Chapter 206: Chapter 206: Confirmation

The problem, in Rafael’s opinion, was not pregnancy.

Pregnancy, when planned, wanted, and attached to Gregoris in all the correct ways, was not a problem.

The problem was confirmation.

Confirmation made things real. Confirmation meant medical scans, official notes in ether-secured files, tonics with unpleasant aftertastes, and everyone suddenly speaking to him as if he might shatter under direct sunlight. Confirmation, more dangerously, invited symptoms to organize themselves with purpose.

Specifically: morning sickness.

Which was why, when Gregoris stopped in the middle of their private sitting room two mornings later and went unnaturally still, Rafael immediately became suspicious.

The room around them was quiet with early light and the low, familiar hum of ether systems behind the walls – climate wards holding the temperature in a perfect band, sheer privacy screens dimmed to let in only softened sun, and a glass side table still projecting a half-collapsed schedule from Rafael’s abandoned morning briefing.

Rafael lowered the report in his hands by half an inch. “What is that face?”

Gregoris looked at him.

Rafael narrowed his eyes. “No.”

Gregoris’s expression did not change. “Get dressed.”

Rafael stared. “Absolutely not.”

Gregoris crossed the room.

Rafael set the report down on the low table with controlled offense. “I know that walk. That is the walk of a man who has decided something intolerable on my behalf.”

“Marin,” Gregoris said.

Rafael froze.

Then he said, with immediate dignity, “No.”

Gregoris stopped in front of him, broad and immovable, one hand already reaching for the dark coat draped over the back of the chair. “Yes.”

“You cannot just say the physician’s name at me like a legal summons.”

“I can.”

“You really can’t.”

“I already did.”

Rafael looked at him with deep suspicion. “Why?”

Gregoris’s gaze dropped, once, brief and unmistakable, to Rafael’s abdomen.

“Your wish of having a second child is real now.” He said, already draping the coat over Rafael’s shoulders.

For one brief, treacherous second, Rafael felt exactly what he should have felt: joy, sharp and bright and so immediate it almost made him forget to be difficult.

Then reason returned.

Along with dread.

“No,” Rafael said.

Gregoris finished settling the coat over his shoulders. “Yes.”

“No,” Rafael repeated, stepping back out of reach on principle. “You are not allowed to announce life-changing things in that tone and then expect me to cooperate immediately.”

Gregoris looked at him. “You wanted this.”

“I do want this,” Rafael said at once, offended by the implication. “That is not the issue.”

Gregoris waited.

Rafael pointed at him. “Do not use silence as a weapon.”

“What is the issue, then?”

“The issue,” Rafael said with perfect seriousness, “is that the moment Marin confirms it, my body will start behaving theatrically.”

Gregoris stared.

Rafael lifted his chin. “Do not make that face.”

“What face?”

“The one that says you think I’m insane.”

Gregoris said nothing.

That was the face.

Rafael sighed sharply. “I insisted on a second child. I planned for a second child. I very much want the second child. What I do not want is the vomiting portion of the experience, which in my opinion can still be avoided through discretion.”

“That’s not how pregnancy works.”

“That is exactly how it works. Symptoms remain polite until formally acknowledged.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Gregoris stepped closer again, and Rafael immediately resented the fact that his own body still reacted to that with instinctive attention. “You’re going to Marin.”

Rafael folded his arms. “I am not. I am preserving my health through strategic non-confirmation.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“You suspect I’m pregnant.”

“I know.”

“You smell things with overwhelming confidence.”

Gregoris smiled. “You say that like it’s wrong.”

Before Rafael could retort again and try to stall for time, Gregoris took his stubborn husband into his arms and teleported them directly in front of Marin’s office.

Rafael let out a startled, deeply offended sound as the world snapped around them in a clean ether-bent fold.

One moment they had been in the corridor.

Next, the palace medical wing stood in front of them in all its polished, glowing betrayal: pale stone veined with fine blue etherlines, warded glass doors, quiet wall panels pulsing with diagnostic light, and Marin’s name illuminated in discreet gold script beside the office entrance like a personal threat.

Rafael stared at the door.

Then at Gregoris.

Then back at the door.

“That,” he said with terrible calm, “was barbaric.”

Gregoris set him down without apology. “It was efficient.”

“It was kidnapping through space.”

“It was three seconds.”

“It was an abuse of marital privilege.”

Gregoris’s hand settled at the back of Rafael’s neck before he could pivot elegantly and disappear in the opposite direction. “You were stalling.”

“I was exercising thoughtful caution.”

“You were about to invent another theory about nausea and recognition.”

Rafael lifted his chin. “It is not a theory. It is pattern-based reasoning.”

Gregoris knocked once and opened the door without waiting long enough for refusal to become an option.

Marin looked up from behind his desk.

His eyes moved from Gregoris to Rafael, took in Rafael’s expression, the coat only half properly settled, and the lingering ether distortion in the air from short-range teleportation, and then returned to Gregoris with the exact look of a man who had been handed both a diagnosis and a comedy at the same time.

“You teleported him here,” Marin said.

Gregoris closed the door behind them. “Yes.”

Marin looked back at Rafael. “Against your will?”

“Yes,” Rafael said at once.

“No,” Gregoris said over him.

Marin leaned back in his chair. “Ah. Marriage.”

“Hostage-taking,” Rafael corrected.

“Confirmation,” Gregoris said.

Rafael wheeled on him. “You see? That word. That exact tone. This is how symptoms become ambitious.”

Marin was already standing, dry amusement flickering once across his face before professional focus took over. “Let me guess. You think you get nauseous after confirming the pregnancy?”

“How do you know?” Rafael narrowed his gaze.

“Scent.” Marin sighed and pointed one hand at the table in the corner. “Get on it.”

Rafael looked at the examination table as if Marin had personally insulted his entire bloodline.

“No.”

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