Work Text:
Today's a bad day.
You can feel it from the moment your feet touch the floor; your chest tightens as you breathe, the air catching in your throat as you shake your head violently. Your boyfriend stirs in bed, murmuring a confused 'where's the goldfish' before falling back into a deep slumber. You sigh and look down.
Ladies and gentlemen, dysphoria.
There's never a day without it, not for as long as you can remember, but today was going to be a bitch and you just knew it.
You stand and hug your chest. You know you should wake him - he told you to wake him whenever it got bad, whenever you felt like you were drowning - but as you always did, you drag your feet, heading for the closet which is ten times the size of your childhood bedroom.
Your next actions are ones that have gotten easier over the years; quietly pull off your baggy shirt with eyes squeezed shut, lift your arms up, the struggle of being trapped as you negotiate with the material, your breath stolen from you, before finally, the pain in your chest is replaced by a bearable one.
Your name is Dave Strider. Your boyfriend is occupying 90% of your bed and dreaming about goldfish apparently. Your shirt has a broken record on the front (for ironic reasons) and is two sizes too big, like the rest of your clothes.
You're a trans guy.
You don't own any mirrors, but Karkat doesn't mind; you've been together for years and moved into his place as soon as he realised how bad the house with your brother had been, and from the moment you mentioned the word dysphoria, he'd insisted upon making this place a home for you, even when you couldn't stand your reflection.
You make your way downstairs, doing your best to ignore the inner monologue of anger that always came when things got bad. You keep the curtains closed, the living room is full of fairy lights anyway. You make some toast for Karkat, knowing that it was the only way to reduce the initial grumpiness of your boyfriend.
You're back in your room, and you smile at Karkat, who is now lay on your side, apparently spooning a pillow. Getting back into bed, you swap the pillow for yourself, sighing softly as he recognises that it’s you. "Home." He sighs into your ear, pressing himself against you and falling asleep yet again. You steal a piece of his toast, knowing he'll complain about crumbs when he bothers to wake up before forgiving you five seconds later.
You wriggle back out of the comfort of the blankets and you write him a note. This happens more often then not when it came to Karkat sleeps-through-every-alarm Vantas.
Bad day. Guess I should bother going to work. Should we buy a goldfish? You pause as you always do, smiling as you finish the note off with love you. You sketch a quick pair of shades in the corner and head downstairs, grabbing a bottle of apple juice on your way out of the door.
You're locking the door as your phone buzzes in your pocket, the tone too cheerful for a grey Monday morning. You can't help but smile as you see someone has finally stopped snoozing the alarm.
Love you too, assface. See you at home.
Suddenly, it's easier to breathe.