**VERY IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ**

In this chapter, harm to a pregnant individual occurs and the possibility of a miscarriage is mentioned. If this may be upsetting for you, I recommend that you read up to the asterisks preceding "It was like deja vu." and continue at the asterisks preceding "It was only once they got to the...". I'll summarize the events missed in the end notes, though I'm sure they can be inferred. Thank you.

***

Yuri's day had barely even begun, and he already wanted to go home. Ever since waking up that morning, he'd known that it was going to be a bad day-- however much he tried to seem unbothered. Everything was just... more difficult. Waking up alone, the absence of warm breath on the back of his neck while he brushed his teeth, even getting dressed and stretching the fabric of his shirt over his baby bump was more arduous than usual that morning.

Breakfast might've been the worst. They were both aware of what day it was, painfully aware, the writing on the cat-picture calendar winking at them from where it hung on the wall in the silent kitchen, the accompanying little heart mocking.

Neither of them mentioned it: in fact, neither of them said a word-- not even short good mornings were uttered. They pretended that everything was normal, a sick, twisted game that, today especially, was beyond ludicrous because what the hell was normal anymore?

When Victor arrived to pick Yuri up, it was with relief that he left his husband's presence and sought relief in the haven of the studio. Ignoring Victor's sledgehammer-subtle attempts to emphasize what a lovely day it was, his intentions in doing so unclear to Yuri, by the time they got to the studio Yuri was desperate for class to start and drive the rest of the world away.

***

If a brief respite from the hell that today already was was what Yuri had been expecting, it was the polar opposite that he received. It was Tuesday, one of the two days that had apparently decided his life was too easy and consequently did everything in their 24 hours' power to change that, and he had four scheduled classes to teach -- along with the daily studio chores -- before he would be free to crawl into bed and hide from the world. A concept which, honestly, was incredibly appealing.

Yuri threw himself into his first class of the day, Off-Ice Figure, and made a concentrated effort to devote his mind entirely to its teaching, and, though his thoughts occasionally wandered back to the several subjects he was determinedly not thinking about, he was mostly successful. During Senior Pointe, too, did he manage to (for the most part) keep his mind on his students. It was only when Advanced Lyrical rolled around that Yuri's plan was completely and utterly foiled.

The class ran through warm-ups, as usual, and spent some time drilling disjointed sections of their dance that were deemed substandard, and it was only at the tail-end of class, only fifteen minutes or so remaining, that Yuri's personal atomic bomb was dropped.

"Excuse me, Yuri?" Alexei raised his hand as Yuri clapped his hands and called his students to stop. Yuri looked over. "I was just wondering," Alexei began, voice pleasant enough to either be a backhanded compliment to one of his other dancers or yet another remark of the asshole variety. "But I thought you said that Otabek finished the music-- that we could dance to it today?"

Ekaterina, out of the corner of Yuri's eye, hissed slightly and shot Alexei a minute middle finger while, at the same time, her face remained impressively impassive-- indeed, had Yuri himself not been so adept at both sending and receiving hidden 'fuck you's under Lilia's eagle eye, he likely would not have caught the gesture at all.

Ekaterina's reaction to Alexei's question was in the minority, though, and the rest of the class looked up at Yuri eagerly, practically clamoring to hear and perform to their infamous music for the first time. One glance around at his expectant students and Yuri kissed his attempts at distracting himself goodbye, nodding resignedly at his class, and a cheer erupted from the majority of them.

"Yes," Yuri said, as he slowly moved over to the music station to cue up the song he'd had sitting on his phone for weeks, "I did. Places!" Yuri clapped his hands once and the teens of his class scattered; Studio C was, for a moment, alight with movement before all was still. Yuri did not miss Ekaterina's sour expression before she morphed her face back into its performance mask, taking her position.

Yuri made it back to the front of the room in the three-second time delay before the music started, and had just enough time to suppress a wince at the bright, reflected light from the mirror before the music began.

Slowly, in waves, the class began to move. A girl, center stage, lifted her chin as she straightened her back where she knelt, hunched over herself, arms crossed over her chest, and brought her right arm with her as she slowly rose to sit up straight, letting it float up until it was floating over, following the newly convex arch of her back. With a calculated, sweeping motion, her right knee came out from under her, traveling with her until she faced the opposite wall, her right leg extended and pointed as she rested her weight on the left.

