senses. Colors seemed more vibrant, sounds more layered, and the rhythm of the city—from traffic lights changing to pedestrians walking—formed patterns he’d never noticed as a human.
“Everything is so… musical,” Evan remarked as they turned onto Pata’s street in the cultural district that had become known as “Little Patapolis.” The neighborhood had transformed over the years since the Patapons’ arrival, with round doorways and drum-shaped architectural elements integrated into otherwise standard city buildings.
“Yes,” Pata agreed, his eye curved upward in pleasure. “This is why we struggled at first in your world. Humans move through space. Patapons move through rhythm.”
Pata’s home was a converted ground-floor apartment with ceilings that had been raised to accommodate the Patapons’ bouncing movement style. As they approached, Evan heard the unmistakable sounds of drums and singing.
“You didn’t tell me there would be others here,” Evan said, his single eye widening slightly in surprise.
Pata tilted his round body in what Evan recognized as the Patapon equivalent of a sheepish shrug. “It is tradition. When a Patapon shares the Rhythm of Forms with their chosen one, the tribe celebrates the bond. I invited only close family—my parents, siblings, and elder.”
Evan’s eye narrowed slightly. “You were very confident I would agree to the transformation.”
“No,” Pata corrected gently. “But I hoped. If you had refused, there would still be a gathering—to honor your choice and your place in my life. Either way, it is a day of celebration.”
Before Evan could respond, the door swung open, revealing an older Patapon with decorative markings painted across his round body. This, Evan recalled from previous introductions, was Hatapon, Pata’s father—distinguished by the tribal flag he always carried, even in this modern setting.
“They arrive!” Hatapon called out melodically, his voice deeper and more resonant than Pata’s. “DON-DON-CHAKA-DON!”
From inside, a chorus of voices responded with the same rhythm, the words translating roughly to “Welcome to our tribe!”
As they entered, Evan was enveloped in a world of sound and motion. Eight Patapons bounced in greeting, their single eyes all focused on him with obvious curiosity and delight. He recognized some from previous gatherings—Pata’s mother Medepon, who worked as a healer at a local clinic; his younger siblings Tatepon and Yaripon; and his elderly grandmother Priestess Meden, whose eye was clouded slightly with age but who still moved with surprising agility.
There were also several Patapons Evan hadn’t met before, including one wearing what appeared to be modern chef’s attire—an apron decorated with drum patterns—who was arranging dishes on a low, circular table.
“Family,” Pata announced, his voice taking on a formal, rhythmic quality, “I present to you Evan, who has accepted the Rhythm of Forms and joins us in the dance of life.”
A series of rhythmic beats followed—part applause, part ceremonial acknowledgment. Evan found his body instinctively bouncing in response, a gesture that seemed to delight the gathered Patapons.
“He responds to the welcome rhythm!” Meden exclaimed, her aged voice warbling slightly. “The transformation is true and deep.”
Hatapon approached, examining Evan with undisguised interest. “Your eye retains its human color,” he observed. “This is good. The rhythm changes the form but preserves the essence.”
Evan wasn’t sure how to respond, but words came naturally in a melodic pattern: “I am honored by your welcome and grateful for the rhythm.”
This seemed to be the right thing to say, as the gathered Patapons bobbed approvingly.
“Come!” called the chef Patapon, who Pata quietly introduced as his cousin Kibapon. “The feast awaits, and the food grows impatient for eating!”
The idea of food suddenly reminded Evan that he hadn’t eaten since before his transformation. As a human, he would have called the sensation hunger, but in his Patapon body, it manifested differently—more like a muted rhythm that needed amplification.
The Patapons gathered around the circular table, which was set low to the ground. There were no chairs; instead, everyone simply balanced on their thin legs, occasionally bouncing slightly to maintain position. Evan found this surprisingly easy in his new form, his body naturally finding its center of gravity.
The feast before them was unlike anything Evan had seen, even during his six months of dating Pata. The dishes were arranged in concentric circles, creating a visual rhythm that was clearly intentional. At the center was a large, steaming pot of what appeared to be stew, surrounded by plates of various foods in vivid colors.
“This is don goma,” Pata explained, indicating the central pot. “The sacred stew of celebration. Traditionally made with meat and herbs from our homeland, but Kibapon has adapted it using Earth ingredients—bison meat, root vegetables, and spices that echo our original flavors.”
