dysphoria

: a state of feeling very unhappy, uneasy, or dissatisfied

Years into their marriage, and Yuuri's family still fussed over letting Viktor do work at Yuutopia. Advertising had been no problem, but rolling up his sleeves and getting dirty was met with waving hands and admonishment. Luckily, Mari wasn't like that. Hiroko and Toshiya were out doing their monthly deep cleaning, which left Mari to take care of breakfast. Yuuri was allowed to sleep in, and was exempt from climbing ladders, cleaning gutters, or anything of the sort. Viktor was in suds up to his elbows as he scrubbed the dishes clean and Mari rinsed and dried them.

"Vicchan," Mari broke their comfortable silence, grabbing onto the next crusty rice bowl he was about to scrub. "Go look at Yuuri."

Viktor blinked. "Why?"

"Sister…." She made a sound searching for a word, before she gave up. "Go look." She said more forcefully, tugging the bowl out of his hand.

Viktor went upstairs without rinsing his hands, and he could feel his skin drying and tightening as the soap dried on it. A wet nose bumped through the ajar door before Viktor could pull it open. Makkachin stared up at him through the small crack in the door, before letting out a soft sigh. Viktor pulled it open the rest of the way.

"Yuuri…" He sang, his eyes searching the bed and then the room. It was as if a storm had run through—the entirety of both of their wardrobes lay scattered on the floor. The priest-blessed stomach wrap was tossed in a corner, where Mochi had pawed it into a nest to curl up on.

Yuuri sat in the middle of it, shirtless and his cheeks wet. He was chewing on his nails, a habit Viktor hated, and had spent a year working with Yuuri to break it.

"Oh, Yuuri…." Viktor's heart sank and he tip toed across the room. A shirt from Versace lay crumpled under one of Yuuri's god-awful cheap Uniqlo button down.

Viktor tried not to be angry. He couldn't be, when he looked at Yuuri, wrought with anxiety and a mess. A quiet mess, which was the worst.

Viktor sat down across from Yuuri, gently taking his hands out of his mouth. He clucked his tongue—some of his cuticles were bleeding. Viktor stared at them as he ran his thumb over Yuuri's knuckles.

After a few minutes, the words bubbled up between hiccups.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing fits."

"She won't stop kicking."

Viktor took each phrase in stride, going from stroking to massaging Yuuri's hands. He wanted to hug him close, but Yuuri resisted. He was tense, worming this way and that. It reminded him of one particularly bad night, years ago. One Viktor couldn't forget—when Yuuri had told him that he felt like he wanted to tear his skin off.

Viktor had spent that night tracing kisses along every reaffirming part of Yuuri he loved. His chest, his stomach, his Adam's apple. The dip of his hips under his waistband, his hairy legs and calloused feet.

That was going to be harder now. Yuuri's face was softer, his stomach round and webbed with old and new stretch marks. The hormones helping their child grow were rubbing away at Yuuri physically and emotionally.

"Akari-chan," Viktor sang, lost. "Stop kicking Papa, or Daddy will be very mad,"

A wet sniffle turned into a laugh. "You're ridiculous, Vitya,"

"I know you don't have a lot of room, but Daddy promises you that you have a ten meter room waiting for you!" Viktor continued his sing-songy voice.

"Vitya, that's huge," Yuuri whispered, "Don't be ridiculous."

"Anything for my King and her Princess." Viktor said pointedly. Yuuri flopped into his chest , defeated , and he wrapped his arms around him. Spotting Yuuri's phone, he stretched far enough to snag it.

He had figured out the lock code early in their relationship—it took him one try. He put in his birthday and it had unlocked. Viktor had changed his to Yuuri's birthday the same night.

He pulled open the text app, tapping out a short message to Mari.

An hour later, a Uniqlo bag and a larger off-white branded bag were slid through the door. Makkachin wagged her tail, but didn't move from her spot. She had joined them on the floor, leaning into both of them and occasionally giving a wet kiss to Yuuri's cheeks (And Viktor's, when he whined of jealousy.)

Yuuri crept forward, pulling the items out of the bag. He worried his bottom lip, spreading out the maternity jeans over his lap and smoothing out the folds.

"Oh thank God! No more sweatpants!" Viktor gasped. He may have played it up a little, but Yuuri would never know. This is what he needed. Sweatpants and boyfriend shirts would not last nine months. Mari had been the perfect person to ask. The new outfits were all neutral, the majority in blue tones, and the jeans were already rolled into a cuff.

Yuuri slid them on, nervously buttoning the elastic waist. He pulled out a t-shirt and a sweater, gingerly pulling them on. Viktor praised every designer in his adopted country, even the awful ones who figured plus-size means a tent. Whatever mix Mari bought was perfect.

"I was thinking, " Viktor spoke up as Yuuri settled into an outfit, looking at ease and comfortable. "It sucks missing the season. Why don't we invite some old friends to visit?"

Yuuri froze, a deer in the headlights. "Like who?"

"Phichit. Chris…."

"Leo, Seung-gil.." Yuuri supplemented. "Everyone?"

"Except that Jay guy."

"Viktor…" Yuuri sighed. "That would be nice. Let's invite people we know the name of, okay?"