Around her, the company began to move, people lifting out of poses and moving through pseudo-solo counts, everyone doing something different, and whirling around her as she remained in place, eyes glazed and cloudy, figure still.

Then, one boy, Dmitri, moved out of the ranks of lone dancers, and, with a few great jetes, came to stand at Inna(the lead girl)'s right side. He extended an arm to her, and when she did not respond, transitioned into an arabesque, his right leg steadily moving higher through the air until it was level with his forehead, and only then did he brush his fingers over Inna's, and she woke, seemingly, from a trance.

Inna, as though following Dmitri's invitation, lifted herself (and it looked as if by magic) from kneeling to standing, her right leg remaining stretched outward the entire time, until, at last, it rose to twist behind her body and mirror Dmitri's pose, her arabesque level with her head as her body tilted toward Dmitri's, questions dancing in her eyes. The company remained in motion around them, but rather than detract from the moment of stillness, they added to it, their choreography winding and looping, giving the onlooker the impression of conflicting emotions. As one girl leaped, another fell into a rolling fan kick, everything moving in perfect harmony, clashing in all the right ways.

In the midst of all of this chaos, Inna, who, as of yet, had been staring into Dmitri's eyes, her own wide and inquiring, the hint of a smile on her lips, jolted. She fell from her releve, her free leg lowering slowly as she looked around her, only then becoming aware that she and Dmitri were not alone. Dmitri, sensing this unsureness, moved from his arabesque and, hand in hers, came to stand before her, reassuring.

After a moment of hesitation, Inna went back up onto the ball of her foot and allowed herself to be guided in a turn by Dmitri, her free leg, having stilled at his movement, rising again until she was in a standing split.

A boy swept by the couple then, a grand jete ended by him landing on his knee and rolling back up to his feet carrying him before and past them, and Inna, whose face had gradually been relaxing while focused on Dmitri, followed the boy with her eyes, jerking suddenly away from her partner. Leaping quickly, apparently haphazardly, after the boy who'd brought her back to reality, Inna twirled and turned through the dancers, the few who had been bright and cheerful barring her way and those who had been watching her encounter with Dmitri with jealous eyes flocking around her and spurring her on.

Dmitri, in all of this time, danced a softer, but no less urgent, version of Inna's motions behind her, buffeted again and again by the dancers who seemed to be growing in number and who formed a wall around Inna.

Inna at last caught up with the boy she sought in the center of the floor, posed in an opposite arabesque to the one she'd performed earlier with Dmitri, face lost and distressed, and she reached both arms toward the unnamed but unmistakable boy. And then Dmitri was there, the company dancers spinning and flitting around him, seemingly tearing at him as he reached out to Inna, pulling her away from the boy.

Inna let herself be led away, but time and time again through the dance she migrated to the center of the floor, always following the boy with the jealous features and cunning smile, always falling into his trap and finding herself on the precipice of his embrace before Dmitri reached her, and pulled her back. Each time this latter thing happened, some of the clouds would clear from Inna's face, and she would sweep away without any hesitation; the longer she danced with Dmitri, the more she seemed relieved. But still, her eyes followed the boy, and the second he curled his fingers, she was once again under his torment, and streaked away from her love, following her captor into the center of the stage.

But, after too long a battle, Inna, whose eye had again been caught by the boy who would not, would never let her go, slowed her movements from the frenzied, uncontrollable rush to get to him, to a calmer, elegant waltz in the wake of his path. When, this time, she arrived in the center of the stage, she didn't arabesque, she didn't kneel-- she spun. Fouette after fouette after fouette she turned and when, at last, Inna drew out of the sequence, she found Dmitri at her side, watching her with eyes crinkled at the corners.

Slowly, ever so slowly, they both moved, hands reaching out and fingers entwining as they rose once more to their twin arabesques. The music faded out with the two leads in their beginning positions and the boy who could not let Inna go crouching at her left side, reaching out to grasp her ankle, his hand far out of his reach. Inna's eyes were focused on Dmitri's, and the boy was pushed aside, though never forgotten.

Yuri realized, with a jolt of swirling emotion, that the dance was done. Yuri swallowed, his breath not seeming to reach his lungs as his vision blurred.