“It smells… pulsing,” Evan remarked, unsure how else to describe the way the aroma seemed to come in waves that matched his internal rhythm.
Meden nodded approvingly. “You perceive as a true Patapon already.”
Hatapon raised what appeared to be a small horn cup. “Before we eat, we must honor the rhythm that brought us together. Pata, as the one who performed the Form Rhythm, you will lead.”
Pata bounced to his feet and retrieved a small drum. Standing at the head of the table, he began a complex rhythm that the others quickly joined, using their hands to tap on the table or small percussion instruments that materialized from around the room.
Evan watched in fascination before realizing that everyone was looking at him expectantly. Pata nodded encouragingly, and Evan found his hands automatically moving to the rhythm, tapping on the edge of the table. The sound his fingers produced blended perfectly with the others, creating a harmonious whole that seemed to make the food itself vibrate slightly.
As the rhythm reached its conclusion, Hatapon dipped a ceremonial ladle into the central stew and offered the first portion to Evan.
“The guest of transformation receives the first taste,” he explained. “As you take in our food, so may you take in our ways.”
Evan accepted the bowl, suddenly aware of a new dilemma: how did Patapons eat? They had no visible mouth in the human sense. Seeing his hesitation, Pata leaned close.
“Feel the food’s rhythm,” he whispered. “Your body knows what to do.”
Evan lifted the bowl and was surprised to find that the lower part of his round body could open slightly, revealing what seemed like a small mouth. The sensation was strange but not unpleasant. He took a careful taste of the stew and was immediately overwhelmed by flavor—not just taste as he had known it as a human, but a complex sensory experience that seemed to resonate through his entire form.
“It’s… I can feel it singing,” he exclaimed, eye widening in wonder.
Kibapon bounced with obvious pride. “Yes! Food must not just feed the body but harmonize with its rhythms. This is why Patapon cuisine never caught on broadly with humans—they taste only with their tongues, not with their entire being.”
The meal continued with each dish offering new sensory experiences. There were crisp vegetables arranged in spiral patterns that created different sensations depending on which part of the spiral Evan started eating from. Fermented fruits provided complex counterpoints that Evan’s Patapon palate could somehow separate into distinct rhythmic elements. Even the beverages—served in drum-shaped cups—seemed to dance on what he now understood was his palate rather than a tongue.
Throughout the meal, conversation flowed naturally. Evan had worried that as the only transformed Patapon present, he might feel like a curiosity or an outsider, but the family treated him with a warm familiarity that put him at ease. They asked questions about his human life and his music, but always with genuine interest rather than as if examining a specimen.
“Do you find that you experience your guitar playing differently now?” Tatepon, Pata’s younger brother who was studying music theory, asked with obvious curiosity.
Evan paused, realizing he hadn’t thought about his instrument since the transformation. “I haven’t tried playing yet. I’m not sure my fingers would work the same way on the strings.”
“You should try Patapon instruments,” Yaripon suggested eagerly. “Your natural rhythm would make the transition easy.”
“Speaking of transitions,” Meden said, her ancient eye focusing on Evan, “how long do you intend to remain in Patapon form, young one?”
The table quieted, and Evan felt all eyes on him. It was clearly a question everyone had been curious about but too polite to ask directly. Even Pata seemed to tense slightly, though he kept his eye carefully neutral.
“I… don’t know yet,” Evan answered honestly. “This is all so new. Pata said I could have time to decide.”
Meden nodded slowly. “Time is measured differently for us. What seems a brief moment to humans may contain many rhythms for Patapons.” She gestured around the table. “Some of us have taken human partners who remained human. Others, like my late husband, chose to transform permanently. There is no right rhythm, only the one that harmonizes with your soul.”
“And if I chose to remain this way?” Evan asked, surprised by how seriously he was considering the possibility after just a few hours in his new form.
Hatapon bounced once, firmly. “Then you would be family in form as well as in bond. The tribe would teach you our ways more deeply—our history, our magic, our place in both worlds.”
“And if I returned to human form?”
“You would remain family,” Pata’s mother Medepon spoke up, her voice gentle. “The experience of transformation is sacred. Those who have known both forms are bridges between our peoples, regardless of which shore they choose to stand upon.”