"Good," he said to his students, who were slowly coming out of their ending poses. They turned to look at him, expecting to be corrected and to continue hammering out the details for their last ten minutes of class, but, fuck, not here. "You are dismissed for the day; begin cool-down stretches."

Yuri left.

He strode across the room, looking straight ahead, and held his breath as it threatened to rattle. He walked right past the front desk, ignored the calls from Yuuri, and made a beeline for his office. The dam broke the second the door closed behind him.

Yuri gasped, tears flooding his vision and making blurry shapes of his desk and filing cabinet; his fingers fumbled desperately with the lock on the door behind him. They, like the rest of him, though, were trembling, and he soon gave up his attempts to martial them and allowed his arms to wrap around himself, stretching as far as they could go around his abdomen in what would be a comforting embrace. His hands only reached a little past his belly button on both sides, but still, he clung on as the sobs wracked his body, kicks vibrating up to join the wreckage of what used to be Yuri from within his abdomen.

Yuri managed to fumble his way to the desk, collapsing heavily into the chair and burying his face in his hands, elbows propped up on the wood. Yuri held his breath, hoping to stop the flow of tears, but at last committed himself to the fact that his sobs wouldn't stop any time soon, and used the last, small part of his mind that wasn't rendered completely overcome by anguish to try his best to stay quiet, hoping not to be overheard.

And he had thought that he'd be able to distract himself today, Yuri thought bitterly-- what a joke that had been. It had taken one class, one carefully choreographed routine, one fucking love song, and everything that had made up the shell of what used to be Yuri Plisetsky-Altin came crumbling down, dissolving into the dust that gathered on the studio mirrors.

He would've been fine. He would've made it through the day had it not been for the song. Yuri wanted, desperately wanted to blame his hormonal, irrational, overly-emotional brain for his breakdown, but, in that last, logical, little part of his mind, he knew that wasn't true. Maybe when Yuri teared up looking at a picture of a bear in an advertisement, or when that stupid Statefarm commercial came on with the singer/songwriter dude in the cowboy hat, or when Yuri found an extra portion of food he hadn't made in the fridge, or maybe even when his daughter kicked her delight at what had once been her parents' song every night, he could pass it off as hormones, but not today.

Today, it was real. This time was the one time Yuri could admit to himself that he missed him, because today was the one day he had the right to miss him. Today, and only today, he was allowed to mourn his loss.

A quiet, hesitant knock on the door came and Yuri looked up, roughly scrubbing his hands over his face to at least make a dent in the tear streaks he knew would be there.

"Yes?" Yuri called, a gasp in his voice as he tried to steady it.

"Sorry," Ekaterina's timid voice came from the other side, slightly slurred as though she was biting her lip, "um, the Junior Ballet class is starting now. I wouldn't have bothered you, but one of the moms has a question."

Had it already been that long?

"Yes," Yuri managed, using all of his strength to toughen his voice, though it still sounded painfully strained, even to his own ears. "Thank you. I'll be right there."

The sound of receding footsteps from the door, and Yuri took a deep, rattling breath. He stood from his desk, took up a box of tissues, and walked across the room. He stopped just before the door, looking into the tiny mirror he had hung on the wall. His eyes were red; his face was white; Yuri dried his tears: his time to cry had passed.

***

Yuri was 34 weeks pregnant, and, apparently, his sleep cycle was out to get him. For once, he didn't really have anything to blame it on: the baby had, after listening to her nightly rendition Phantom of the Opera, let him sleep, he hadn't woken up more than his normal twice to use the bathroom in the night, and his alarm was in perfect working order, but, for some reason, Yuri was just exhausted, and had overslept. Again.

Stumbling through his morning routine, Yuri's haste was encumbered heavily by his abdomen which had grown significantly since his last mad dash to get to the studio on time. Yuri waddled into the bathroom, cringing ruefully at the memory of what that day had yielded, and made quick (as quick as was currently possible, anyway) work of stripping out of his pajamas and getting into the shower. It was only when Yuri's bare feet touched the cool, mock-ivory tile of the bathroom floor that Yuri remembered he'd forgotten to take the carpeted bath mat out of the dryer the night previous. With a sigh, Yuri shook his head, resolving to do it when he got home from the studio.

Yuri stepped under the warm spray of the shower and let out another little sigh, this one in bliss, though, as the eternally tight muscles in his back loosened slightly under the caress of the water. Yuri washed as quickly as he dared and was just rinsing his hair of conditioner when his phone pinged on the edge of the sink-- Victor.

Yuri swore quietly as he shoved his head beneath the showerhead and scrubbed more roughly than he normally would have, hasty to get outside to Victor's waiting car. He'd known that he was late but he hadn't thought he was that late.

Switching off the water, Yuri bent to grab his towel from where it had fallen from the rod of the shower curtain. Bracing himself on the wall, Yuri carefully lowered himself into an awkward sort of squat, reaching blindly down for the towel, vision impeded by his rotund abdomen. Catching the fabric in his fingers, Yuri eased himself back up to a standing position, and, after sending a quick text to Victor to wait five minutes, dried himself and managed to get dressed in record time.

By the time Yuri slid into the passenger seat of Victor's car, ten-ish minutes later, he was dressed, though his hair was still wet, and he had a banana in his bag for later. Victor eyed him as he got in, concern etching itself into his brow at the sight of Yuri's unusually disheveled appearance.

"Is everything alright?" He asked carefully before his expression darkened and an aggressive tone colored the concern in his voice, "Did Otabe--"

"I woke up late," Yuri said, preemptively silencing Victor's ready stream of accusations and insults towards Yuri's husband. "Sorry, I hope I haven't made you late."

Victor, picking up on Yuri's distraction, nodded slowly and started the car, moving away from the pavement and out into the street beyond, though not before offering the house and Otabek within it a distrustful glare.

***

That night, Yuri returned home with an exhaustion very nearly equal to his hunger and the aching of his feet. After arriving late to the studio, Yuri had scrambled to get everything ready in time for his first class, and hadn't been able to eat his meager imitation of a breakfast until the day was half done and he was eating his lunch with it. Naturally, too, the Junior Ballet class had been particularly rowdy that afternoon so, even with Ekaterina's help, they had been exceptionally difficult to manage.

With the chaos of the day dealt with and done, though, Yuri all but collapsed into a kitchen chair, letting out a quiet groan as his aching feet were finally relieved. Yuri was very tempted to simply not get up even once he'd finished eating dinner-- to allow himself to just fall asleep (or die, whichever came first) in the chair and never stand up again. Even as he distractedly considered it, though, Yuri's feet gave a throb that reminded him the only way to truly achieve at least a temporary relief, was to soak them, and, in doing so, complete the nightly ritual he'd adopted in recent weeks.

Wincing slightly as he stood, Yuri put his plate in the sink, intending to wash it later, and trekked out of the kitchen, passing Otabek in the hallway as the latter made his way into the room to prepare his dinner. Otabek followed Yuri with a glance as he crossed the threshold, wincing sympathetically at Yuri's obvious discomfort.

Reaching the stairs, Yuri felt eyes on him, and turned as Otabek, realizing he had been caught, quickly retreated into the kitchen, any trace of subtlety absent from his movements. Yuri allowed himself a few minutes to ponder this, and only once he reached the top of the stairs did he realize that he'd been waddling, a hand on his lower back and another on the heaviest part of his abdomen, having forgotten to force the aforementioned gait out of his movements in his shattered state. His embarrassment over the matter was driven clean out of Yuri's mind, though, when he ventured into the bathroom and leaned down to turn on the warm water in the tub.

Sitting on a stool by the edge of the bath, shoes and socks painstakingly and gymnastically having been removed, Yuri dipped his feet into the wonderfully balmy water and sighed blissfully. As the soothing warmth lapped at Yuri's swollen ankles, Yuri let himself relax into the wall behind his stool, lulling on the edges of sleep. Here, then, if he couldn't pass out at the kitchen table-- he was technically soaking his feet, so he couldn't say that he was forsaking his temporary relief. But then his back twinged at his strange positioning, legs thrown over the side of the tub, Yuri balanced rather precariously on a stool leaning against the wall, his abdomen resting on his thighs, and he resisted the temptation.

Yuri tried briefly to lean down and massage his sore feet in the soothing heat of the water, but abandoned the attempt when his hand barely reached level with his knee from his position leaning over his abdomen. He'd have to settle for just the water, he supposed, dismissing the pursuit, though he couldn't stop a pang of longing at the thought of a foot rub.