Evan felt a wave of emotion—not quite tears, as his Patapon form didn’t produce them the same way, but a pulsing intensity that made his eye curve and blur slightly.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
The conversation shifted to lighter topics as dessert was served—crystallized nectars that dissolved in fascinating patterns when consumed. Evan found himself relaxing into the rhythms of Patapon social interaction, which involved more synchronized movements and musical interludes than human conversation. When someone told a joke, everyone bounced in unison rather than simply laughing. When a point of agreement was reached, a brief drum roll often followed.
As the meal concluded, Hatapon rose and retrieved an ornate drum from a shelf. “Now, as tradition demands, we shall perform the Pattern of Bonding to honor Pata and Evan’s union.”
“Oh, I don’t know the patterns,” Evan said, suddenly nervous.
“You need not play,” Meden explained. “Only feel. The Pattern of Bonding is performed by the tribe for the bonded pair.”
Pata took Evan’s hand and led him to a cushioned area at one side of the room. They sat together as the family arranged themselves in a semi-circle, each with a different percussion instrument.
“This pattern tells the story of two beings finding harmony together,” Pata explained softly. “It is usually performed at weddings, but also for significant relationship milestones.”
Before Evan could fully process the implications of this—that his transformation was clearly being treated as something akin to an engagement in Patapon culture—the music began.
It started with Hatapon playing a solitary, searching rhythm. Meden joined next with a different, complementary pattern. The two rhythms circled each other, sometimes synchronizing briefly before diverging again. Gradually, the other family members added their voices and instruments, creating a complex tapestry of sound.
Evan found himself profoundly moved as he began to understand the story being told through rhythm—two distinct patterns searching, finding each other, experiencing discord and harmony, and ultimately creating something new together. Without being taught, he somehow knew this represented his relationship with Pata—two beings from different worlds finding unexpected resonance together.
As the performance reached its climax, all the various rhythms synchronized into a single, powerful beat that Evan could feel resonating through his entire Patapon form. It was overwhelming in its beauty and intensity, bringing a different kind of tears—a shimmer across his vision and a pulsing glow that seemed to emanate from within.
When the final beat faded, there was a moment of perfect silence before the family erupted in joyful bouncing.
“The bond is blessed by rhythm!” Meden proclaimed formally.
Pata squeezed Evan’s hand. “Are you alright? Was it too much?”
“It was…” Evan searched for words, finding human language inadequate. Instead, he tapped out a simple rhythm against Pata’s palm—a pattern that somehow expressed gratitude, love, and wonder all at once.
Pata’s eye curved in deep happiness. “You speak rhythm-language already. Your soul remembers what your mind does not yet know.”
The celebration continued into the evening with more music, stories, and eventually dancing—not dancing as Evan had known it as a human, but precise rhythmic bouncing patterns that created complex visual and auditory harmonies when performed in groups.
To his surprise, Evan found he could follow many of the patterns instinctively, his Patapon body seeming to understand movements that his conscious mind had never learned. It was during one such dance, moving in perfect synchrony with Pata and his family, that Evan experienced a moment of profound clarity.
This form—this way of experiencing the world through rhythm and harmony—felt right in a way he couldn’t fully articulate. The initial strangeness had faded, replaced by a sense of rightness and belonging that went beyond the physical changes.
Later, as they prepared to leave, Meden approached Evan and placed a small, ornate drum in his hands.
“This is for you,” she said, her ancient eye soft with wisdom. “Whether you remain Patapon or return to human form, the rhythm will stay within you. This drum will always connect you to what you have experienced today.”
“Thank you,” Evan replied, feeling the weight of the gift—not just physically but spiritually. “I will treasure it.”
As they walked back to Evan’s apartment through the night streets, Pata seemed unusually quiet.
“Your family really embraced me,” Evan observed. “I wasn’t expecting such a formal ceremony.”
Pata’s eye curved in a slight smile. “To share the Rhythm of Forms is a sacred thing among my people. It is not done lightly.”
“I gathered that,” Evan replied, a new understanding dawning. “This was more than just letting me experience being a Patapon for fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Pata admitted. “In our tradition, to share forms is… it is like what humans would call a proposal. Not quite marriage, but a declaration of intent toward a permanent bond.” He bounced nervously. “I should have explained more clearly before. I was afraid you might refuse if you knew the full significance.”
Evan stopped walking, causing Pata to turn back to him with concern in his eye.