Yuri remained on his perch a while longer, only spurring his body to motion when his back began to join the chorus of aches and pains that made up his body, and he accepted that his time in the bathroom was no longer.

Yuri braced himself against the wall as he carefully leaned back, lifting his knee and getting one foot over the rim of the tub. The same process was enacted with the other and Yuri managed to shift enough to unstopper the plug and let the bath drain. His wet feet met the cool, tile floor and Yuri remembered that he had once again forgotten to put the bath mats in place.

One hand carefully holding the edge of the bathtub and the other steadying him against the wall, Yuri planted his feet beneath him, preparing to stand.

***

It was like deja vu. Otabek stood at the kitchen counter, washing the dishes left in the sink before Yuri got a chance to, and, when he heard it, dropped a mug into the low, foamy water. The mug shattered, but Otabek was not focused on that now.

Strange, it seemed, in hindsight, that, the first time, the false alarm, Otabek completely and utterly panicked over a maybe. Even stranger that, the second time, Otabek was calm; steady.

Maybe it was because the first time had been a maybe, Otabek would later contemplate-- when scenarios were open-ended, the possible results were much scarier. That was what fear was-- the lack of knowledge, the possibilities of what lurked in the dark. The first time, Otabek's heart had beat a mile a minute, his thoughts fragmented and incoherent with fear, with the maybe that haunted the nightmares of all expectant parents. None of that happened this time. This time, Otabek just turned off the water in the sink, put down the sponge he had been using, and made his way quickly upstairs. There was no uncertainty now: Otabek knew what had happened.

***

When Otabek found Yuri sprawled on the bathroom floor, his left arm struggling to support himself and keep the weight off of his abdomen, he wasted no time in moving to his side, crouching next to him as Yuri stared at his face, horror in his eyes. His right arm was curled around his abdomen, holding it protectively as his breaths came in ragged, little gasps.

"Can you move?" Otabek asked, his voice steady even as fear washed over him. He would stay calm though-- for Yuri, who, if the little whimper that had just slipped from his lips was anything to go by, was beside himself. "Does anything feel hurt?"

Shakily, Yuri shook his head, and accepted the careful arm around his upper back, the hand on his abdomen. Yuri winced as Otabek began to help him up and Otabek grimaced, apologetic, before righting him.

Otabek kept a steadying arm around Yuri down the stairs, slipping sandals on for him before they left. It wasn't necessary to speak; they both knew where they were going.

Yuri wrapped his arms around his abdomen as he eased himself down into the passenger seat, running his hands over his belly endlessly and staring listlessly out the window. It was raining, and the tear tracks on his face were mirrored in the stormy sky.

***

It was only when they got to the ER that the full scope of the situation hit Otabek, and he finally accessed that heart stopping, pulse-racing, fully contradictory but infinite terror that had eluded him while focusing on Yuri. It took more willpower than Otabek had known he possessed to stop himself from openly crying or taking Yuri's hand from where he lay in an Emergency Room bed.

Centuries washed over them before a doctor appeared, pushing through the privacy curtain set up around Yuri's bed and the seat next to it.

"Yuri Plisetsky-Altin?" He asked and Otabek nodded, Yuri's hands just tensed on his abdomen. "It says here that you had a fall? Came in to get checked out?" Yuri nodded himself this time, and the doctor gave him a small, gentle smile. "Okay," he said, "let's see Baby."

It was only hesitantly that Yuri removed his hands from his abdomen when the doctor asked him, and, looking thoroughly lost with what to do with them but unable to not caress his belly at the moment, Yuri cupped the base of it with his right hand and the very top with his left, narrowly avoiding the blue, ultrasound goo.

The world stopped when the doctor placed the wand on Yuri's stomach. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Otabek was more than ready to pass out when a steady, rhythmic thumping filled the air.

Yuri let out a cry of relief as his eyes filled with tears again, fixed unblinkingly on the screen that showed the baby wiggling as he felt it from within. Otabek, likewise, was completely incapable of anything other than letting out a gasp-like breath of air in relief, focussed similarly on the screen.