“Are you angry?” Pata asked uncertainly.
Evan considered the question, searching his feelings. To his surprise, he found no anger, only a deepening affection and understanding.
“No,” he said finally. “I’m not angry. But I am thinking more seriously about whether I might want to stay this way.”
Pata’s eye widened. “Truly? You would consider permanent transformation?”
“I don’t know yet,” Evan said honestly. “But today has shown me something important—that your world, your way of being, has a beauty and depth I never fully understood before. And now that I’ve experienced it…” He gestured to his Patapon form. “Well, going back to not experiencing the world this way would be like going back to seeing in black and white after knowing color.”
Pata bounced close and took both of Evan’s hands in his. “Whatever you decide, know this: the transformation has already occurred in the ways that matter most. You have heard our rhythms. You have felt our patterns. Your soul knows ours now, regardless of your form.”
They continued walking, bouncing in perfect synchrony through the quiet streets. Inside his new Patapon body, Evan felt the residual rhythms of the day’s experiences—the transformation, the feast, the bonding ceremony—all creating a complex harmony that seemed to whisper: You are home. You are home. You are home.
Whether that home would ultimately be in this round, rhythmic form or back in his human body remained to be decided. But as they bounced together under the stars, Evan realized that the true transformation had been not in his shape but in his perception—of music, of connection, of love itself.
The rhythm of change had only just begun.
The Rhythm of Learning
The university alarm clock chimed at 7:15 AM, its standard digital beep now registering to Evan as an incomplete pattern—beep-beep-beep without the expected fourth beat. His single eye opened, the blue iris adjusting quickly to the morning light filtering through the dorm room blinds.
For a moment, disorientation washed over him. The ceiling seemed much farther away than usual, and the sensations in his body were still unfamiliar—the roundness of his form, the thin limbs, the heightened sensitivity to vibration. Then memory returned: the transformation, the feast with Pata’s family, the decision to remain in Patapon form a while longer to truly experience this new way of being.
Beside him, Pata stirred, his eye curving upward as he registered Evan’s wakefulness. They had pushed their dorm beds together months ago, but the arrangement felt different now that they were the same size and shape.
“Morning rhythm,” Pata sang softly, the traditional Patapon greeting.
“Morning rhythm,” Evan replied, the melodic words coming naturally after just one day in his new form. “I have classes today.”
Pata bounced to a seated position, suddenly alert. “You still want to go? You could take a day to adjust more fully.”
Evan considered this as he bounced experimentally off the bed, still marveling at how light and springy his Patapon body felt. “No, I think I should go. Professor Chen’s lecture on audio engineering is today, and I’ve been looking forward to it.” He paused, his eye narrowing slightly. “Besides, I need to know if I can still do… normal things. If this form could work long-term.”
The implications of his statement hung in the air between them. Since the revelation last night about the cultural significance of the transformation, both had been carefully avoiding directly discussing the permanence question.
“What about your guitar class?” Pata asked practically, gesturing to Evan’s prized acoustic guitar leaning in the corner. “Your hands are different now.”
Evan looked down at his three-digited hands. It was a valid concern. With fewer fingers and a completely different physical structure, his carefully practiced techniques might be useless.
“I’ll figure something out,” he decided. “Maybe Professor Mills will have suggestions. There are Patapon musicians who play human instruments, right?”
“Yes, but they usually start learning that way,” Pata noted. “Still, your musical understanding hasn’t changed—just your form.”
They moved through their morning routine, which required several adjustments. Showering was different—Evan’s Patapon body didn’t have hair to wash, but his eye needed special care to keep clean. Clothing was unnecessary, though Evan did add a small messenger bag adapted for his Patapon body to carry his textbooks and tablet.
As they prepared to leave their dorm room, Evan paused by the mirror, studying his transformed appearance. His round black body was slightly larger than Pata’s, and his blue eye seemed more expressive than it had yesterday—already he was developing the subtle eye-shape changes that Patapons used to communicate complex emotions.
“Do I look… normal? I mean, for a Patapon?” he asked.
Pata bounced over and stood beside him. “You look perfect. Perhaps a bit too concerned with others’ perceptions,” he added teasingly.
Evan’s eye curved in what was becoming his version of a smile. “Fair point. It’s just—yesterday was your family. Today is everyone else.”
“There are other Patapons on campus,” Pata reminded him. “Not many, but enough that you won’t be completely unique.”
“Yes, but none who were human yesterday,” Evan replied.
Pata took his hand. “Remember, you don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. This transformation is personal—sacred.”
Evan squeezed Pata’s hand in appreciation. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late for Modern Music Theory.”
The university campus was already buzzing with activity as they emerged from their dormitory. The spring morning was pleasantly cool, and Evan immediately noticed how differently his Patapon skin registered the temperature—not as a general sensation but as patterns of subtle vibration across his round body.
They had walked this path to the Arts and Humanities building hundreds of times, but everything felt new. The concrete pathways resonated differently under his bouncing steps. The conversation of passing students formed intricate audio patterns that his enhanced hearing could separate and analyze individually. Even the campus bells sounded richer, each tone carrying harmonic complexities he’d never detected before.
“This is incredible,” Evan remarked as they passed the central fountain. “The water—I can hear the pattern of each droplet. It’s like… like a percussion ensemble.”
Pata’s eye curved happily. “Yes! This is why we have so many water features in Patapolis. Water creates the most natural rhythms.”
As they continued toward the Arts building, Evan became aware of the stares they were attracting. While Patapons weren’t uncommon on campus, seeing two bouncing along together—especially in the music department where Pata was the only Patapon student—was unusual enough to draw attention.
“Everyone’s looking,” Evan whispered.
“Let them,” Pata replied confidently. “If I worried about humans staring, I would never leave our room.”
They reached the Modern Music Theory classroom five minutes early. As they entered, conversation gradually died down as students noticed them. Professor Donaldson, arranging notes at the lectern, looked up and did a visible double-take.
“Good morning, Pata,” she said, recovering quickly. “And… I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met?”
Before Evan could respond, a familiar voice called from the back row: “Holy shit! Evan? Is that you?”
The voice belonged to Miguel, Evan’s guitar study partner and close friend. Evan’s eye curved in embarrassment as all attention focused on him.
“Yes, it’s me,” he confirmed, his melodic Patapon voice causing another wave of murmurs. “I’ve… undergone a change.”
Professor Donaldson adjusted her glasses, her professional composure returning. “Well, transformation magic isn’t unheard of, though it’s not something we see every day in music theory class. Will this affect your ability to participate, Mr. Chen?”
“No, professor,” Evan replied confidently, though inwardly he wasn’t entirely sure. “My understanding of music theory hasn’t changed. If anything, it might be enhanced.”
The professor nodded briskly. “Very well. Please take your seats, both of you.”
Evan and Pata bounced to their usual spots in the second row. The desks, designed for human students, were awkward for Patapons, requiring them to stand rather than sit. Evan had never noticed this accommodation issue before—one of many, he was realizing, that Pata navigated daily.
The class began, with Professor Donaldson diving into a lecture on non-Western tonal systems. Evan took notes on his tablet, adapting quickly to using his three-fingered hands on the touch screen. What amazed him was how differently he processed the audio examples. When the professor played a recording of a Javanese gamelan orchestra, Evan found he could mentally separate each instrument, tracking their individual patterns while simultaneously comprehending the whole in a way his human perception never could.
When Donaldson played a piece with complex polyrhythms, Evan found himself bouncing slightly in his seat, his body instinctively mapping the overlapping patterns. The sensation was exhilarating—like suddenly understanding a language he’d previously only partially grasped.
“Mr. Chen, you seem particularly engaged today,” Professor Donaldson remarked, noticing his movement. “Would you care to explain what you’re perceiving in this piece?”
Put on the spot, Evan hesitated only briefly before explaining, “The rhythm isn’t just 7/8 against 4/4 as it appears in Western notation. There’s a third pattern emerging from the interaction of the two—a meta-rhythm that creates a longer cycle of 28 beats. As a… as a Patapon, I can feel this pattern physically.”
The professor raised her eyebrows, impressed. “That’s precisely the point I was building toward. Excellent observation.”
After class, Miguel approached, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern.
“Dude, when you didn’t answer my texts last night, I figured you were just busy with your anniversary. Not… this.” He gestured at Evan’s transformed body.
“It’s a long story,” Evan replied.
“I bet. Is it… permanent?” Miguel asked cautiously.
“I don’t know yet,” Evan admitted. “That’s partly why I came to class—to see how different things would be.”