The doctor smiled at them and gently squeezed Yuri's shoulder. "Your baby girl is perfectly healthy," he said, and waited a minute or so until both parents had recovered themselves enough to be able to hear anything besides that whooshing thumping that had just saved both of their lives. "Now," he said, turning to Yuri, "whenever we get a patient in the ER, we like to briefly go through their history, make sure everything's okay, you know." Yuri and Otabek both nodded and the former finally ripped his gaze from the monitor. "It says here that you're 34 weeks pregnant and have been diagnosed with Preeclampsia-- is that correct?" Yuri and Otabek both nodded again, neither fully up to speech so soon. The doctor had apparently dealt with enough traumatized soon-to-be parents not to be phased, and moved along without comment. "How is everything going?" he asked, "Have you visited your OBGYN for a checkup recently?"

"My appointment's tomorrow," Yuri seemed to have found his voice. "Why?"

"I was wondering if your doctor has spoken to you about activity restriction, or modified bedrest, at all?" The doctor said, "It's quite common with Preeclampsia patients in late term-- especially in severe cases like your own."

"No," Yuri said, eyebrows knitting together, "what is that? Is there something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," the doctor said firmly, and Yuri visibly calmed, "reviewing your notes, it's an option I'd recommend for you, though." Otabek nodded, recognizing that the doctor was probably right-- in his research MBR had been prescribed for a good percentage of patients. "Activity restriction, or modified bed rest," the doctor continued, "is essentially what it says: with this treatment, you would spend the majority of your day resting, either in bed or on the couch, and, while you could still practice some low-stress exercises, do some light housework, maybe work from home, depending on your job, you would leave most of the chores and cooking to your husband." He glanced at Otabek, who nodded. "It would be prescribed for the remainder of your pregnancy, necessitating you to start your maternity leave a bit early, and the goal would be to help you carry to term, since Preeclampsia pregnancies often make that difficult.

"I'd recommend it for that reason as well as the fact that Preeclampsia cases have been known to have serious complications in late term, especially when the mother is working too hard or not getting adequate rest. While doctors are moving away from the notion of bedrest, I think that it would be the safest option for both you and your baby, and I'd like to ask that you talk to your OB about it at your next appointment. Realistically, the sooner the treatment could be put in practice, the better."

Otabek nodded; Yuri looked rather overwhelmed. "Would he be able to walk around the block occasionally? It's been proven to be a good way to stay healthy while on bed rest, right? And since it's not strict bed rest, according to what I've read, it wouldn't be a problem?"

The doctor nodded, "Yes, short, daily walks, maybe walking the dog or with another child, are one of the best ways to maintain the muscles needed for birth and caring for Baby later, during pregnancy. It would also help if you two kept a set schedule for day-to-day activities, fixed times for Yuri to rest, eat, work, etc. It's a successful tool for patients who implement it."

Otabek nodded again, glancing at Yuri, who apparently had started actively listening to the doctor's words and was now echoing Otabek's motions.

"Now, unless you two have any questions, I'd like to let you get home, Yuri," when neither Yuri nor Otabek presented him with a question he just smiled and offered Yuri a wipe to clean the gel off of his abdomen. "I'll give the nurse my recommendation for your file, and don't forget to talk to your doctor," he said as he stepped back through the curtain. "Have a good night!"

"You too," Otabek called after him, before turning to look at Yuri, who was smoothing his shirt over his abdomen. Yuri accepted Otabek's help in sitting up from the bed, and when they got home, went straight to sleep.

The next day at Yuri's appointment, his OB agreed with the ER doctor's assessment and officially put Yuri on modified bed rest.

At least, Otabek thought as he drove them home, now Yuri would finally have to accept some help.

***

When Otabek had initially proposed that he inform Victor and Yuuri about the doctor's treatment plan, he'd done it with the knowledge that it would be hard. He'd suggested it anyway, though, because any fool with eyes could see how exhausted Yuri was just about all of the time now, and, finally with an excuse for him to stay in bed, Otabek intended to keep him there.

He'd known that telling Victor and Yuuri (really, just Victor) would be difficult and arduous, and that, more likely than the sun rising in the East, Victor would be as much of an asshole about it as possible, probably even try to start an argument. He hadn't known that he would be drawn in as easily as he was.

Maybe it was because the stress of the day before had gotten to him; maybe it was because he was even more worried about Yuri than usual and his nerves were stretched thin; maybe it was because all of the months of abuse from Victor had finally overcome his composure and need for punishment; for whatever reason, though, Otabek lost his temper, and set Victor's entire world on its side.