“And?”
“And so far, everything’s different. But not bad different.” Evan’s eye curved upward. “Actually, the music theory part was amazing. I could perceive structures I only understood intellectually before.”
Miguel nodded slowly. “That’s cool, I guess. But what about guitar class this afternoon? How are you going to play with…” he glanced down at Evan’s three-fingered hands.
“I’m working on that,” Evan said, a slight note of anxiety creeping into his melodic voice.
By lunchtime, word had spread across campus that Evan Chen, guitarist and music production major, had transformed into a Patapon. Walking into the student dining hall with Pata was like walking onto a stage—conversations paused, heads turned, and not-so-subtle pointing ensued.
“Is this what it’s always like for you?” Evan asked Pata quietly as they collected their food. The dining hall had a small section with Patapon cuisine, which Evan now approached with newfound interest.
“Some days worse than others,” Pata replied with a casual bounce. “You get used to it. Humans are curious creatures.”
The Patapon food options were limited but authentic—foods designed to create harmonic flavors when consumed in sequence. Evan selected dishes similar to what he’d enjoyed at the feast, while Pata guided him toward combinations that would “sing well together.”
They found a table where they could stand comfortably—another accommodation issue Evan had never noticed before—and were soon joined by their usual lunch group: Miguel, Sasha from music production, and Lin from audio engineering.
“So,” Lin began without preamble, “you’re a Patapon now. How did that happen?”
Evan’s eye darted to Pata, who gave a slight nod—permission to share their personal ritual.
“Pata shared a special transformation rhythm with me,” Evan explained, keeping the deeper cultural significance private. “It’s a sacred tradition among his people.”
“Can anyone do it?” Sasha asked, fascinated. “Like, could I become a Patapon too?”
“It’s not a tourist experience,” Pata replied, a rare edge in his musical voice. “The Rhythm of Forms is shared only between deeply committed partners.”
Something in his tone ended that line of questioning. Instead, Miguel steered the conversation toward more practical matters.
“So how are you going to play guitar for your recital next month? That’s like, thirty percent of your final grade.”
Evan had been wondering the same thing. “I’m going to talk to Professor Mills after lunch. There must be adaptations. I mean, Patapons play instruments, right?”
“We have our own instruments,” Pata pointed out. “But yes, some learn human instruments with modifications.”
“I could help you redesign your fingerings,” Lin offered. “I did a project on adaptive instruments last semester.”
“Thanks,” Evan said gratefully. “I might need that.”
As he took a bite of his food, Evan was once again struck by the extraordinary sensory experience. The flavors didn’t just taste—they resonated, creating patterns of sensation that harmonized with his body’s natural rhythm.
“Oh wow,” he exclaimed. “Even cafeteria food is amazing like this.”
His friends watched with various degrees of amusement and curiosity as he savored each bite with obvious delight.
“Is the food really that different?” Sasha asked.
“Everything is different,” Evan replied honestly. “Sound, taste, touch—it’s all rhythm and pattern now. Like, see that student dropping his fork?” He pointed across the cafeteria. “I can feel the vibration pattern of it hitting the floor from here. It’s like having synesthesia, but for rhythm instead of color.”
His friends exchanged looks that Evan couldn’t quite interpret.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Miguel said. “It’s just… you sound happy. Like, really happy.”
Evan hadn’t considered his emotional state explicitly, but Miguel was right. Despite the stares, the adjustments, and the uncertainties, there was an underlying joy to experiencing the world this way.
“I am,” he realized aloud. “It’s like… like I’ve spent my whole life hearing music through a wall, and now the wall is gone.”
After lunch came Evan’s biggest test—his one-on-one guitar instruction with Professor Mills. He entered the practice room carrying his guitar case, feeling both determination and trepidation. The professor, a renowned classical guitarist in her fifties, was already there, tuning her instrument.
She looked up as Evan entered, her expression shifting from momentary confusion to recognition.
“Ah, Mr. Chen. I heard rumors of your transformation. Quite a dramatic change for mid-semester.”
“Yes, professor,” Evan replied, setting down his guitar case. “I’m still figuring out what it means for my playing.”
Professor Mills regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, let’s find out. Take out your guitar and show me what challenges you’re facing.”
Evan carefully removed his acoustic guitar from its case. The instrument that had felt like an extension of himself now seemed oversized and awkward in his Patapon hands. He positioned it as best he could, but immediately encountered problems—his round body shape made holding the guitar in the standard position impossible, and his three-fingered hands couldn’t form the chord shapes he’d practiced for years.
After several awkward attempts, he set the guitar down in frustration. “I can hear the music in my head perfectly—better than ever—but I can’t make my body produce it.”
Professor Mills nodded, unsurprised. “This is not unprecedented, you know. I’ve had students recover from hand injuries, and there are musicians with various physical differences who adapt their technique.” She paused. “There’s also a Patapon in the jazz department—Professor Jampon—who plays a modified guitar.”
“Could I meet with him?” Evan asked eagerly.
“I’ve already sent him a message,” Professor Mills smiled. “He’ll be joining us shortly. In the meantime, let’s think about alternatives. Your recital piece—would you consider performing it on a different instrument? Perhaps one better suited to your current form?”
Evan considered this. “Maybe. What did you have in mind?”
“Patapons excel at percussion. Your recital piece—Bach’s Prelude in D Minor—could be arranged for marimba or vibraphone, maintaining the harmonic structure while adapting to your new physical capabilities.”
Before Evan could respond, there was a cheerful pattern of knocks on the door—PON-PON-PATA-PON—and a Patapon entered, carrying what looked like a hybrid between a guitar and a traditional Patapon drum.
“Ah, Professor Jampon, thank you for coming so quickly,” Professor Mills greeted him.
“When I heard a student had transformed, I cleared my schedule,” Professor Jampon replied, his eye curving warmly toward Evan. “Most Patapons are born this way—we rarely get to witness the adjustment process.”
Evan bounced in the traditional Patapon greeting he’d learned. “Thank you for helping me, professor.”
“Call me Jampon,” the Patapon instructor said, setting down his unusual instrument. “All Patapons use their names directly—professor titles feel too formal among our kind.”
For the next hour, Jampon showed Evan various adaptations for playing stringed instruments with a Patapon body. His guitar-like instrument had been completely redesigned—the neck was shorter and wider, the strings arranged to accommodate three-fingered playing, and the body contoured to fit comfortably against a Patapon’s round form.
“I can’t redesign your guitar before your recital,” Jampon admitted, “but I can teach you Patapon techniques that might work. Our approach to music is fundamentally rhythmic—we don’t think in terms of melody first, but pattern first.”
He demonstrated a playing style that involved precise rhythmic patterns with minimal fingering changes—more like percussion on strings than traditional guitar technique. Evan tried to mimic the movements, his frustration gradually giving way to fascination as he produced sounds from his guitar that were completely different from his usual style, yet undeniably musical.
“This is… not what I expected,” Evan admitted.
“Transformation never gives exactly what we expect,” Jampon replied wisely. “It gives us what we need to discover. Keep practicing this technique daily. Your recital might feature a very different style than you planned, but authentic expression is more important than technical adherence to human traditions.”
Before leaving, Jampon gave Evan a set of modified picks designed for Patapon hands and an invitation to attend the Patapon music ensemble that met weekly on campus—a group Evan had known existed but had never thought to join.
The afternoon brought Evan’s audio engineering class with Professor Chen (no relation), who was more pragmatic about the transformation than Evan had anticipated.
“The frequency range of Patapon hearing extends approximately 15% higher than human range,” she explained matter-of-factly when Evan expressed concern about hearing frequencies differently. “This will actually be an advantage in audio engineering, allowing you to detect artifacts and overtones that might escape human perception.”
The lab portion of the class proved her right. Working with digital audio workstations was actually easier with his enhanced hearing, though manipulating the software controls required some adaptation for his three fingers. By the end of class, Evan had not only completed the assigned mixing exercise but had identified several subtle phase cancellation issues that his human ears had previously missed.
“Impressive work, Mr. Chen,” Professor Chen commented, examining his project. “Your transformation seems to have enhanced your critical listening skills considerably.”
“Thank you,” Evan replied, feeling a surge of confidence. “I’m still adjusting, but there seem to be unexpected benefits.”
“Indeed. The university prides itself on accommodating diverse forms and abilities.” She paused. “I assume this transformation is… by choice?”
The question, though delivered neutrally, carried weight. Evan considered carefully before answering.