"I bet you just love having him trapped here," Victor spat, glaring at Otabek. "Kept captive by you, stuck in bed all day while you force your company on him."

They had gone through the essentials of modified bed rest at least three times already, and Victor had started four fights and counting-- the last one (over the subject that Otabek was unqualified to take care of Yuri) annoying even Yuuri, who was not its aim, to the point where he had stuck up for Otabek and told Victor to shut up, himself. Otabek had appreciated that quite a bit since, while he had never been outright hostile toward Otabek the way his husband was, Yuuri had obviously been mad at him, too, though they had seemed to reach a careful truce for the sake of Yuri's wellbeing when Preeclampsia had come into the picture. Indeed, this alliance had proved vital to Otabek's defense in the final argument, Yuuri snapping at Victor that Otabek knew more about Yuri's condition than even Yuuri (who was a veritable spout of information on all things baby) did, and that he'd take perfect care of Yuri.

The four fights, though, had all proven taxing, and had taken their toll on Otabek's patience, so, now, as Victor angled for the fifth argument, Otabek was getting dangerously close to losing his cool.

"I'm not--" Otabek started to defend himself, annoyance flickering in his face-- Victor cut him off before he could speak though.

"I won't have you manipulating him!" Victor barked, ignoring Yuuri's sigh as he plopped back down on the sofa, from which he had earlier risen in the quixotic hope that argument three might be derailed and that they might get home. "Leave him trapped with you and before we know it, you'll have convinced him to take you back!"

"I won't--" Otabek tried again, grinding his teeth, his composure slipping.

"Yuri's vulnerable right now-- I'm not leaving him at your mercy. You won't get him to take you back now, I won't let you! You're not worth his second glance-- you miserable, worthless, sorry-excuse-for-a-man who goes around kissing the first person he sees without a care in the wo--"

"I didn't kiss her!" And the dam broke. Victor had finally pushed him too far and he'd lost it. He couldn't take it anymore. Did Victor seriously think he wanted this? "She kissed me! Fucking jumped on me and by the time I pushed her off, Yuri had already seen-- what the fuck do you want from me?!"

The moment the words were out of Otabek's mouth, he regretted them. He wanted to take them back-- needed to take them back, but had no way of doing so.

For several moments, no one spoke, the heavy silence permeating every last corner of the room, broken only by Otabek's ragged breathing.

In the end, it was Yuuri who spoke first.

"Otabek," he murmured, looking distressed, "What-- why--"

Like a balloon popped, the fury from a moment before drained out of Otabek, and he deflated, sagging into an armchair across from the couch. He gave a defeated gesture. "You didn't need to know," was all he said, his voice low and dejected, "I didn't mean to tell you; I'm sorry."

Yuuri eyed him in bewilderment, "Nevermind that-- Otabek, why didn't you say anything?"

"It wasn't important."

"Wasn't important?" Victor parrotted, looking at Otabek like he had never seen him before. "All this time, all these months..." He trailed off, horror dawning on his face at what Otabek assumed to be the man's own actions, "Otabek this changes everything!"

"It doesn't," Otabek insisted quietly, staring at his fingers, entwined as they hung between his knees. "I still cheated. Nothing's changed."

"But if she kissed you," Victor began, "then you didn't cheat. She did kiss you, right?"

"Yes, but--"

"Then you're fine!" Victor said, emphatic almost to the point of anger. "It wasn't your fault, so you didn't ch--"

"Yes, I did." Otabek's voice had long since taken on a tired quality, but now he was slightly more energetic, if only because he had to make them understand. "I might not have kissed her, but it was still my fault."

"How could it be?" Victor challenged aggressively.

"I don't know," Otabek said miserably, "I led her on, or something. She was hanging off me all night-- the second Yuri left to get drinks she wouldn't leave me alone; talking to me, touching me, flirting with me," Otabek looked ill. "I tried to be polite, but obviously that didn't work because the second I started to walk away she jumped on me. I don't know what I did, if I didn't make it clear enough that I was married, that I wasn't interested, but somehow it was my fault!" The self-damnation in his voice spoke volumes.

"But that was still wasn't you," Victor insisted, as, in the background, Yuuri studied Otabek carefully, apparently reading him like the open book he'd been trying so hard not to be. "You didn't initiate the kiss!"

"But I still kissed her!" Otabek shot back, growing steadily sick of Victor's half-assed attempts to defend him. "Even if I didn't want to, I did! I kissed someone other than the man I'm married to: I cheated, whether I wanted to or not." Otabek said this with a fury in his face that made it painfully obvious how long he'd been punishing himself for this. "And to make it worse, I hurt Yuri. I promised him that I would never leave him, that he was enough, and then he saw me like that-- can you imagine how he felt? Victor, he looked so heartbroken." There were tears in his eyes, "To see him look like that, to know I caused it--" Otabek's voice broke and he hung his head, scrubbing roughly at his face.

"Otabek," Yuuri spoke gently, scooting forward on the couch to squeeze his shoulder, "If you just told Yuri, I'm sure he would understand."

"He would." Victor agreed softly, "He'd forgive you in a heartbeat."

The effect of this, though, was far from what either of them had expected or intended.

Otabek let out a wet, mirthless laugh, "That's the problem," he said thickly, shaking his head, "he would forgive me, and he'd destroy himself in the process."

"He's destroying himself now," Victor said, confused by Otabek's words, "nothing could be worse than how he's living right now-- he thinks you don't love him anymore. Otabek, if you just told him, it would be hard, yeah, but things would be okay."

Otabek shook his head, "You don't get it," he said, "things would be okay for me, maybe, but what about Yuri?

"Yuri would forgive me immediately, you know he would, but he still wouldn't be okay. Emotions aren't logical-- everything he's felt since Worlds wouldn't just go away, and you know him— he'd bury his pain and refuse to let anyone see that anything was wrong. It would invalidate his feelings, if he knew; it would kill him, Victor." And, at last, understanding dawned in his eyes, "At least, with me painted as the evil, cheating spouse his world is black and white and even he knows that he has the right to be upset, and that way he stands a chance at accepting help." Otabek continued, "Do you think I want to hurt him? It's killing me seeing him like this. I want to take him into my arms and hold him and tell him everything will be okay but I can't, not if I want him to be okay."

"So you're going to lose him?" Victor asked, looking deeply saddened but quietly resigned, as if he knew what Otabek said was truth, "Just like that? You're going to give up both the man you love and your child without even a fight?"

"I have to." Otabek's voice was quiet; he was long resigned to his decision. "It'll be better for him if I do. Easier. He doesn't need his head messed with any more than it already is."

Victor shook his head silently, at a loss.

It was Yuuri who spoke.

"Otabek," he said quietly, "what you want to do... it's noble, but depression can be beaten— it's not some insurmountable monster. Yuri will heal— with you as well as without you. You don't have to give him up."

"It's too late now," Otabek said, his voice hollow as he shook his head, "all that matters is that he get better, that he be okay." He looked up, suddenly firm, authoritative, "You can not tell him." He said, "He can't know." He watched the couple, both looking pained.

Slowly, Victor nodded, and, after a long, searching gaze at Otabek, Yuuri did, too.

"You're making the wrong choice," Yuuri said as he stood, shaking his head, "but it's your choice. I'll let you make it."

"It's for Yuri." Otabek said, because, for him, that was more that reason enough.

***

**Summary of skipped section**

In this chapter, Yuri slips in the bathroom and is taken to the ER; thankfully, Yuri ends up fine, and is merely put on bedrest.

**A/N starts here**

Ahh, the big reveal! I've seen people theorizing in the comments and I hope this meets your expectations! I've been really nervous about your response to this, so I hope you're not *too* disappointed. Otabek's logic in this is admittedly EXTREMELY flawed, but try to keep it in mind that, even though he's not going through what Yuri is, he's wrestling with his own demons and he's such an intensely loyal person that causing Yuri this much pain, ESPECIALLY in this way, has him spiraling down a hole of self-loathing and for-Yuri's-welfare, he's-better-off-without-me nonsense.

Ah well, there will be a resolution, we just have to wait for it. Not long now! Hold on!

(Also: "All I Ask of You" came up on my Spotify as I was coding the last scene and I was just like, timing??? XD)

I'd love to hear your thoughts on the truth behind The Kiss™, so, if you feel so inclined, comment and let me know! ❤️

**NEXT UPDATE ON SEPTEMBER 4TH**