“Yes,” he said finally. “It was offered as a gift, and I accepted. What I’m still deciding is whether it will be temporary or permanent.”
Professor Chen nodded thoughtfully. “A significant choice. In my experience, when students undergo magical or technological transformations—which happens more often than you might think—the most successful adaptations come when they fully embrace the new perspectives rather than trying to replicate their old methods exactly.”
It was surprisingly sound advice from the usually technical-minded professor.
By late afternoon, Evan was physically and emotionally exhausted. The constant stares, the stream of questions from classmates, and the mental effort of adapting to everything had taken their toll. He bounced wearily back to the dorm room, where Pata was already waiting, having finished his classes earlier.
“Rough rhythm?” Pata asked sympathetically as Evan collapsed onto their bed.
“Mixed,” Evan replied, his eye closing briefly. “Some things are amazing. My hearing in audio engineering class, the way I perceive musical structures now. But other things are so hard. My hands, the staring, the constant explaining…”
Pata bounced onto the bed beside him. “The first day is always hardest. When my family first came to your world, we barely left our assigned housing for weeks. Everything was overwhelming.”
“How did you adjust?”
“One rhythm at a time,” Pata said simply. “We found patterns we recognized, created new ones where needed, and gradually built a life that harmonized with this world without losing our own.”
Evan opened his eye, regarding his partner with newfound appreciation. “You’re incredibly resilient. I never fully understood what you navigate daily just to exist in human spaces.”
“And now?”
“Now I understand why you sometimes come home from class and just want to drum for hours,” Evan said with a small laugh. “It centers you.”
Pata nodded, reaching for a small practice drum from the shelf above their bed. “Would you like to learn? A simple relaxation rhythm?”
Evan sat up, fatigue momentarily forgotten. “Yes, please.”
Pata placed a second drum in Evan’s hands and began a gentle pattern—don-don-pata-pata-don-don. Evan followed, his Patapon hands finding the rhythm naturally. As they played together, Evan felt tension melting away, replaced by a harmonious sense of connection. The pattern created a resonance between them that was almost like meditation.
After several minutes, they set the drums aside, but the peaceful rhythm lingered in Evan’s consciousness.
“Better?” Pata asked.
“Much,” Evan replied. “I think I need to incorporate more Patapon practices if I’m going to make this work. I can’t just try to be a human in a Patapon body.”
Pata’s eye curved happily. “That’s wisdom speaking. Whatever you decide about permanence, experiencing our ways fully will give you true understanding.”
Evan was quiet for a moment, processing the day’s experiences. “Do you know what was strangest today? Not the stares or the adaptations, but realizing how many accommodations you make that I never noticed before. The desks, the cafeteria, the way professors address you—little things I was completely blind to.”
“This is why the Rhythm of Forms is sacred,” Pata explained softly. “It’s not just about changing bodies—it’s about changing perspective. True empathy can only come from experience.”
Evan remembered his music theory class that morning—how the polyrhythms had revealed themselves to him in a way he’d only intellectually grasped before. “I think I’m starting to understand music the way you do,” he said. “Not as something we create, but as something we discover and join with.”
“Yes,” Pata agreed, his eye warming. “This is the Patapon way. All life is rhythm waiting to be found and followed.”
They lay together on the bed, their round bodies fitting perfectly side by side, a harmony of form mirroring the rhythm they’d just shared.
“Tomorrow will be easier,” Pata promised. “And if not easier, at least more familiar.”
“I hope so,” Evan replied. “I still have my composition class, and I signed up for that ensemble Jampon mentioned. Oh, and I need to practice this new playing technique.”
“One rhythm at a time,” Pata reminded him gently.
As evening settled over the campus, they could hear other students in the hallway, the familiar sounds of dorm life continuing around them. But within their room, as Evan drifted toward sleep, what had once been mere noise now organized itself into comforting patterns—footsteps, voices, distant music—all forming an unconscious symphony that his Patapon perception recognized as the background rhythm of university life.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges and discoveries. The decision about permanence still loomed. But tonight, feeling the gentle vibration of Pata sleeping beside him, Evan felt a profound contentment in his transformed body. Whether this new form was temporary or permanent, he was learning a new way of experiencing music, the world, and love itself—through rhythm, through pattern, through the Patapon way of being.
And that knowledge, at least, would remain with him forever, regardless of his final form.